Such factors could often be critical.
Experience told him he had made the correct decision. Even if his pursuer was an expert on the ins and outs of the city, he doubted the man’s knowledge would be greater than his. As he reached a point opposite the concrete façade of King’s College, he knew he would be faced with another important decision. The A4 was a unique road, partly because of the layout. Situated less than one hundred metres in front of him, the church of St Mary le Strand loomed over him like a miniature St Paul’s, its extravagant baroque ornamentation a picture under the bright floodlights. The church was also unique; aside from its famed connection with the Women’s Royal Naval Service, it was located on a traffic island.
Again, two choices. Left and around. Or right to the church.
*
Mike thought he was seeing things. The subject was proving easy enough to track, but impossible to predict.
A right turn across the road to the south side of the Strand was a manoeuvre that required a great deal of skill. To play the percentages, it was not something to be tried in one go, at least when the traffic was moving. A more sensible ploy would be to cross the road in stages.
Beginning with the traffic island outside the church.
Stage one didn’t surprise him; he reasoned he’d have done the same thing had the shoe been on the other foot.
What happened next was far more unexpected.
Instead of circling the outer walls to the right, he headed straight between the open gates and entered the church.
*
The church was usually locked by now; the signs by the door confirmed that 4 p.m. was the routine closing time on weekdays. Today, however, was different. A special service of thanksgiving was being conducted.
The cellist slowed his pace on reaching the door, and quietly headed inside. He bowed his head and closed the main doors behind him, before drifting towards the left side of the church.
*
Mike had no choice but to follow him. Raising the latch, he pushed firmly against the door, doing his best to avoid the inevitable prolonged creak as the door opened and closed. The first thing that struck him was the smell: a powerful incense that caught him by surprise. Even from the back of the church, he could tell that a service was in progress, the mellow tunefulness of the music and singing amplified by the acoustic properties of the grandiose architecture.
He entered through a second glass door and looked around at the ornate interior, an impressive assortment of a plastered gold and white ceiling and walls that reminded him of Michelangelo. The congregation was small, most occupying the front three pews either side of a red and blue tiled aisle and kneeling on cushioned kneelers adorned with a picture of an anchor. Though of a Catholic upbringing, Mike knew enough about the Anglican order of service to recognise that the service was one of remembrance.
It was unusual for visitors to arrive this late.
Standing near the final pew, he surveyed everything in front of him. There were no side chapels, no elaborate archways; unlike the great cathedrals he’d visited throughout his life, there were no obvious secrets or escape routes. If Everard were to leave, he’d have to do so the same way he arrived.
*
The cellist had experience on his side; he kept reminding himself of the fact. A stranger entering the church for the first time, their attention taken by the elaborate architecture, would be lulled into a false sense of perspective. Churches often have a habit of doing that, especially in Europe; a doorway or stairway heading in one direction could easily be mistaken for going somewhere else.
The arrival of his pursuer was unlikely to take long. Sure enough, less than ten seconds passed before he heard the extended creaking of the ancient door, moving both ways on its hinges. For the first time he allowed himself a long look at the man’s features; he placed him at around six-one, his strong dark brown hair in a well-cut short style of a kind loved by women and approved by the military. Like the man he’d tangled with earlier, he was handsome, though without the superficial arrogance. There was something different about this one; he was younger, yes, but also more respectful – a man who had perhaps been brought up with a good understanding of humility. There had been no silver spoon in his upbringing, no wasted Eton or Harrow education, no double coloured lines, no boarding, no fagging. In another time and place, he knew he could almost have learned to respect him.
As the door closed, he saw his pursuer enter slowly, his eyes immediately falling on the area before the altar where the most prominent members of the congregation were gathered. He saw someone look round, a black man in his fifties, but felt sure that no one had observed his own entrance; even the vicar had been concentrating on other matters. Admittedly, the chap might have found it odd: two strangers appearing at the same time, close to the end of the service. He detected from the sombre ambience it was a private affair, not one to gatecrash.
*
The sights were what he’d expected, not that Mike was familiar with the layout. The service was in honour of a former local; the lack of attendees suggested observation was intended for the minority. There was something about the way the congregation stood that suggested intimacy: family, friends, distant relatives. Though all were welcome, only one attendee stood out from the crowd.
The cellist was kneeling two pews from the back.
Mike genuflected before the altar and slid in alongside the cellist. He lowered himself to his knees and joined his hands together.
“I just heard on the news that the explosion at the Royal Opera House has been labelled a terrorist attack. The PM is expected to make a statement soon.” He kept his voice low, his eyes alternating between the man alongside him and the altar. “Apparently the death toll could be well into the twenties.”
The cellist maintained a calm façade. “God moves in mysterious ways.”
Mike edged nearer. Despite the criminal being cornered, the last thing he wanted was for the conversation to be overheard. “Killing innocent people has nothing to do with God. Your bosses have never even claimed that.” He kept his voice low. “I understand the Deputy PM’s wife has confessed everything. The Foreign Secretary is currently being questioned as we speak.”
