The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  “Keep an eye on them; I’m going to stay with our friend here. Let me know if the Foreign Secretary returns to his seat.”

  “Roger that.”

  Kit spoke again immediately. “You still listening, Phil?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Kit unlocked the keypad of his phone by inserting an eight-digit code and casually pointed the camera lens in the direction of the Foreign Secretary. “I’m going to send you a few photographs. Let me know what you think.”

  *

  At the other end of the line, Phil experienced over ten seconds of silence before hearing a bleeping sound, indicating a new email had arrived in his laptop’s inbox. He opened it and saw there were photographs attached. He counted seven in total.

  “Wow.”

  “I assume I don’t need to clarify any of this?”

  Phil rubbed his chin, a wry smile emerging across his face. The photos had captured a conversation taking place between two well-dressed figures. The Foreign Secretary was easily recognisable; even from side on, he had one of those faces that was almost impossible to mistake.

  “I take it this is recent?”

  “Yes, matter of fact the button’s still warm.” Kit moved slightly nearer, the Foreign Secretary and his unknown accomplice still partially visible. “They’re still speaking. I can’t hear what about.”

  “Shame you couldn’t have dropped one of my bugs into his jacket this morning.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately I’m not clairvoyant, am I? How about the other man? I assume he’s known to us?”

  In truth Phil didn’t know. “I’ll run his face through the database right now,” he said, noticing that the third photograph in particular had managed to catch him face on. “You’re certain he didn’t see you?”

  “I was very discreet.”

  Phil didn’t doubt it. “Stay in touch. Hopefully I’ll have some good news for you very soon.”

  *

  Kit put his phone away and waited patiently, using the curvature of the walls to stay hidden from sight. The meeting appeared to be breaking up. He saw the Foreign Secretary move confidently along the corridor, following it before heading right, the gents. The man with the beard loitered for several seconds before deciding against using the facilities.

  Instead, following the concourse south.

  Kit passed the doors to the lobby, keeping his distance. The concourse on the west side mirrored that of the east: carpeted, yellow lights glowing against wooden surroundings and decorated with various pieces of opera-related memorabilia.

  The man with the beard strolled on. There was a glass exit that led out close to the piazza, a designated smoking area. Kit watched him leave through the electronic door and light a cigarette.

  He heard Phil’s voice in his ear. “Well, wonders never cease. We’ve got an exact match. Everard Payet, aka Patrice Everard, aka Matthieu Deminy, aka Hans Strum, aka Igor Viktal.”

  Kit concealed himself from view, using the nearby wall as cover. He removed his phone from his pocket, again using it to disguise his conversation. “That’s one heck of a list of names.”

  “Trust me, this fella has one heck of a pedigree. Former French military, including two years in the Foreign Legion. He’s also worked as a paralegal, a manager at a supermarket, a petrol station attendant, and a maître D’ at a five-star restaurant. On top of all that he has over twenty years’ experience touring the world as an acclaimed cellist and violinist. No known criminal record in the last five years except for three points on his licence here two years ago and for smoking pot four years ago. Forty-two, wife deceased, alleged connections with Randek and another three criminal gangs. Home city is Bordeaux.”

  “Anything concrete with Randek?”

  “Matter of fact, he has a child with his sister.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Apparently not. Not that I’ve had a chance to check this out in detail. According to this he’s a code amber on the watch list. Thanks to your photos I’m guessing he might even be in line for a promotion.”

  “What about last known whereabouts?”

  Phil entered a search into the main terminal. “Wow. According to passport control, a certain Matthieu Deminy was booked on to a flight to Edinburgh from Stockholm the morning of the explosions.”

  Kit was shocked. “Was he on it?”

  “Unclear. If he was, the possibility can’t be ruled out he was the second guy on the boat with Randek. I’ll let you know if anything shows up . . . where are you now?”

  “West concourse.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing really. Everard III has gone for a fag just off the piazza, his right honourable friend, the lavatory.”

  Phil grinned. “You might want to get back to your seat. You’re missing the best part.”

  The sarcasm was evident. “I’ll get Mike to tell me about it.” He glanced quickly through the glass door, seeing the man with the beard was still there. “Why would the Foreign Secretary be speaking with him? Here, in public. Perhaps we’re looking at this the wrong way.”

  “What way did you have in mind?”

  “Well it’s perfectly obvious. The PM has instructed us to keep tabs on a certain member of his Cabinet. Maybe he’s asked us to watch the wrong member.”

  “You saw the photo of Hughes’s wife. She was the one with Randek. She was guilty of the theft.”

  “Was the Foreign Secretary there?”

  “In Somerset? As a matter of fact, there’s a photo of the four of them all standing together in the garden.”

  “Remind me. Those two do share a residence together?”

  “Indeed they do. It’s called Chevening House. A country estate in Kent. Apparently they’re good friends.”

  “Perhaps too good. They ever stay there at the same time?”

  “Probably. It’s a big place. One hundred and fifteen rooms; grounds spread over 3,500 acres.”

  Kit didn’t bat an eyelid. “More than enough for two big egos to share, yet without arousing suspicion of why they should be there together . . . has it been swept?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I suggest that be made a priority. Make sure Mr White is aware of this before the night is out.”

