The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  He tried the second drawer, then the third before doing the same with an additional three on the right side of the desk. As he started on the fourth, he picked up the pace. He sensed the music was getting louder; unmistakeably the iconic sounds of a large orchestra were now accompanied by a strong voice, singing words in a European language.

  “Maria, you’re a nice, cultured girl. What does this opera sound like to you?”

  “You’re not going to sing to me are you?”

  He grinned. “No. I can hear music. I think it’s Dvorák. Can you hear it in the background?”

  She listened for several seconds while Kit continued to rummage through the drawers. “Not clearly, but you might have a point. Where’s it coming from?”

  “Not sure. Possibly the floor below. The voice sounds live.”

  “Wherever it is, it must be on pretty loud.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Kit started on the final drawer. “Whatever it is, I get the distinct feeling the Deputy PM isn’t the only person planning on attending tonight. Is there any chance you could find out?”

  “I’ll see what comes up. In the meantime, I’ll pass on the information to Mr White. You get yourself out of there.”

  Kit closed the final drawer and removed the external hard drive from the USB port before returning the computer to its previous state and locking the taskbar.

  As he sought to leave, he noticed something.

  “Hughes’s briefcase is beneath the desk. What say I plant a wire?”

  Unbeknown to Kit, Mr White was now alongside her. “Roger that,” she said.

  Kit picked up the briefcase and carefully examined the exterior. The locks opened, two short clicks. Experience told him the best place to hide a microphone would be under the flap beneath the top of the lining.

  He removed a small wire, no larger than a human hair, from his inside pocket and attached it beneath the leather before returning the case to its original position.

  “Mission complete. I’m heading out.”

  *

  On the floor below, the cellist ceased his improvised performance and turned off the nearby stereo. Playing always relaxed him, but there was nothing like practising to a musical accompaniment. It made everything seem more real, giving him rushes of adrenaline that could only be achieved by being part of the real thing. He wasn’t as familiar with this opera as most but opera was opera. God’s personal method of communication. The language of the angels.

  As the music ceased, he walked across the office to the mahogany table and poured himself a cup of tea from the porcelain teapot that he had filled five minutes earlier. The nearby clock said it was approaching 10:20. Parliament was unlikely to adjourn for another hour, he thought. Following the events of the previous two days, it would be unlikely to end before twelve.

  At which point the minister would arrive.

  Taking the first sip of his tea, he opened his leather briefcase and examined the contents. Beautiful, he thought. Like the instrument he’d just been playing, the item was one that could only be found in Eastern Europe. The container itself told little of the story; nor was it meant to. It was the liquid inside it that would do the damage. With the appropriate detonation it would solidify, so he was told; then, once it reached a certain heat, crystallise.

  Then ka-boom.

  He smiled to himself as he closed the briefcase and returned to his cello. With music once again blaring from the stereo speakers, he was oblivious to the sound of footsteps heading along the Cockpit Passage.

  5

  The apartment wasn’t what Mike had expected; not that he had known what to expect. Whereas the images Maria had sent to his phone of the rooms on the ground floor – respectively labelled Music Room, Drawing Room, Dining Room, Entrance Hall – depicted an interior in keeping with its past, the apartment on the second floor was of mixed furnishings and ornately masculine.

  There were no photographs on file of the apartment itself; at least none since the present tenant had taken up occupancy. Those of the other rooms dated back to before 2010, taken from The White Hart’s own intelligence collection.

  He’d entered the building via a passageway that led from the Old Admiralty Building into the music room. Bright yellow walls reflected the light of countless table lamps and overhead chandeliers that illuminated a wealth of red antique chairs, a multi-coloured rug that covered much of the floor and further evidence that the government’s expansive art collection was still enjoyed by the select few. A statuary marble fireplace occupied one of the walls, with pedestals honouring marble female busts on either side. The iron grate was unlike any he had ever seen, another original feature, while the frieze was decorated with a carved panel. Several fruit bowls had been placed on top of the wooden furniture, whether real or for show he was unable to tell.

