The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  The photos changed again. The latest had been taken at King’s Cross Station. The woman was standing on one of the platforms. She was talking to someone, a man, late thirties, dark hair, somewhere between five-ten and six feet tall. They recognised him immediately.

  They had seen him earlier that night.

  In Scotland.

  Mike and Kit watched as Mr White doubled the size of the final two photographs. In them, the Deputy Prime Minister’s wife passed over the book she had taken from the stately home and proceeded to leave the platform, whilst the recipient boarded the train.

  The sign on the platform confirmed the train was heading to Edinburgh.

  Kit looked back, arms folded. “I’m guessing this can’t be a coincidence.”

  Mr White raised his eyebrows. “The man’s name is Fabien Randek. Born and raised in Marseille, served three years in the French Foreign Legion before going missing in Tangiers. Re-emerged back in his hometown two years later and arrested on suspicion of drug trafficking – nothing found. Of course, you know all this.”

  Kit nodded, his trademark half-smile forming. Mike knew the name. Everyone who had ever sat at that table knew the basic story. The White Hart demanded only one thing of every operative: perfection, including instant knowledge. The man was ranked a red star; the second highest rank on the order’s danger category. Most of their backgrounds ranged from terrorism and military to drug trafficking, theft and arson. Purple was the highest, green the lowest.

  “Till tonight I’d honestly thought that SOB had disappeared down a ditch somewhere. Where the hell’s he been hiding?” Kit asked.

  “Disappeared, yes. Where he’s been exactly, who knows? Sources in Marseille have been quiet ever since his brother was killed two years ago when Interpol raided an apartment block in his old estate. A couple of weeks ago he turned up in Bordeaux. Renting a 4x4 of all things.”

  “What’s the latest intel?” Mike asked. “I’m guessing he must have a good reason for letting off bombs north of the border?”

  Mr White’s expression remained non-committal. “The garden party took place on Saturday – two days before the explosions on the Royal Mile. The meeting at King’s Cross was on the Sunday, the eighteenth. If there is a connection, the theft of the Raleigh book might have been the first in the chain.”

  Kit was intrigued; the theft seemed peculiarly uninteresting compared to what could have been taken. “Are you sure he got away tonight?”

  “Did you kill him?” Mike asked.

  “No. I always remember a face. If the bastard’s dead, it wasn’t me who shot him.”

  “Trust me, neither of you did. He’s still alive, and currently on a boat somewhere, most likely in the North Sea. As far as I’m aware no one died, apart from the two guards already mentioned. The two Frenchmen you captured have both been identified. One had recently been upgraded to amber; the other wasn’t listed at all. Whatever Randek’s involvement in this, I think we can safely assume he’s a long way above being a footman. Area management would be my guess.”

  “So not the boss?” Mike asked.

  “You think a boss would collect something in person on a train platform in broad daylight in London from a politician’s wife?” Kit asked.

  Mike grimaced, too late to withdraw the question. “How about any known history involving antiquities or art? Ownership, theft, employment – that sort of thing? The thugs we captured tonight had a bag full of art and literature.”

  “If you dig deep enough, you’ll find his background covers most areas. His uncle once worked as a courier for a man named Victor Varane. Before your time. One of the key players in the Marseille underworld – all very French Connection.”

  “How about resale?” Kit interjected. “Maybe he’s just a thief or a middle man.”

  Mike shook his head. “If so, most likely he already has a buyer lined up or he’s simply taken the attack as an opportunity to fill his bag. Either that or he intends to use something as collateral for a drug shipment or a loan.”

  “Be that as it may,” Mr White replied, silently impressed by the talents of his men, “our job is not of concern with the theft at Montacute itself. As you rightly say, theft of property is a police matter; the CCTV footage already confirms the guilt.

  “Our problem lies in the why and who. A woman of Mrs Hughes’s reputation seen gallivanting across London with stolen property, taken whilst she was a guest at a formal occasion in the company of the PM and her husband, can only be good news for the tabloids and the Leader of the Opposition – not that this getting out would necessarily be in his best interests. Furthermore, the fact that Randek was involved tonight makes the situation all the more complicated.”

  Kit stared contemplatively. “You think she’s a party to terrorism?”

  “Whether she is or isn’t, there’s enough evidence here to put her away for several years. Of greater concern to the PM is the Deputy.”

  Mike was shocked. “You mean he suspects the Deputy PM was involved in last night’s attacks?”

  Mr White’s expression became distant. “For over twenty years Mrs Hughes has been well known in London high society; even today she isn’t completely unknown to Fleet Street. That said, since the last election and the surprise rise of her husband in the coalition government it’s fair to say she’s learned to curb her enthusiasm. Her link with Randek might be unknown to her husband – after all, it wouldn’t be the first time a politician has been compromised by a family member. That said, there might be more in it.”

  Kit was struggling with the possibility. “Even if he was involved, I hardly see the DPM as being the type who would sell out his own country. I mean, I know he’s Eton.”

  Mike smiled, aware that the college had a chequered history with double agents. “I suppose the real question is, what’s her business with Randek? Are the two well acquainted or was this set up through a go-between?”