  *

  Richard Pickering entered the toilet on the west side cautiously, grateful to find himself alone. He remembered from his previous visit there was a long line of cubicles on one wall, opposite an even greater selection of urinals that smelt of lemon air freshener.

  He chose the cubicle one from the end and sat down on the closed seat. He’d felt his phone vibrate in his pocket during his conversation with the cellist. He checked it, and saw that it was from his wife. The simplest of questions.

  Where are you?

  He replied with the simplest of answers.

  Concourse. Same place as you.

  The Foreign Secretary took a deep breath and returned his phone to his pocket. The time on the display confirmed it was 19:49, meaning he’d missed just four minutes of the performance. And six minutes till time was up.

  Six minutes till everything changed.

  In his long career, Richard Pickering had become used to dealing with stress. Ten years as a civil servant and later a counsellor had been the perfect apprenticeship to a career in Westminster. Eight years on the backbenches had been rewarded by four as a minister: Secretary of State for Transport, Secretary of State for Justice, then the most recent, his greatest rise.

  The Cabinet.

  Foreign Secretary.

  As a young man he had aspired to do what was good and great; as a middle-aged man he’d learned the grim realities of what life in politics really involved. Like the cubicle around him, what started as a doorway to freedom now felt more like four walls closing in on him. Much had changed during the last year, most of it regrettable. That first trip to Europe. That first week in France.

  His last as an honest man.

  He felt another vibration in his po
cket. He checked his phone again, one new message. Again his wife. He replied rapidly, the words barely registering. Three minutes. Soon it would be two.

  The media would be talking about this for years.

  11

  Any lingering interest Mike had had in the opera had well and truly evaporated. Even with the English subtitles, it failed to command his attention though quietly he approved of the music. The well-renowned scores and arias, the like of which he was surprised to learn he recognised in part, had so far provided a palatable backdrop to what was becoming a tedious mission on the back of little sleep.

  The Deputy PM remained seated in the same position, his eyes focused on the stage. To his right, his wife’s body language was almost identical, her pretty face partially shielded by her opera glasses.

  The row behind them remained vacant. While Mrs Pickering was still to appear at all, the Foreign Secretary had been missing for almost five minutes.

  Still checking on his absent wife, Mike assumed.

  Shielding his mouth, he spoke to Kit. “What’s happening?”

  The reply was crisp. “Turns out our friend with the beard is a most wanted man. I assume you heard what Phil had to say.”

  “I hear a lot of things. Where is he now?”

  “Outside one of the doorways. Smoking something. Whatever it is, it looks legal. I certainly can’t smell anything from the streets.”

  “How about Pickering?”

  “Entered the facilities three minutes ago. Still to emerge.”

  Mike grinned. “Let’s hope it wasn’t the mussels.”

  “Any sign of his wife?”

  “Negative. Haven’t seen her all night.”

  “Not her night.”

  “You need any help?”

  “No. You keep your eyes peeled on Hughes. Keep the frequency open. I might call you.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mike lowered his hand and looked to his right and left. To his left, a woman in her mid-sixties was staring at him, seated one seat on from where Kit had been. He smiled at her politely and returned his gaze to the stage. He raised the opera glasses to his eyes and pretended to concentrate until the woman stopped looking.

  About six seconds.

  The eyepieces were incredible. While Mike had expected a Phil-built reconnaissance device that delivered beyond the military standard, the fourth setting he found particularly impressive.

  Selecting the X, he zoomed in again on Box 63. The outlines of the Deputy PM and his wife appeared as unspecified balls of mass, surrounded by various shapes and colours. The physical properties of Box 63 were also exposed, the screen offering insights into the walls behind them. For the first time Mike was able to make a mental plan of the entire floor. Some of the boxes had a set of steps leading down into them from the nearby corridor that seemed to match what he’d seen of the foyer. Wooden doors guarded them, casting the matching upholstery in shade. The walls of the corridor behind, whatever colour they were, were decorated with the usual artwork and memorabilia, the majority of which had been placed at equal intervals and around head height, complementing other pieces of furniture that he guessed were probably antique. The corridor was deserted, which he’d expected; the Foreign Secretary and his wife aside, he saw no empty seats on that tier. If Kit was correct, the Foreign Secretary had chosen a toilet on the floor below.

  Strange considering signs for a public convenience were listed within metres of Box 63.

  The seats behind the Deputy PM and his wife were not permanently fixed to the floor. The chair that had been occupied by the Foreign Secretary was slanted at a slight angle from where Pickering had made his recent exit.

  Mike adjusted the zoom, focusing specifically on the chair. A strange light was flickering. It was small and yellow, seemingly coming from beneath the seat.

  He covered his mouth, “Phil, I’ve got a question about the X-ray.”

  “Pretty impressive, don’t you think? Bet you wish you’d have had one of these last night.”

  Last night probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference. “I’ve got something coming up yellow.”

  “Where?”

  “Box 63. Seems to be coming from underneath Pickering’s seat.”