  He moved quietly, wary of being seen. Like the other rooms on the ground floor, fortunately no one was at home.

  Unlike the communal rooms on the ground floor, the private quarters of the Deputy PM gave off an aura of freshness and were awash with colour. Thick leather couches rested on a cream-coloured carpet, partially covered by matching red rugs, one of which seemed strangely afflicted with dog hairs. On the other side of the room there was a large wall-mounted, widescreen television that, according to the display, had recently been connected to a phone or an electronic tablet. On the sideboard was a selection of magazines covering subjects ranging from history to camping. A picture of Goering decorated the front cover of one concerned with history. Goering, Mike thought. Cream-coloured carpets!

  Unlikely in Churchill’s day.

  The photographs Maria had sent had suggested a closed-plan design, typically Georgian. The apartment, however, was more open than Mike had expected. Once finished with the lounge, he found himself in the kitchen, then a small dining room, before ending with two bedrooms. The majority of the furniture came with the property, but there was evidence of recent habitation. A fully stocked fridge included a recently defrosted toad-in-the-hole, while the cluttered wardrobe and chest of drawers indicated the occupant would soon return.

  He returned to the living room, satisfied the room was clear. “Everything looks clean. What am I looking for, Maria?”

  A male voice replied. “Phil, actually. Maria’s talking to Kit.”

  A wry smile. “Must be my unlucky day. What are we looking for?”

  “The DPM’s briefcase was in his office. Kit’s already been there. Currently he’s downloading data from the computer. We already have a lead on his next movement.”

  “Great. What’s our best bet here?”

  “Any sign of any laptops or androids?”

  “Nothing yet,” Mike said, scanning the surrounding area. “Plenty of magazines, books, DVDs in a holder. Interestingly the TV source was last set to external. Looks as though it was recently connected to a phone or a tablet.”

  “Interesting. What else do you see?”

  “Nothing yet,” Mike said. “Lounge is clear. I’m gonna try the kitchen.”

  A second sweep of the kitchen came up trumps. A mobile phone was charging on the work surface.

  “Found your ‘android’! It’s actually a brand new iPhone. Fifty per cent battery.” He picked it up and attempted to access the desktop. “Access is encrypted. A four-digit code.”

  “Inside your belt, you should have a small rectangular box. Open it and remove the black-cased item, third from the left. Remove the charger from the phone and insert it into the charger socket.”

  Mike followed the instructions, inserting the small memory stick into the charger port. The display on the iPhone lit up, following which it became covered by a series of patterns.

  “Phil, it’s messing with the content.”

  “Good. It’s meant to. Give it another five seconds.”

  Mike bit his lip, suddenly nervous. Any damage to the phone would undoubtedly arouse suspicion. He kept his eyes on the screen, the coloured display now a series of black lines moving
across a flashing green background. After six solid seconds of erratic behaviour, the display returned to normal.

  “It’s clear. And I’ve got access.”

  “Try to access voicemail. Better yet, the call register.”

  Again Mike followed directions, navigating the options. “According to this a call took place last night. Commenced at 22:37 and terminated at exactly 23:00.”

  “Understood. That might be interesting.”

  “You think you can trace them?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  Mike smiled, knowing Phil probably had his ways. The man was a computer nut, the type of person the Americans would have dubbed a geek in college and nicknamed IT in the military. In his own way, the most important person involved.

  “No voicemails. Only four texts. All from family. Seems clean.”

  “When you’re ready, plug it back in and leave. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  Mike replaced the phone, leaving the kitchen in the same state. He moved through the master bedroom, then the second, ending with a final check of the lounge.

  As he approached the front door he heard footsteps on the landing.

  “Phil, I’m hearing footsteps. Is Parliament over?”

  “Not likely. If in doubt, leave through one of the lounge windows. Use the scaffold to get down.”

  A good idea, he decided. “Roger that. I’m heading out.”