The cellist kept his eyes low, maintaining the illusion of being in prayer. Though the man’s voice sounded genuine, he sensed it was probably not.
Why tell the truth?
“It must be a very difficult time for the service. I remember the last time your organisation faced a problem of this magnitude.”
“Well it was only the day before yesterday. I’m guessing you were present in Edinburgh.”
The man laughed, a low whisper. “I suppose for a man as young as you, it is difficult to recall anecdotes your predecessors might have found amusing. If your bosses failed to tell you everything, or worse, repeated lies, then it’s no surprise you find yourself knowing so little about what causes such great unrest.” He turned to face him, his brown eyes reflecting the light as if he were a reptile. “Always remember: the only way to be certain not to lose a fight is not to get into it in the first place.”
“Perhaps you’re unaware, but right now you are currently wanted for the murder of at least twelve people, including the attempted murder of at least one cabinet minister. The Foreign Secretary is a dangerous man. One wrong word, and I’m sure it won’t take much persuasion for that count to rise to two. Think hard, Monsieur. Act reasonably now and you might even be granted asylum.”
The cellist laughed, which confused Mike.
“You think me insincere?”
“As a young man born in England, I’m guessing you will be unfamiliar with the story of Yves de Bonaire. He was a local man from a village close to where I was born, though many centuries earlier. When the Huguenots brought iconoclasm to the region, de Bonaire attacked a coach of Huguenots with gunpowder, killing twenty-four. Thanks to him, the church was saved, and he spent the next week there, safe from trouble.”
“Is t
hat why you came here – looking for sanctuary? You know, in Nottingham they say Robin Hood once tried the same thing.”
“Ah, the noble outlaw.” He looked Mike in the eye, his expression something between sternness and amusement. “Sometimes to do good, evil is necessary.”
“Yes. And if you want peace war is inevitable, very profound,” Mike replied. “I must say, your actions tonight have left me slightly confused. Surely Mrs Hughes’s theft from the house in Somerset means she’s on your side. Or are you simply trying to limit collateral damage?”
Again, he smiled. “My friends are patient men, Monsieur; but they are also shrewd. In the business world you can pay hundreds of thousands of euros for success and be repaid with incompetence. The future is unwritten, chances sometimes need to be taken, such is the way of this world. Yet in such uncertain times it is unwise to overplay one’s hand, particularly when the odds are stacked in another’s favour. Take my advice: go home to your girlfriend. Enjoy life’s privileges.” He gestured with his fingers. “Don’t enter fights you cannot win.”
“You honestly believe you’re in a position to make assumptions? That your actions have been going unnoticed? It may surprise you to know that you’re not the only people capable of tracing a source. If Pickering duped Hughes, Pickering’s lot is already lost. If others duped Pickering then, believe me, even if he decides to reveal little it will still be enough to compromise your endeavour. And based on events this evening, I have a suspicion he might take little convincing, even without the need for further threats.”
“We are digressing. And the hour is late.” He looked towards the altar. The hymn was over; further readings were imminent. “Whatever information you seek, even if you obtained it tonight, it would still do you little good.” He rose to his seat, removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled a short note. “Take this. Your bosses at MI5 may enjoy it as a consolation prize.”
Mike took it sceptically. “You still think I’m MI5?”
The cellist looked at him and smiled. “Ah, of course. Ich Dien. Houmout.” He looked Mike in the eye, his withered face alive with a new sense of mystery. He crossed out what he’d written and scribbled something new. “How stupid I must have been. Take the note to your boss anyway; he might find it amusing. In fact, why not take this one too?”
The cellist removed a second piece of paper from his pocket and opened it in Mike’s face. A powerful mist emerged, catching him in the eyes. He recoiled instinctively, his hands covering his face, his eyes watering. As he fell to one side, he heard the sound of movement along the pew to his left, followed by the creaking of a door.
16
The pain on his cheeks made him want to slump to the ground and scream. His face was on fire, the burning on his skin agonising. He remembered experiencing a similar sensation once before, in training, years ago – though the substance used on that occasion had been far less concentrated. Reassuringly he also recalled that the effects were said rarely to last more than ten seconds.
Sure enough, as the seconds passed, his vision quickly returned to normal and the intense stinging sensation was replaced by a strange feeling of coolness that he attributed to a fresh breeze. He rubbed his eyes and looked over his shoulder.
The main door to the church was once again open.
His mistake was unforgiveable. His job had been simple. Maintain surveillance of the terrorist until help arrived. He cursed himself for falling into such an obvious trap. The delay had given the cellist at least a ten-second head start.
Mike feared it would prove decisive.
The smoke had engulfed the final four pews; even now, it still lingered. The last thing Mike saw as he left the church was an astounded vicar and a shell-shocked congregation.
He left without saying a word, hurrying towards the open door.