  “Yellow is your standard explosive feature. If you care to look down at your legs, your own stuff should be coming through the same colour.”

  Mike followed Phil’s instructions and gazed down at his legs. A clear shade of yellow was visible from his left pocket where he kept smoke dispensers, while a gun-shaped green was visible beneath his right trouser.

  Neither perfectly matched what he saw in Box 63.

  He spread out his search boundaries, taking in every box on the first tier before doing the same for the balcony boxes on the second, the amphitheatre on the third and finally the stalls. Purple and grey appeared regularly; the shapes suggested mobile phones and wallets. He turned to his right where an overweight gentleman wearing a tuxedo and glasses was too enthralled in the production to notice him. To his left, he clearly made out the contents of a handbag.

  The woman was staring at him again.

  He turned his head to his right. “What are the options?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “I’m seeing a lot of purple for phones and tablets. Is yellow definitely explosives?”

  “We could be talking something that’s merely highly flammable: a gas pipe, a fuel tank, maybe some kind of highly unpleasant alcohol. What shape is it?”

  He adjusted the zoom and squinted. “Not sure. Based on this it could be bottle shaped. You sure we aren’t just looking at fizzy pop?”

  “Unlikely. Unless someone has mixed some liquid explosives in with it. Where exactly is it?”

  Mike maximised the zoom on the lenses. Despite being on the maximum zoom, the amount of shake was almost non-existent.

  “Beneath the chair behind the Deputy PM. Previously occupied by his good friend.”

  “Was it there before they arrived?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I’ve only just discovered it . . . are we in danger?”

  “It’s tough to tell without seeing it up close. Ideally, I’d need to see a photo.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mike cleared his throat, and lowered the opera glasses away from his eyes. To his left, the woman had finally resorted to concentrating on the opera.

  Slowly, he got to his feet and headed left, the same direction as Kit.

  “Excuse me,” he said, forcing the spectators to get to their feet. As he reached the exit, he returned his attention to Box 63.

  The yellow light was no longer visible at the new angle.

  He accelerated through the exit. “Kit, we may have a problem. Something’s showing up on the X-ray. Phil says it might be explosive.”

  *

  Kit was still standing in the concourse, pretending to be on the phone. Everard was still outside, leaning against the glass, smoking his cigarette.

  “I can hear every word, remember? And what the hell do you mean – might be explosive?”

  “I’m getting something bright and yellow located under the seat the Foreign Secretary had been sitting on. Whatever it is, Phil confirmed it probably isn’t good.”

  Kit bit his lip, avoiding swearing. “All right, listen to me. Do whatever it takes to get to the grand tier. Survey it from as far away as you can. If you’re as good as you think you are, he might not even notice you.”

  “Here’s hoping. Phil, I’m going in. Unless I receive orders to the contrary.”

  “Hansen. This is the King.”

  Mr White. “Sir . . .”

  “You listen to me, Hansen. Phil included these things for a reason. You saw what happened in Edinburgh. If there’s even the slightest chance this thing is lethal then several lives will depend on a successful diagnosis.”

  “You want me to evacuate?”

  “If necessary, yes. Maria will be waiting outside; Iqbal’s currently by the piazza. Take the Deputy PM out to Maria, along with
his wife. Minimise the threat, Special Branch can deal with the rest.”

  “What about the Foreign Secretary?”

  “You just worry about the DPM. Masterson can deal with Pickering.”

  “Roger that.”

  *

  The stairway to the grand tier was deserted except for the same smartly dressed usher who Mike had seen on duty when he entered twenty-five minutes ago. Mike smiled at him as he climbed the stairs and turned right.

  The way to Box 63.

  “Evening.” Mike flashed him an identity card. “I have an important message for one of your guests in Box 63. His boss was very specific I deliver it in person.”

  The attendant looked at Mike’s ID. Matthew Paris. 3/4/88. Cabinet Office.

  “Box 63 is along the corridor and on your left.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mike passed through the doorway and followed the corridor to his right. The layout matched what he’d seen on the X-ray setting; the walls a dark shade of red and the artwork primarily oil based. The boxes were clearly marked: 60, 61 . . .

  He stopped outside Box 63, as expected, finding the door was closed. Mike looked over his shoulder, checking his actions were unobserved. Satisfied, he decided he’d take the advice of the many. He removed the opera glasses from the case and selected the X-ray setting.

  Suddenly he could see everything. The first two seats were unoccupied, while the Deputy PM and his wife sat with their backs to the doorway, their eyes solely on the stage. From the doorway, the source of the yellow light was much clearer. The shape was that of an ordinary drink bottle: 330ml, he estimated. Approaching the door, he lowered himself down on to one knee. The bottle was standing upright, below the chair. He couldn’t make out the name on the label.

  He rose to his feet. “Kit, we have a serious problem. We could be dealing with some form of Molotov.”

  *

  Kit thought he was hearing things. The Molotov cocktail was the fancy term given for an old-fashioned petrol bomb, usually an improvised incendiary, used for causing mayhem in a crowd. “You’re quite sure?”

  “The item is a bottle; I can’t read the label. Shape looks like an ordinary Coke bottle.”