  6

  The Old Admiralty Building was a labyrinth of corridors, each steeped in history. At the height of the war, Winston Churchill had walked them frequently, personally holding meetings with navy top brass as he sought to mastermind Allied victory in the North Atlantic.

  Visually it was a picture. Like the four-storey Admiralty House it adjoined, the historic Georgian structure overlooking Horse Guards Parade had commanded pride of place in the heart of the capital since the days of the Jacobite Rebellion. Officially it was the largest of the so-called Admiralty complex of character buildings located between Downing Street and Admiralty Arch at the tip of the Mall, its total area of 20,000 square metres a unique combination of historic furniture and modern day occupants. Its famous south elevation had more in common with a French palace than a government building. What began life as the headquarters of the Admiralty had passed to the MoD, and since 1964 served a variety of government functions.

  For Mike, his return to the Old Admiralty Building was less daunting than his entry into the adjacent building. Returning through the passageway in the music room was a possibility but he could not risk being observed. Leaving Admiralty House, his smart suit showing no signs of his recent exit through a window or crossing layers of hedging, he headed for the north entrance of the Old Admiralty Building where he was stopped by a guard and checked for ID.

  According to the ID card, that had been clipped to the left side of his suit, the man was Captain Michael Hansen, DOB 7 June 1987, an officer in the Red Berets and based primarily at Catterick. Mike knew that nothing had been left to chance and that the details on the pass would withstand any close visual examination. After checking the ID photograph, the guard moved to one side and saluted, “Good morning, sir.”

  Inside, the sights were familiar. Whereas the grand exterior, its white colonnades and red brick sparkling in the late morning sunshine, suggested an interior of sprawling chambers and the trappings of the upper class and wealthy elite, the reality was surprisingly unassuming. Tall corridors lined with substantial doors echoed with the constant buzz of conversation. Most of the rooms were offices, displaying only the occasional poster or piece of artwork to interrupt the blank expanse of plain walls. The dress code varied considerably. Where in times past an admiral in uniform could have been seen talking to a plump man with a hard round face and carrying a large brandy, the modern day reality was the suits, the uniforms, the dresses and the casuals all operating alongside one another.

  Yet where some things had changed, others had not. A small lift shaft located off one of the main corridors was easily missed by anyone in a hurry. Its appearance, even by the standard of others in the building, was dated. Like the American films of old, instead of imposing double doors, the inside was guarded by mechanical grilles that chimed as they closed. On reaching the lift, Mike swiped his key card and pressed the only available button: LG.

  Lower ground.

  As the descent ended, the grille opened to a dimly lit corridor lined with oak-panelled doors. Unlike the corridors above, there was no echo of background noise; the walls were lead-lined and reinforced so that even the constant sound of London’s busy traffic at ground level could not be heard. Mike remembered the first time he had visited the corridor. Despite having Kit for company, the feeling had been one of intense apprehension, a strange mix of claustrophobia and intimidation. According to the official PR information, the rooms had been built as Anderson shelters in 1939. Like the Admiralty citadel off Horse Guards Road and the rooms beneath the Treasury where Churchill had mapped out operations that would eventually win a war, this maze of corridors and rooms was not for public viewing.

  Knowledge of their existence was limited to the select few.

  Stopping outside a strong oak door, the like of which implied entrance to a redundant cellar, Mike knocked, a low distinct pattern. Moments later, a heavy key turned in a lock and the door opened slightly to reveal a face with brown, intently focused eyes that carried a clear air of authority. The door opened and the first impression was confirmed. The man standing before him was in his late sixties and dressed impeccably in a suit. Like himself, he had started his career as a Red Beret before rapid progress through the civilian ranks of the MoD saw it end as the Department’s Permanent Under Secretary. His name was Ian Atkins.

  And now he was one of them.

