The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  Kit’s eyes remained focused on the courtyard. Through the glass, he saw Everard throw his cigarette to the ground, stamp on it and remove his mobile phone.

  “We need to be sure about this, Mike. One wrong move and we could have a PR disaster on our hands.”

  “One wrong move and we might have a terrorist attack on our hands.”

  “We don’t know that yet. Tomorrow’s papers are already going to be full of Edinburgh. The last thing we need is to give the press more to write about.”

  “What the hell do you suggest I do?”

  Kit grimaced, anticipating the moment when Everard would return. “How close can you get?”

  “Hang on a sec.” He set the opera glasses to normal, and lowered himself to the floor. With his face touching the ground, he placed his eye to the gap between the frame and the door. The label was Coca-Cola, the liquid black. On the face of it, it looked genuine.

  “Phil, I’m guessing you can hear this? You’re quite sure a fizzy drink can’t account for this?”

  “Only if it had some form of liquid explosive mixed in.”

  “You ever heard of anything like this before?”

  “Not exactly. Though the IRA experimented with most things. Most likely they’re used for poisons, but without knowing who we’re dealing with, it would be impossible to rule anything out. Can you reach it from where you are?”

  “Possibly with the door open. Could it be booby-trapped?”

  “I’d need to see a photo.”

  “Maybe once I’m inside. Unless you have a camera installed in these lenses.”

  “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

  Mike bit his lip. “Is Mr White with you?”

  “I’m here, Hansen.” The voice was the Director’s.

  “I’m running out of time. I’m gonna need an answer now.”

  “I’ve told you once already. Get Hughes and his wife out of there.”

  “And the bottle?”

  This time he paused for longer. “Leave it for the bomb squad. Just get them out. Maria will meet you on Bow Street.”

  “Roger that.”

  *

  The Deputy PM felt a light touch on his shoulder. “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but I’ve been sent here by the PM. I need you to listen to me very carefully. Our intelligence has reason to believe a credible threat exists. There’s a car outside waiting for you. The PM is waiting for you at Number 10.”

  The Deputy PM twitched; though his bearded face remained perfectly calm, Mike could tell from his body language his words had caused deep alarm. “Who are you?”

  “These questions and more can be answered later. Right now, time is of the essence.”

  The Deputy PM turned, facing Mike head on. Faint nearby illumination confirmed him to be a white male, late twenties, clearly of military physique.

  “MI5, of course; I should have known. I’d have thought you’d all be far away. Up north. Dealing with all the mess.”

  Mike was happy with the incorrect guess. “The chair I’m sitting on has something very nasty situated beneath it. It could go off at any second. Carefully and slowly rise to your feet. And Mrs Hughes.”

  Lavinia Hughes heard every word. Despite the lack of volume in Mike’s voice, each word had been uttered with perfect clarity. She caught her husband’s eye for less than a second, not daring to do the same to the stranger in the seat behind. Her husband’s expression confirmed her worst fears.

  We have no choice.

  Replacing her opera glasses in her handbag, she placed the strap over her left shoulder and followed her husband towards the doorway.

  Mike stood aside and quietly took in their features. Though he’d seen the Deputy PM a thousand times or more on television or in personnel shots, he was surprised how relatively short he was in real life. At five-foot-nine he was taller than many in the Cabinet, but his head barely reached Mike’s mouth. His frame was also wider than Mike had previously expected. What the tailored suits hid effectively, the tuxedo exposed.

  Mrs Hughes was still to acknowledge him, choosing instead to walk with her eyes on the carpet. Up close her appearance was still attractive, but different to what he’d expected. The first thing that struck him was her scent, which he immediately attributed to a luxury brand. She was smaller than her husband, and thinner; he placed her at five-foot-five inches and under nine stone. As they headed for the stairs she looked at him for the first time, more worried than angry. No sooner had he looked at her, she returned her attention to the ground.

  She said no words.

  Mike guided them to the staircase, acknowledging the usher as he passed. The Deputy PM remained silent until they began down the stairs.

  “Look here, whoever you are.” He kept his voice low. “I demand to know what this is really all about.”

  Mike answered in a similarly low tone. “Earlier this evening we gained intelligence of a possible threat against either yourself or the Foreign Secretary,” he lied. “A few minutes ago, we obtained photographic evidence of a liquid explosive beneath the seat behind you.”

  Hughes waited until they’d reached the bottom of the stairs before speaking again. “What the hell’s your name?”

  Mike passed him the same ID card he’d shown the usher; the Deputy PM had seen enough over the years to recognise that the signs pointed to an alias for the Security Service.

  “What do I call you?”

  “Your boss calls me Captain Hansen.”

  *

  Returning the card to his pocket, Mike led them quietly through the lobby. On reaching the main doors, he escorted them outside and on to the pavement that separated the entrance from Bow Street. A blue Mercedes was waiting by the kerb; he recognised the licence plate.

  “The car is for you. It’ll take you both to Number 10.”

  “What about Richard?”

  “You can leave the Foreign Secretary to me.”

