The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  “Roger that!”

  *

  Mike had already climbed the stairs, deciding not to wait for Kit. He saw light coming from somewhere, for now he was unsure whether it was from inside the house or not.

  The landing was carpeted, the walls a subtle shade of red that matched the exterior. Portraits and masterpieces from the Stanhope days lined the route, the majority relating either to war or hunting. The doorways were symmetrical, most of them partially open. He searched each room as he passed, espying opulent furnishings that appeared ready for use.

  He heard a noise in his ear. “Mike, give me your position.”

  “First floor, third room on the left. Proceeding to the one opposite.”

  “What’s it look like up there?”

  “How about you come see for yourself?”

  “Maybe in a few minutes. First I want to finish with the downstairs.”

  “Roger that.”

  *

  The main hall was abundant in wood and rich upholstery. The walls were oak panelled that matched the bannisters on the main stairs.

  The living area was in keeping with his initial assumptions, and had clearly been lived in recently. There was fruit in a bowl on a coffee table, along with several magazines of various genres. Ignoring the temptation to take a look, he passed the rooms quickly, and headed for the other side of the house.

  There were no signs of life; had it not been for his prior knowledge, he’d probably have dismissed the house as something of little significance. Through the windows on the far side he studied the grounds. There was a lake in the distance, the light of the emerging moon casting an almost ethereal glow on the water. With the lack of light coming from inside the house, it seemed stronger than usual, reminding himself he was alone.

  “How’s it going up there?”

  Mike replied, “Thirty rooms in. All much the same.”

  “Any open drawers? Half-packed suitcases? Rent boys locked away in cupboards?”

  Mike laughed. “Nothing so far, though I’ll keep checking. Place feels more like a museum.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Keep in close contact. We don’t want any ghoulies to surprise us when we’re taking a piss.”

  He returned to the area where he saw the bookcases. They reminded him of the footage from the night before: the Raleigh manuscript that was now apparently in the hands of a wanted terrorist. In his mind, he considered the report from Edinburgh. Several missing items, mostly art and manuscripts.

  He guessed there was a connection.

  “Mike, you love your history. Who were the family who lived here before?”

  “Earls of Stanhope.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Landowners and distant cousins of the royals.”

  “Anyone important?”

  “I think there might have been a connection with Mountbatten.”

  “Understood. Why steal something by Walter Raleigh?”

  *

  Entering another bedroom on the first floor, Mike paused. “Come again?”

  “It never really clicked into place last night. Perhaps it was fatigue. The Raleigh manuscript, who would steal something like that?”

  Mike was unsure. “Collectors. Drug traffickers. Arms dealers . . .”

  “Why drug traffickers and arms dealers?”

  “Collateral usually. They only have limited resale value compared to what they’re worth when they’re legal. If a gang needs collateral on a loan, it’s usually a popular choice.”

  “You think it was stolen for that? And the stuff from Edinburgh?”

  In truth Mike still had no idea. “Well, I’m not gonna lie to you, Kit. I can think of better things. The only other reason must be so specific I can’t even think of it yet.”

  “You know, I was afraid you might say something like that.”

  Mike left the room and crossed the corridor, entering the room opposite. Instead of a lavish bedroom, a king-sized bed lined with linen sheets, this one appeared to be used as a study. He explored it in detail, following a red carpet intercepted by several lines of bookcases – there were so many it reminded him of a library. Another door in the far wall led through to an area furnished with a large oak desk and flanked by filing cabinets.

  “Hey, come upstairs when you can. I think I’ve just found something.”

  “What?”

  “A library. I’m guessing this was what Maria meant by study.”

  “Roger that. I’ll be right up.”

  Mike moved on. He explored the bookcases in the half-light and stopped by one row in particular. He recognised names; editions of every work of fiction from Jane Austen to Laurence Sterne; he guessed many had never been opened.

  There was light entering from a nearby window; the views were far reaching, including the lake, the woodland and a walled garden south-west of the house. Close to the walled garden he saw a car on a driveway, a small red thing, possibly a Corsa. He considered speaking to Kit, but decided against it, again guided by instinct.

  The door to the second room was still open; there was a computer on the desk, presently in sleep mode. He entered and activated the screen, annoyed to see it was password protected. Removing Phil’s portable hacking device from his belt, he inserted it into the USB port and began digging through the filing cabinets.

  No luck! He could tell instantly he was looking at things connected to the Trust. He checked them all and returned to the screen. The device had worked.

  “Kit, what was the password for Hughes’s office?”

  “Lavinia. Why?”

  “I’ve just come up with one that was Valerie.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fifteenth door on your right, through the library. Sitting at a computer.”

