The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  In many ways, the rural setting of the first had made the blond man’s job easier. The residents were familiar with wealth. A brand new 4x4 moving steadily along one of the muddy country roads, the driver’s face hidden by tinted glass, was a typical feature of day-to-day life.

  The security in place, despite the house’s famed importance, left a lot to be desired. After avoiding the main gate, the journey across the well-manicured grounds had proven equally straightforward. The suggestion had come from the best possible source, and with the present tenants currently in Westminster, the possibility of observation was less likely. The estate formed the heart of the local countryside: 215 acres of sprawling woodland and parkland, including rose garden displays that brought in the tourists on days of invitation. Even from a distance the house was visible. The view from the back was similar to that of the front; the reddish/brown brick walls and darker roof in keeping with the original Georgian façade that was partially plagued by moss. The main house was surrounded on all sides by a series of outer buildings, the majority of which he understood were currently used in the day-to-day running of the estate.

  Staying close to the trees, which shielded him from both the wind and possible observation, the intruder made his way towards the rear of the mansion. As he neared the house the instructions he’d received from the Director made more sense.

  The next step would be all about timing.

  *

  The task awaiting the second man was altogether different. His dark hair and polished appearance was in keeping with most who occupied the building, but even during the day Knightsbridge was rarely deserted. A married couple or a highly successful career woman taking the stairs or the lift at the same time, their brief acknowledgement of a polite smile or a casual “Good morning” would probably pass unnoticed, aside from issuing a timely reminder that sometimes the worst place in which to get lost is in a crowd. Research confirmed property in these parts rarely came up for sale. On the top floor, the residents kept themselves to themselves, but their identities and backgrounds were well known to one another. It was a constant factor, something the building epitomized. Class was permanent.

  And class attracted attention.

  The building’s appearance was identical to the others in the street. The white Georgian crescent-shaped façade looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Despite the relatively late hour, the majority of the parking spaces were in use, their number plates and brands appropriate to the profile of the area. It was cool, despite the sunlight; a steady breeze blew across Hyde Park, bracing against the faces of those strolling the main pathways.

  The dark-haired man had waited patiently. It wasn’t the type of place to break into in the middle of the day, even with the correct keys. The Director had mentioned that the fire escape, a subtle, albeit very metallic structure that the majority of the residents viewed as an eyesore, was located to the rear of the building. Taking the tour of the street, he headed back towards the park then changed direction on reaching the corner of the crescent.

  If his intelligence was correct, the woman would be home within the hour.

  3

  The man whose face was among the least recognisable in Whitehall stood alone in a deserted office in Number 70. Entry had been surprisingly easy.

  He had the Deputy PM’s boss to thank for that.

  The building was quieter than normal. With the ministers absent, the majority sprawled out across the famous green padded seats of the Commons watching proceedings with varying degrees of interest, for the staff it was business as usual. Smartly dressed individuals regularly walked up and down the Victorian corridors, papers and briefcases in hand, the background buzz of numerous conversations coming through the open doorways. Despite the historic décor and timeless furniture, white walls showcasing fine examples of the government’s seemingly inexhaustible art collection, the manner of the organisation was unmistakeably modern. The formerly genteel, slow-paced ambience of the Commonwealth era had been replaced by one of Bluetooth phones, HD computer systems, portable tablets and faces of every age and race. While the surroundings characterised much of what the wider world stereotyped as British, amongst the background noises Kit detected a hint of Europe: staff welcoming visiting diplomats. In the back of his mind he had been prepared for one of the MPs to pass him along one of the corridors; the Home Secretary strutting the halls as if fresh from an hour in the salon or the chief whip stinking of brandy. He remembered his first visit to the building; he’d come in through the front door, and among a party of twelve.

  Today could not have been more different.

  *

  When Mr White had first highlighted the enormity of the task, the first question that came to mind was about access.

  Kit’s appearance was perfect. Fully in keeping with those who regularly occupied the building, it mastered the blend of the impeccably smart and the unremarkable. Rule number one of fitting in: attract no attention – even an idiot knew that. The politicians aside, it was the main place of employment for the vast majority of the 2,000-strong staff that made up the Cabinet Office. Walking a busy set of corridors, dressed in a smart suit, a security tag dangling from below his left breast, he was unlikely to arouse attention, particularly whilst the politicians were away. Getting inside, however, was another matter. In recent years, he’d heard a rumour of secret passages above and below, but till now he’d never used one.

  Nor, till last night, had he ever expected to.