  Mike opened the rear left door. Maria was sitting alone in the backseat, a white man in his early thirties behind the wheel. While Mike held the door open, Hughes entered tentatively. Less than a metre away, Lavinia Hughes was standing by the kerb, her face frozen with fear.

  “Mrs Hughes?”

  The woman delayed as her husband shuffled in alongside Maria, making room for her inside the door. She stood with both hands glued to her handbag, her frightened eyes looking all around her. The road outside the opera house was rarely deserted, but the oncoming flow of traffic was sparse. Headlights moved from her right, a black cab, its sign unlit.

  She bolted to her right and raised her hand. “Taxi.”

  The cab stopped less than five metres behind the Mercedes; she had reached the rear left door by the time it had arrived. She entered in almost one fluid movement.

  Immediately the taxi began to move forward.

  Mike was stunned. Her movements had caught him completely cold. He closed the door on the Deputy PM and sprinted after the taxi. He saw her in the window as it passed, a look of wild terror dominating her face.

  He watched it pass the stationary Mercedes and head north, away from Westminster.

  Mike cursed under his breath. Through the rear windscreen of the Mercedes he saw Maria staring at him, her words inaudible. Alongside her, the Deputy PM was livid with rage.

  The Mercedes moved forward, he guessed on Maria’s orders. As it did, Mike headed for the entrance and re-entered the foyer.

  The Pit Lobby was still deserted, the occasional visitor speaking on a mobile phone or heading to the toilets the rare exception. Entering the lobby, he followed the red carpet to the doors to the concourse, the area where Kit had earlier seen the Foreign Secretary speaking with the man with the beard.

  He spoke into his mouthpiece. “Kit, what’s happening?”

  *

  Kit was standing in the same position as before. He’d passed the time listening to Phil and Mr White, speaking occasionally. The cellist had finished his cigarette, but he was still to show any sign of returnin
g to his seat. Instead, the man was concentrating on his mobile phone.

  Just staring at the display.

  At 19:54, the cellist checked his watch, seemingly comparing it to the display on his phone. As the seconds ticked down to 19:55, he put his phone away and removed a small black object from his pocket.

  Kit became immediately alarmed.

  He heard Mike’s voice in his right ear. Choosing to ignore him, he waited until an on-duty usher passed in the opposite direction and exited through the glass door.

  The smoking section was a compact area, located in the heart of Covent Garden. In the thirty minutes since their arrival night had fallen; the external lights shone in force, creating a purple haze against the glass exterior. Thanks to the lights the smoking section was well lit, the man’s features clearly visible. Kit saw things he hadn’t noticed before: a small scar on the right side of his neck, and something similar on his right knuckle. His nose was more dented than he’d first realised, suggesting to Kit it had probably been broken at least once. His right cheek displayed evidence of battle scars: his left eyelid drooped slightly, definitely more so than the right. To Kit, the signs told a story. He was dealing with a seasoned operative.

  A man who knew exactly what he was doing.

  *

  Mike stopped on reaching the grand staircase. His gut instinct told him to head right, the north-west side of the concourse.

  “Kit, where are you?”

  *

  The question couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  “Don’t speak again until I tell you.”

  *

  Mike knew when to follow orders. Logic told him Kit was currently carrying out a stake out, perhaps standing within earshot of his chosen target, whereas experience told him there could be a second possibility.

  Kit was in trouble.

  Heading to the right of the grand stairway, he followed the corridor as it wound from right to left. The concourse was still largely deserted, the majority of guests remaining firmly in their seats as they followed the performance to the interval. Through the nearby doorways he could hear the sound of singing, a male voice, tenor, the language unmistakeably European. He glimpsed the performance on one of the monitors as he passed: an imposing man with dark hair and a beard was singing, his facial expression displaying feelings of inward torment in the stage lights.

  The sound of singing came and went as he approached and passed the doors. He estimated he was nearly halfway along the right side of the building, probably close to being in line with Box 63. With the Deputy PM and his wife successfully evacuated, he guessed the box was probably still empty.

  With both himself and Kit on their feet, he had no way of knowing whether the Foreign Secretary or his wife had returned.

  *

  Less than twenty metres from where the young dark-haired member of The White Hart walked the concourse in search of his colleague, the Foreign Secretary was in the pit of despair. He checked his watch; only seconds remained before the bearded cellist would carry out his threat.

  And life would never again be the same.

  *

  On the floor above, the wife of the Foreign Secretary noticed the moment had come. She guessed her husband was still in the same place; doing the same as she was.

  As 19:54 approached she left the ladies and took the stairs to the ground floor. She would meet her husband in the Champagne Bar of the Paul Hamlyn Hall.

  Or failing that, outside.

  12

  Kit remained still until he was sure that Mike had got the message. He heard him reply ‘Roger that’, but he didn’t expand on it. Everyone else had gone quiet too, including Phil, who he guessed had other things on his mind. He’d heard enough over the airwaves to know that the Deputy PM was safe, a question mark remaining over his wife.

  Aside from hearing cursing from both Mike and Maria, he was unsure what had become of her.

  He made his way out the door, alone apart from the cellist. The man appeared to contemplate another cigarette before deciding one was enough. As he approached, he saw the black device in more detail; it was small and rectangular with a few small buttons making up the display. Kit had seen similar things before, each time owned by explosives experts.