  “Answers to this and more will surely come to light when the lady is questioned. But we digress. The involvement of Randek, though unwelcome, might in fact be a blessing in disguise. Scotland Yard and Interpol blazing in kicking and screaming might succeed in catching book and art thieves, but if done properly she might serve better in other ways. So far the bastards picked up in Peterhead have failed to reveal any particular insights.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “You mean you want us to use her as bait?”

  “No, you imbecile,” Kit said, “he means the PM wants us to use her as bait.”

  Mr White threw Kit a stern expression. “As you well know, I don’t believe in coincidences. I’ve been in this job far too long. Any prior knowledge of the DPM to the theft could have far-reaching repercussions. At best tabloid fodder; at worst, involvement with some of the most wanted men on the continent.”

  Mike listened attentively. Despite feeling the effects of over forty-eight hours without proper sleep, his mind had entered overdrive. “What did you have in mind? Question the DPM or simply follow him?”

  “Parliament is sitting tomorrow to discuss the actions of the last two days – saving our involvement, of course. Mr Hughes’s office is in the Cabinet Office, a pokey little place on the first floor. His London residence is also in Whitehall, an apartment adjoining the Old Admiralty Building. The woman herself has an apartment in Knightsbridge once owned by her father that she apparently still uses from time to time.”

  “You don’t mean to say she’s presently at large?” Kit asked.

  “No, staying with her husband at Dorneywood. It’s been the main country home since the election. It’s the same place Prescott was photographed playing croquet on the lawn. Being the Deputy PM, Mr Hughes doesn’t have a set weekend place. In fact, the PM makes him share Dorneywood with the Chancellor and Chevening with the Foreign Secretary.”

  “I take it then Mr Hughes is the only minister under suspicion?” Mike asked, quietly concentrating on the way Mr White paused before answering. The man was living up to his reputation: cold, har
d, pragmatic, but not without a personality thriving in panache.

  Kit realised Mike had a point. “There were a number of them there in Somerset.”

  “In my experience, it’s cases like these which are the most awkward. When working in the Cabinet, the assumption of trust should always be paramount; even in the Third World, successful policy can be frequently demonstrated by harmonious cooperation, yet, even in our green and pleasant land, governments have been known to fall apart when colleagues and friends of twenty years have suddenly fallen out for one reason or another.”

  Mike asked, “If the PM is so worried about the trust of his allies, why doesn’t he just ask the CID to perform an enquiry? I’m guessing GCHQ are already listening to their calls.”

  Mr White laughed. “Why not call in The Times and the Express? The PM is understandably worried any leaks might severely hurt the election campaign. Not to mention the harm it would do our attempts to answer any real questions.

  “The matter of the missing book aside, the case before us has the potential to be of mutual interest. If the DPM, his wife, or any other members of the Cabinet are involved with any known terrorist organisation or any other members of the criminal underworld, this could be the key to unlocking the door.”

  “Not to mention end their careers and put them away for a long time,” Mike said.

  “As I put to you when you arrived here, Hansen. What’s the greatest crime? The crime that occurred yesterday or the crime that occurs tomorrow?”

  “How exactly do you propose we go about this?” Kit asked, interrupting. “I’m sure the DPM won’t take too kindly to being shadowed by nameless operatives. Worse, he’ll probably assume we’re members of the press. Either that or MI5.”

  “Not to mention what the rest of Westminster might think of two such good-looking newcomers,” Mike added.

  “I’m not suggesting you address him in public. The opposite in fact.” The Director removed a set of keys from his pocket and threw them across the table. “The PM is most insistent you carry this out with the minimum of fuss. The Commons, as mentioned, is scheduled to sit tomorrow. The DPM’s office, not to mention his government residence and country ones, will be vacant. I suggest you put the time to good use.”

  Kit failed to hide a smile. He hadn’t misheard. The Prime Minister of the UK had personally handed over keys to the important chambers of his deputy.

  “And his wife?” Mike asked.

  “I want no stone left unturned; I’ve already made arrangements for Dorneywood and the flat in Knightsbridge. That leaves only the office at Number 70 and the apartment in Admiralty House. Find out everything there is to know of their activities from their recent contacts book to what underwear they’ve been wearing. Any links to Randek will be sufficient for the CID; not to mention all of their European equivalents. And for us, maybe some answers as to what really caused whatever the hell happened in Edinburgh.”

  *

  Mike and Kit were gone within moments. Any evidence that a secret briefing had taken place in the cellar of the pub quickly vanished. The two cars left the car park and headed along the unclassified road, back into the heart of the village. A third, parked out of sight in a nearby garage, would remain where it was, its owner’s route home instead involving a short walk up the flight of stairs and into the lodgings of the landlord.

  Mike followed Kit to midway along the high street, and into a secluded courtyard where twelve Victorian terraced houses were aligned in banks of three. As he took the turn, the newly acquired set of keys made a jangling sound in the cup holder. On stopping the car, Mike examined the keys closely for the first time. There were ten in all, each for the locks of important doors connected to the Cabinet. There would be no room for error. Entry into the office of a cabinet minister was the stuff of spy thrillers, even in a nation where black ops were widely accepted as reasonable and necessary. Even compared to other high-risk assignments the margins for this one were tight.