  The plan, he now knew, had been watertight. It had been tried and tested, in missions going back to before World War Two. On going his separate way from Mike at the bottom of Whitehall, rather than using the traditional entry into 70 Whitehall, his every action witnessed by the suspicious glances of on-duty policemen, he had instead entered a different building that was unquestionably more famous still. Adjacent the Cabinet Office, 10 Downing Street was busy with the usual daily activity; the PM inevitably absent attending the debate in the Commons. After being escorted inside by the PM’s chief of staff, his curious eyes watching a staff of seventy cleaning the downstairs from top to bottom, Kit proceeded to make a journey he never would have believed possible. Following one of the corridors along what began as a straightforward passageway to another part of the same building instead led to somewhere altogether different. While the tiled floor gave off a modern feel, the red bricks that surrounded it were authentic Tudor, and the views through the window both historic and iconic. If historical records of the building were correct, he was walking the same passage that had once been used every morning by the man who married six wives, yet where once a real tennis court had been the destination, today its use was more discreet. Its modern name was the Cockpit Passage: a special route into the Cabinet Office enjoyed only by the rulers of England.

  The final part of the journey had been reassuringly straightforward, the walk along the landing achieved without the need even to make eye contact. While on any other day he would have made use of one of his strongest assets – his intensely bright and vivid green eyes – today a smart pair of designer glasses took the place of his usual contact lenses. The mission called for anonymity, to fade into the shadows and recesses of the building, as opposed to charming those around him to help him achieve his objectives.

  Even if Sharon didn’t kill him, he knew the PM would.

  The office of the Deputy PM was both tasteful and practical. While a small part of him had expected something along the same lines as the hidden room in the White Hart Inn in Charlestown, the room’s appearance was both serious and noble. A large ornate fireplace was set into white walls furnished with original artworks and complemented by antique furniture that had scarcely been moved since the days of the Empire. A matching set of leather settees and armchairs surrounded a Queen Anne table on which was displayed a Victorian tea set. A grandfather clock ticked out its rhythmic tones below a portrait of Admiral Nelson, one of many in the room of nautical prestige.

  Ignoring th
e surroundings, Kit headed for the room’s most important feature, located close to the main windows. The Deputy PM’s desk was surprisingly modern, covered in stationery and illuminated by both natural and artificial lighting. The first thing that caught his eye was a red leather-bound box, decorated in the centre with the golden insignia of the monarch, famous worldwide as the property of a cabinet minister. Six years in the order had taught him that only one included writing.

  That belonging to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  The computer was switched on, which was a bonus. Kit had heard a rumour in some quarters that the most secure computers in the building were equipped with a trip switch – the latest breakthrough in anti-hacking technology. Moving the mouse to interrupt the screensaver, a window emerged, requiring a password to continue. Adjusting his jacket, he removed a small electronic device from his inside left pocket, physically identical to a memory stick. He inserted it into the USB drive, again thankful he had not encountered any obstacles. A green light flashed persistently for five seconds before stopping. At the same moment, the screen changed.

  He was in.

  Kit adjusted his glasses and pulled at his right ear. The second reason for his choice of eyewear had been tactical.

  “I’m in.”

  *

  In the secret room in Suffolk, Mr White stood alongside two people from very different backgrounds. On his right, the senior technician in his early thirties placed his hand to his three-day stubble and tugged at his loose fitting shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar. On the Director’s left, a serious looking woman with jet-black hair, wearing a brown suit and an identical earpiece to Kit, looked emotionlessly at the main command console.

  She heard Kit’s voice come through clearly. “Understood, keep in regular contact.” She turned to Mr White. “KM to White Seven.”

  *

  Near Kit’s location, Mike’s journey to the other end of Whitehall had required a more direct approach.

  Admiralty House was another of London’s great buildings. At one time the four-storey yellow brick building had been the principal residence of the First Lord of the Admiralty before later serving as a temporary home for the Prime Minister at times when Number 10 was undergoing renovation. Sited within a quarter of a mile of the Cabinet Office, it was officially Grade I listed and continued to be used exclusively for Government accommodation and purposes.

  Mike had moved quickly. After parting from Kit along the A3212, better known as Whitehall, he blended in with the masses as he headed north towards the National Gallery, ignoring any temptation to get side-tracked by the signposts leading to Downing Street or Whitehall Place.

  Admiralty House was an impressive sight. Like virtually all of the buildings in the heart of government, it was almost impossible to gain access unless you knew how. To the building’s right, the Old Admiralty Building was equally imposing, its east side guarded by a thick stone wall that incorporated Palladian style pillars and an entrance reminiscent of Marble Arch, decorated with a rooftop parapet and statues of mirroring Pegasus.

  The gate was closed, no surprise. Whitehall was bustling, holidaymakers strolled and office workers made their way purposely in both directions, the majority heading for either the tourist sights or the Tube. A security guard carried out a lone vigil: a dark-haired man dressed in a luminous jacket; to a casual observer he could have been an ambulance driver. There was a second smaller gate behind the first pillar left of the entrance, and two more cut into the wall directly outside Admiralty House, also closed.

  Entry from the front would be impossible without the necessary security pass.

  *

  To the west of Admiralty House, St James’s Park was its usual haven of activity. Tourists walked the main pathways, stopping occasionally to buy fast food before heading north-east towards Charing Cross Tube station or south-west to Buckingham Palace.