  He clicked on the mouse and started to explore the desktop. Though the machine had been in sleep mode, he judged from the evidence it had been used recently. The web browser was up, including one for Yahoo.

  Whoever used it, he guessed it wasn’t the Foreign Secretary.

  He heard footsteps in the corridor; from his seat it wasn’t obvious whether or not they were heading in his direction.

  “Kit, come in here. Come check this out.”

  The footsteps had stopped, then started again. They appeared louder. Apparently running.

  Mike jumped to his feet and left the room, heading through the library.

  “Kit? Kit?” There was a light on somewhere along the corridor, a distant glow coming from inside one of the rooms. He moved quickly, keeping close to the walls. Removing his gun, he stopped outside the door, peered inside and entered.

  He froze, his arms outstretched. Kit was standing by the bed holding a gun.

  Aimed at the wife of the Deputy PM.

  19

  Standing guard outside the door of one of the three special apartments located within Admiralty House, the duty policeman saluted the smartly dressed gentleman marching in his direction. Though he didn’t recognise him personally, there was something about the man’s gait and appearance that cried out top brass.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening,” the visitor replied, showing him an ID badge. Sure enough, the man was armed forces. RAF retired.

  “I’m here to have a chat with the Minister.”

  *

  The Foreign Secretary was lying on the couch, watching a film downloaded from on demand. The news channels were all concerned with one subject, and – thanks to the impertinent fellow with the dark-rimmed glasses – he wasn’t going to be leaving before dawn.

  He heard the sound of a key turn in the lock, followed by the opening of the front door. A man entered, instantly recognisable.

  “Good God. I might have known.”

  Mr White approached the couch and sat down in an armchair directly opposite him. He eased the seat within inches of the nearby coffee table and looked the Foreign Secretary in the eye.

  “Now then, Richard. What say the two of us have a littl
e chat? Just you and me. Won’t that be nice?”

  *

  From a payphone in the main concourse of Dover Priory train station, a call was currently being placed to a number in Paris.

  The caller wasn’t used to being clean-shaven. He’d bought himself a razor from a retailer at St Pancras and hogged the toilet on the first available train. After ten years without a shave, the phone’s plastic casing gave off a tingling sensation against his skin.

  The dialling tone bleeped in his ear: four, five, six . . . where the hell is Randek?

  An answer. “Allo?”

  “It is I.”

  The man in Paris sat upright in his chair. “They have been talking about your exploits for hours. Even in France you are being heralded as a maniac or a hero.” He gripped the phone tightly as he rose to his feet, his eyes on the street outside his office window, his view partially restricted by the closed blinds. “They say on the news over fifteen have been killed. They also say no one of status.”

  “Plans are subject to change.”

  “What happened?”

  “If you watch the news you already hear what happen. The Security Service are not fools. They watch as we do. Some more closely than others.”

  Unbeknown to the man in Dover, the man in Paris nodded in understanding. “You are safe?”

  “Safer than I was two hours ago.”

  “Is your line secure? Can you talk? Where are you now?”

  He decided an answer, albeit from a payphone with no evidence connecting him with the location, would be a mistake. “En route. The Eurostar finishes at eight. I had to make other arrangements.”

  At the other end the man from Paris nodded again. He was calling from the ferry port or the airport, he mused.

  “When you return I might have a little present for you.” Randek edged towards his desk and picked up an item of jewellery. “It seems my sister is most fond of you. Perhaps I have been harsh on you all these years.”

  For Everard, this was hardly the time. “We can talk when I return. What are my instructions?”

  “Return safe and return unnoticed – your instructions are no different than before. When you are back in France, there will be people who want to meet with you.”

  “Are they from Paris? Marseille?”

  “Neither. However, head to Paris. That will put you on the right track – after that we can head south together. Be careful of the transport police. You never know. They might suspect you of being an asylum seeker.” He laughed loudly.

  *

  Everard replaced the phone and rubbed his clean-shaven face as he headed for the main exit. The journey to the ferry port would take less than ten minutes by taxi.

  Giving him less than twenty to get aboard the ferry.

  *

  Alone in the quiet office, Randek cleared the line without replacing the receiver and put through a second call. The occurrences of the previous three days had already made a mark on the continent. Security had been heightened; inquests would be imminent, repercussions inevitable. Success in two ventures was now ensured.

  All that remained was the final one.

  20

  Mike leaned closer to the woman on the couch and flicked the wheel on the cigarette lighter. He held his hand steady as the tip of her cigarette caught the flame, her eyes focusing mesmerizingly on his as she exhaled.