  Any mistakes and the headlines on the front pages could be worse than if the PM’s fears were correct.

  2

  London, 9 a.m.

  The two suited men emerged from the train at Westminster Tube station, and joined the ever-growing flow of passengers heading out on to the concourse. Their appearances were eye catching, but not out of character for the area. It was a part of the world where most people were dressed in a similar way, where politicians and bankers walked the streets in unison, along with other individuals of equal importance.

  By nine, the peak period of activity had passed, but the station at Westminster was rarely deserted. On summer days it was a spot to which tourists from all over the world would flock, large cameras and lenses hanging round their necks, their index fingers snapping away taking souvenir shots of the Houses of Parliament and the nearby landmarks. The Commons, in particular, had been in the news constantly of late. The reports from Edinburgh dominated most of the front pages, rumour abounding of possible future attacks. Rumour spread fast in London. A word from a so-called expert had a tendency to be accepted as a fundamental truth by many in the city. There was an atmosphere in the air: impatience but also uncertainty. Steady queues formed at the ticket office by Portcullis House where eager tourists attempted to obtain tickets for guided tours of Parliament, while others tried to gain access to the viewing gallery on what would potentially be a historic day for the Commons. Those who weren't in town to work, were there to observe, a brief moment of escape from the mundane. It was a pattern that repeated itself. The only things that changed were the names of the key players.

  And even they were usually forgotten within a week.

  The two smartly dressed men emerged from the main stairway and stopped on reaching the street. They took a moment to check their surroundings before heading speedily in the direction of The Houses of Parliament.

  Kit took the lead. He looked at his watch as they passed Westminster Abbey, the great east façade towering over them. Further along the street he stopped to make a further check, this time synchronising his watch with Big Ben.

  After six years in the job, things came naturally to him. A hot dog stand or a man with a briefcase waiting patiently on the side of the road was a common occurrence in almost any city in the world, but it was also in such places that outsiders often sought to blend into their surroundings without arousing suspicion. Tourists moving quickly in and out of the crowds, suited men chatting to one another or to unseen callers on their mobile phones were likely to be an innocent sight 99.99 per cent of the time.

  He was paid to worry about that 0.01 per cent.

  Mike walked quickly to Kit’s right, his hands swinging side to side. In a different location, they would have taken a car, but that was never a good idea in London. Even in the inner city a well thought out operation with hours and hours of planning could still go down the drain because of a traffic jam, a fatal accident, a cyclist in the wrong place at the wrong time. The streets around Westminster had already reached gridlock. Horns honked, engines revved, drivers waited impatiently for the traffic to clear and the lights to turn green.

  Kit checked his watch for the second time in a minute. “We’ve got about twenty-seven minutes till we begin. Parliament is scheduled for a 9:30 start. Ordinarily, that would give us at least an hour till the flock leaves the field. If we’re lucky, today might be a long one.”

  Mike nodded, matching Kit step for step. He’d visited Westminster countless times, both as a tourist and on the job, but today he sensed there was extra energy in the air. The PM had spoken on air less than twenty-four hours ago; apparently he’d done so again that morning. The seriousness of the situation was clear; the press weren’t the only people gunning for answers.

  In all likelihood, Mike guessed it would be a long day for the MPs.

  “Are you quite sure you’re happy to go ahead with this?” Kit asked, his usual smile formed. “Ten minutes should be enough and I can join you.”

  Mike grinned. “You jus
t worry about your thing. You can buy me a hot dog when it’s over.”

  *

  Inside the House of Commons, the Prime Minister shook his head in resigned irritation as the Leader of the Opposition launched into a trademark tirade on the coalition for their lack of direction. People on both sides of the House oohed and aahed, the classic sounds of the Commons. The older Members had seen it all before. Five years since the last election, a hung parliament that initially pleased no one, had seen relative progress and a country united by a common purpose.

  Yet today was an exception. News of the latest terror threat from north of the border, coupled with tabloid rumours of further raids on other major UK cities, had a familiar ring. The older generation remembered the IRA days with morbid fascination, each person capable of recounting tales of how even the slightest movement among the undercroft could be anything from an insect to an Irishman. The latest account had more in keeping with the recent troubles about it: spies and saboteurs, mixed with stories of criminal syndicates that seemed right out of a Ross Kemp documentary.

  The only thing missing was a reference to Islamic extremism or a mention of oil.

  Sitting alongside the PM, the Deputy PM leaned to his right and whispered something to the man seated alongside him. While the Deputy PM was bearded, with a once athletic physique weighed down by a few extra pounds and formerly brown hair a distinguished silver, the bald man to his right had been at the thick of things. As Foreign Secretary, he’d been second on the line to Edinburgh after the Home Secretary, and the purple shade of his eyelids confirmed sleep in recent days had been rare. The process had opened with him; a speech that lasted less than five minutes but as direct in purpose as the majority of Members had heard from him. Two of the bastards had been arrested and would be deported after questioning.

  Only two remained at large.

  *

  Away from the highly charged atmosphere of the Commons, two men of military pedigree were preparing to enter two very different luxury abodes.