  East of the park, people walked across Horse Guards Parade, some stopping to set up tripods to take panoramic shots of the Old Admiralty Building, the Household Cavalry Museum, Scotland Office and the Guards’ Memorial, a rare treat in the glorious sunshine. Among them, Admiralty House was surrounded by hedging that separated it from the monument of the Ottoman Gun. To the left of Admiralty House, the southern side of the Old Admiralty Building towered regally above the parade ground like an emperor’s mansion, its red and orange colours warmly reflecting the morning sun. Scaffolding had been erected across part of both buildings, obscuring the right side of the main façade and the four storeys of the rear of Admiralty House. On a work area of the roof a group of construction workers, dressed in luminous jackets and hard hats, was deeply engaged in conversation.

  Mike took in the situation from the park before moving on once more. Neither those nearby nor the staff of the museum noticed him enter the Old Admiralty Building and continue his walk towards the residence of the Deputy Prime Minister.

  4

  The password was Lavinia. Kit recognised the name. Two people in the man’s family had been called by that name. His wife and her poodle.

  Kit guessed it was after the poodle.

  Three minutes had passed, but it seemed like a lot longer. Usually even ninety seconds was too long; anything beyond five minutes was almost unthinkable. The reports he’d got from Maria, the attractive brunette who at one point had made it difficult for him to concentrate on the job, confirmed that the Commons was still in session, the PM responding at length to various questions from around the house. The Deputy was in the same place, chatting intermittently with the PM or the Foreign Secretary alongside him.

  Kit knew the man was going nowhere for a long time.

  He kept a close eye on the door. The area outside it was a long and narrow corridor with a landing located at the top of the stairs. On his mobile phone he had saved digital images of the blueprints of the building, taken from documents in the archives. Unlike the computer games that had got him through university, there were no red dots moving along the corridor denoting possible enemies, but he knew from Maria that she had obtained a satellite link up.

  Despite that, something was bothering him. The soothing sound of classical music was floating through the building; it was unclear from where it came, or whether it was a live performance or on a CD. Although the rising pitch of the cellos and violins gave him an unexpected lift, the music worried him. Aside from confirming a nearby presence, music could mask other sounds.

  Including footsteps.

  A quick sweep of the hard drive confirmed the content was something of a mixed bag. Many of the files were MS Office based, letters and emails between colleagues and other personnel, attachments of emails, files related to the man’s position and office and other stuff that seemed to belong more on a personal computer. Looking for specific information and details relating to the theft of the book or connections to the terror attacks in Edinburgh was like looking for a needle in China.

  The only option was to download everything.

  He removed a small external hard drive from his pocket, a flat black device shaped like a calculator that connected via a lead to the USB drive.

  “I’m downloading the data now; might take a few minutes.”

  Back at the White Hart, Maria was still standing by the control console, now alone. “Copy that. Commons is still in session. You should be free for another hour.”

  Assuming no one else comes in, he thought grimly. “You’re quite sure he’s not the type of chap who leaves his keys lying around?”

  “Unlikely,” she replied. “For some reason MPs are usually uptight about their privacy. Speaking of which, don’t forget to check the drawers. You never know what might be hidden there.”

  Kit couldn’t believe she’d suggested something that obvious. As the external hard drive flashed in a consistent pattern, he opened the top drawer on the left side and began sifting through the contents.

  The first thing he saw caught his eye. “Concert tickets. Dvorák.” He associated the na
me with the sound of the music. Clearly someone else in the near vicinity had the famous composer on their mind.

  After several seconds of silence Maria spoke. “Bohemian Legends. Dvorák’s Rusalka. Tonight at the Royal Opera House. According to this, it’s a sell out.”

  The information agreed with the words on the ticket. “Apparently he has box seats. They’re dated tonight.”

  “They would be. According to the venue website, it’s the second night of two.”

  “When was the first?”

  “Yesterday. There are reviews in the Mail and the Telegraph.”

  Kit decided against asking her how she knew the facts so quickly.

  “Out of interest where are they seated?”

  “Why? You interested?” He checked the tickets. “Grand Tier. Box 63.”

  A brief pause. “Wow. Just shows how far a little influence can go. Mr Hughes couldn’t have picked better seats.”

  “Let me guess. First row, centre of the middle tier, right next to the Director?”

  “Not quite. Right of centre. Four boxes along from the Queen.”

  Kit raised an eyebrow. Thinking it over, he remembered the more distinguished guests usually had a seat very close to the stage.

  “Is she likely to be attending?”

  “Unlikely. The Royal Box is a lot like the one at Wimbledon. It’s always there in reserve. I’ll make enquiries though. You never know, maybe a distant relative.”

  The idea was disturbing. The less Hello! magazine had to do with the event the better.

  “What else is there?”

  Kit explored the top drawer, finding stationery, CDs, papers and magazines. “Just the usual. Pens, paperclips, notepaper.” He returned the tickets and closed the drawers, glancing quickly at the download.

  Less than two minutes remained.