  He assumed this wouldn’t be any different.

  Less than ten metres separated them. The cellist remained with his back to the doors, his attention solely on the article in his hand. The delay was enough. Approaching from behind, Kit eased his right hand inside his jacket pocket and removed his firearm in one slick movement.

  “I wouldn’t press that if I were you.”

  *

  The cellist turned his head slowly, each millisecond a seemingly uncountable delay. As he did, he looked at Kit inquisitively. The scene before him was familiar, but one, somehow, he had failed to factor in. The man in front of him was tall, muscular, his fine white shirt and matching dinner jacket complementing his firm physique that reminded him of himself ten years earlier. Everything about his appearance was highly polished.

  No question of the man’s identity.

  Everard turned to face Kit, his eyes fixed in an inquisitive stare. Despite his obvious possession of a gun, Kit’s actions had caused no alarm, drawn no attention.

  Instead they remained alone.

  *

  The weapon was a Heckler & Koch USP45, a semi-automatic pistol that didn’t need to be cocked. Instead, Kit kept his index finger precariously close to the trigger. He took a slow intake of breath before exhaling slowly; twelve years’ experience told him the best way to maintain composure was to focus on his breathing. With his arms at full stretch, he was in complete control. The barrel of the gun was pointed squarely at the cellist’s chest; he had no plans for that to change. With the silencer fitted, the chances of a gunshot being heard would be minimal. The greater problem was the size of the venue.

  He guessed he had a window of no more than thirty seconds before somebody saw them.

  “No sudden movements. Unless you want them to be your last.”

  The cellist stood perfectly still. As the seconds passed a noise began to reverberate from his pocket: music, Dvorák.

  Slowly, he gestured to his pocket. “The call is from my boss. He will be most displeased if I do not answer.”

  Kit’s face developed into a smile. “I once had a relative who used the exact same piece. Only he used it as an alarm clock.”

  The cellist smiled, looked into his pocket and saw the display of his phone flashing the alarm setting. It was 19:55 and the button on the object in his other hand was still to be pressed.

  “Hands still. You may keep hold of the phone. At least that way I can see what you’re doing.” Kit moved towards him, his steps slow and composed, his eyes focused with steely concentration. “You know, I heard the exact same piece being played earlier today. It was just up the road from here, in fact. I don’t suppose that was you by any chance?”

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s hardly your concern. Nor how it is I know. What should concern you, however, is the fact that we do. Don’t worry, the Deputy Prime Minister and his good lady have already vacated the premises. I’m sure his right honourable friend won’t be far behind. Assuming his wife is over the bad case of mussels, of course.”

  The cellist again stared hard at Kit, raising his eyebrows slightly. “You’re MI5?”

  “If it makes you happy. I suppose I don’t really need to ask who you are. Where’s Randek?”

  The man’s expression hardened, his furrowed brow causing the lines on his forehead to thicken. He licked his lip and raised the detonator in his free hand.

  “This device is capable of much. It has the power to do great harm.”

  “I’ve told you already, your target has already been safely escorted from the building. The box is presently empty.”

  The man appeared confused. “You honestly believe that is why I’m here – one man. If I wanted to kill a member of the Cabinet, I
should have done so already. On the street, in his home, this morning. Should my finger accidentally slip, it is not only the box in question that is in danger, I assure you.”

  “Keep still,” Kit said, edging closer, his arms showing no sign of fatigue. “Palms up, there’s a good fellow.”

  The cellist rolled his shoulders, and looked around. Although the noises of the city were competing with the singing from the auditorium, the secluded smokers’ area was completely quiet and deserted close to the opera house. “It is cold out tonight. My joints are beginning to feel chilly. Perhaps it would be nicer if we could go some place warmer. Alone.”

  “Better yet, why don’t you hand over your toys and return to your seat to enjoy the rest of the performance? Then again, from what I heard earlier today, you already know it by heart.”

  “A quite marvellous piece, we can both agree, but tonight’s performance does not rank among the best. It’s the same whenever such classics are brought to England. If the great man were alive today, I’ll wager his work would never be seen outside the Czech Republic.”

  “Enough bullshit!” Kit snarled. “It won’t wash. Like you say, it’s rather chilly out. Quite slowly, I want you to lower yourself to the ground and place both objects down. You understand?”

  “The button, Monsieur, is very sensitive. One bad step and the repercussions could be great.”

  “Then for your sake, I suggest you do it very carefully!”

  *

  Mike checked inside every doorway, inspecting the aisles for any sign of Kit. The bearded tenor was still on stage, but the limelight had fallen on a pretty young woman with a divine singing voice.

  There were more people about than before. The refreshment areas didn’t open till the interval; those out of their seats were mainly men heading for the toilets. Their clothing varied considerably, though the last thing Mike had expected was jeans and trainers. The age range was equally varied, early twenties to something considerably more.

  As he approached the bottom of the concourse, he saw an area of glass ahead, a doorway leading on to a small private courtyard. Beyond it, standing outside, were two men engaged in animated conversation.