*
Experience was on his side, as it always was. Game time was the most valuable thing in the world, even compared to training. Failure would only be caused by incompetence or arrogance.
He now knew the young operative could possess nothing that he hadn’t already seen.
The Strand had ground to a standstill, which was convenient. Taking advantage of the lack of movement, he sprinted south before continuing east past the front of King’s College.
Again, he had two choices: the poor one or the sensible one.
In less than two hundred metres there would be a turning on the right and, shortly after that, his escape route.
*
Mike had learned to follow his instincts. In times of danger and crisis, trust them was one of the first things that Kit had told him. People had different theories of what it could achieve.
Kit put it down to simply ‘Being the best’.
On the Strand, traffic moved slowly in both directions, with pedestrians obscuring the fronts of the nearby buildings. Scanning the crowds on the south side, something caught his eye. Someone was jogging; though only the top of his head was visible, he recognised it immediately.
The cellist had crossed the road and was heading east towards Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill.
Mike needed to head south. With the traffic lights green, he knew crossing the road would be impossible until they changed. Heading east, his view was good enough to keep the target in clear sight.
Visual contact, at least, had been re-established.
He heard a voice in his ear, Maria’s. She’d been speaking ever since the smoke bomb went off; he was still to reply.
Clearly she’d heard the whole conversation.
“Mike?” Her voice had grown louder.
“I’m back in pursuit. Heading east. Outside Somerset House.”
He followed the cellist from the north side; as far as he could tell, Everard was still to look back. Focus or arrogance, he wondered. Perhaps both.
The main building of King’s College was long and prestigious and located directly opposite St Mary’s. Where the traffic island ended, almost directly opposite the north wing of the college, an adjoining side street headed south off the Strand, leading to Temple Place.
He saw Everard take a right, looking over his shoulder as he turned. As he did, he saw Mike standing opposite, preparing to cross.
The cellist burst into a sprint.
*
Jay pulled up outside the Cabinet Office and the rear left door opened immediately. Kit got out first, and addressed the Foreign Secretary, “After you.”
Pickering left the car gingerly, his expression one of intense frustration. He addressed Kit as he closed the door.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Masterson, sir.”
“Masterson.” He eyed Kit venomously. “Rest assured, I’ll be speaking to your superior about you first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll see if you’re still smiling once you’ve swapped the suit for the scrubbing brush.”
Kit waited for the Foreign Secretary to approach the main doors and spoke into his mouthpiece. “Maria, I’ve escorted the Foreign Secretary to the Cabinet Office building. We’re just waiting for someone to let us in.”
“Understood.”
The doors opened as if in direct response, revealing a well-lit corridor that Kit had missed earlier that day. He repeated the words, “After you,” and followed the minister inside.
Pickering had stopped just inside the main door, a deeply fearful look suddenly replacing the previous air of superiority and arrogance. Standing, with arms crossed, in the corridor beyond the door were six police officers. A smartly dressed detective stood imposingly at the front, his expression offering little sympathy. Kit saw the Foreign Secretary look at him, speechless, as the detective read him his rights before escorting him from the building.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir.”
*
Mike was running out of options. Failure to cross the road could cause him to lose track of the man and compromise the mission, but crossing with the traffic moving would involve the risk of
serious injury.
He waited until a black taxi passed and sprinted for the dotted line in the middle of the road. A black Ford skidded to an exaggerated halt. Seizing his chance, he continued across, heading for a side street, called Surrey Street.
He was on new ground. Though he knew the Strand well, he had never heard of Surrey Street before. To his right, the buildings that made up King’s College towered above him like scenes from Georgian England, whilst to his left, buildings of similar appearance were unknown to him. There were cars on the road, but nothing to worry about in comparison with the traffic on the Strand. Logic told him the cellist was heading for the river.
Either that, or he was playing guessing games.
The street ended at Temple Place, at which point things began to make sense. Over fifty metres ahead, Mike saw the cellist change direction again and head towards the entrance to the Tube.
*
Everard could feel his body starting to tire. Sweat poured down his forehead and back, pooling in wet patches on his shirt. His feet were raw, his soles blistered, his quads and calves aching and sore.
His pursuer had pushed him to his limit.
The station at Temple was always crowded, but fortunately he’d seen it worse. At 20:15 the peak hour had long since passed, the numbers down on what would have greeted him two hours earlier. He swiped his Oyster Card on reaching the turnstiles and headed right.
District and Circle eastbound.
As he descended the stairway, he heard something disturbing, footsteps echoing behind him. Mike had emerged, heading for the turnstile. He ducked his head as he saw his young pursuer scanning the crowds, possibly seeing him. Timing was now everything.
He prayed the train would be imminent.
*
Mike didn’t have a ticket readily available. Every White Hart operative was issued an Oyster Card, but he didn’t have time to search through his wallet. A steady queue was forming at the turnstile; he could tell from their body language that most were seasoned career people in a hurry to get home. He estimated the wait time would be well over ten seconds.
The Bordeaux Connection Page 13