  Nodding at the commander, Mike entered a familiar room, with an extensive array of electronic equipment. The silence of the corridor was replaced by the sound of voices of numerous different nationalities as their messages were intercepted and recorded by sophisticated communications monitoring receivers. Twelve chairs surrounded a familiar circular table with an emblem that was identical to that in the room in Charlestown. In one of the chairs sat Kit, minus his glasses, sipping a cup of tea.

  “I take it you found the place okay?”

  Mike grinned. The room always brought back memories of his first visit when he got lost leaving the toilet.

  Atkins locked the door. Like the Director of The White Hart, he had the physique and bearing of a proud and senior military officer. After briefly scrutinising Mike’s appearance through his rimless spectacles he asked, “How did it go?”

  “Entrance was easy. A mobile phone had recently been used, and the TV set to external, most likely a mobile phone or tablet hook up for a conference call. According to the call register on his phone, a conversation took place last night, ending at 23:00 hours. Phil is looking into tracing the recipient.”

  The former head of the MoD nodded and raised his left eyebrow, causing the lines on his forehead to thicken. “Good. Even if it’s nothing, at least it will verify what he’s been doing with his time.”

  “There was nothing else on his mobile.” Mike removed the flat black USB drive from his belt. “Then again, maybe Phil can find something I missed.”

  Atkins picked up the black object and turned to a stand-alone iMac located on the far side of the room. Government computer systems were a magnet for hackers. For that reason, The White Hart had always used Apple Macs built to their own specifications and installed with the most highly effective anti-hacking software available.

  “Three calls yesterday, two lasting less than seven minutes.” Atkins adjusted his glasses. “All different numbers. All mobile devices. One a number typically associated with France.”

  Mike watched the data come up on the screen in front of him. “Phil reckons he should be able to listen in from now on.” He turned to Kit, whose expression was surprisingly breezy. “What about you?�
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  “Interesting actually. All that history – you’d have loved it. Did you know Henry VIII used to get up at 5 a.m. to play tennis?”

  “He also spent half his life trying to find a good divorce lawyer.” He grinned. “Any problems with the office?”

  “No, not really. I was able to log on to his computer easily enough and download the contents of his hard drive. I suppose it might take a while before IT knows the results.”

  Mike recognised IT was a reference to Phil. “Anything concrete?”

  “Not particularly. His case contained nothing important. I put a wire beneath the flap, just in case, so if he does happen to let anything slip at the wrong time then that would be unfortunate for him.”

  “How was his office?”

  “Probably the same as his apartment. Smart but boring.”

  That just about sums it up. “Any nice upcoming holidays or dinner plans?”

  “Opera tickets in the top drawer. It seems the Deputy PM has a particular love for Dvorák.”

  “When are they for?”

  “Tonight, actually. Covent Garden. Maria said she’d try and get us fixed up.”

  “Great, just what I want.” He turned to Atkins. “How about Jay and Lewis?”

  “Nothing of importance. Sanders searched Dorneywood top to bottom. Actually had the whole place to himself. Apart from a few ambiguous toys that we believe belonged to Mr Hughes’s predecessor there was nothing there. Found an old croquet set.”

  Mike laughed. “How about the apartment?”

  “Iqbal completed a sweep of Knightsbridge in record time.” He looked at Mike inquisitively through his lenses. “And a bloody good job too. You can just imagine the consequences if he’d been found snooping around a £1 million property in Knightsbridge.”

  “With his accent, I’m guessing he’d feel quite at home,” Mike said.

  “Assuming he had the chance to explain himself,” Kit said.

  “Any news on Randek?” Mike asked Atkins.

  “Nothing definite, but he’s unlikely to have made it to France yet. It can’t be ruled out, of course, that he may have docked somewhere and taken a flight elsewhere. GCHQ believe they might have something from a hotel room – nothing positive. The PM has been fielding questions all morning, and he’ll be addressing the press again at noon. Most of the talk in the Commons has centred on Edinburgh; unsurprisingly, the opposition had already been made aware of the two arrests. As far as I’m aware there’s been no mention of individual names.”