  The last ten minutes had been among the longest of Mike’s life. The woman was a bag of nerves, worse now than she’d been on fleeing the opera house. Her appearance had changed since then; her face carried less make-up, particularly around her eyes and cheeks, as though she’d made an improvised attempt to disguise her appearance.

  Mike was exhausted. Being in The White Hart was never an easy job but there was something about dealing with heartbroken women that was even worse than dealing with the villains. A career on active service had taught him to adapt to new scenarios, but he knew no form of training could have prepared him for the last few days. His grandfather had once told him about his experiences at Arnhem in the war. What began as a mission that went seriously wrong ended in a cat-and-mouse chase to escape the Nazis. He’d escaped along the river in a small dinghy before heading across country back towards Allied lines, eventually being picked up by the Americans.

  He’d barely slept in ninety-six hours.

  Mike lowered his hand and backed away from the politician’s wife, taking a seat on the couch. He thought about asking her a question, but decided against it; concluding instead what she needed was time to gather herself.

  Kit took a seat adjacent to Mike, an antique armchair that had clearly been passed through the generations. He removed his mobile phone from his pocket and began navigating the desktop. He stopped on reaching a folder in the picture gallery where he had earlier received a data transfer from Charlestown.

  Kit smiled sympathetically. “Do you have any idea who we are?”

  Mrs Hughes inhaled on her cigarette and flicked ash into an ashtray on a small table; another antique feature decorated with the emblem of the former owners.

  “Does it matter?”

  Mike raised an eyebrow, Kit replied, “Not to us.”

  She blew smoke, her eyes taking in their features. “You must be MI5. No one else predicts a terrorist attack seconds before it goes off then turns up unannounced in the country estate of the man who was the intended target.” She looked them both in the eye in turn. “How did you know?”

  “It’s our job,” Mike said, again satisfied by the incorrect assumption that they worked for MI5.

  “Why are you here?”

  Kit handed over his mobile phone, showing her the photos. “I assume this needs no clarification?”

  The photo was clear-cut: King’s Cross, dusk, platform three. She was standing alongside a man of French features, carrying what appeared to be a historical manuscript.

  Colour drained from her face. “How did you know?”

  “We know a lot of things.” He avoided the temptation to add, ‘it’s our job’. “You know that man?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why were you meeting him?”

  She shrugged.

  “Less than twenty-four hours earlier, you were caught on CCTV removing an historical manuscript named The Ocean to Cynthia by Walter Raleigh from the library at Montacute House. Why?” The question came from Mike.

  She puffed again at her cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. The hostility of her expression concerned him. He remembered an analogy his grandfather had once given him.

  A wounded animal is most deadly when it’s cornered.

  Kit scrolled through the photographs, and stopped on seeing one of Everard talking with the Foreign Secretary.

  “You recognise this man?”

  She delayed, concentrating on her cigarette, clearly afraid of what she might see.

  Her face relaxed slightly. “That’s the Foreign Secretary.”

  Obviously. “Do you recognise the man with him?”

  She took the phone and studied it for several seconds. Finally she shook her head.

  “This photo was taken earlier tonight close to the lobby of the Royal Opera House,” Kit began. “It was taken at 19:46, exactly ten minutes before the bomb went off; exactly seven minutes before my associate evacuated you and your husband from Box 63. It was this man who set off the explosion.”

  Mrs Hughes exhaled nervously and tipped away further ash. Kit expected her to speak, but she didn’t.

  Again, Mike was pleased she was still holding everything together.

  “I take it you’ve never seen him before?” Kit asked. “He wasn’t known to you?”

  “No.” She seemed baffled by the question. “Why? Should he be?”

  “Well, he’s certainly well known to your housemate. Seems a little odd, don’t you think? The Foreign Secretary chatting with a man who intended to kill you.”

  She wiped tears from her eyes but didn’t answer.

  “The man in t
he picture we understand to be well known to the man you met at King’s Cross,” Mike said, his tone softer than Kit’s. “We even have reports that the man has a son with Monsieur Randek’s sister. What’s your relationship with Randek?”

  This time she answered. “I only met him once.”

  “At the station?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does your husband think of all this?”

  She delayed giving an answer. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Why did you steal the book from Montacute House?” Mike repeated, his concentration total. A gut feeling told him there was a connection between the articles taken from Edinburgh and the Raleigh book. “Who put you up to it?”

  Fresh tears fell from her eyes. “It was Richard. He was responsible for everything.”

  “He blackmailed you into stealing the book?” Kit asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Mike asked.

  She shook her head. “He never said.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me he needed me to do him a favour.”

  “You decided to accept?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Over what?”

  “He said if I didn’t do it, he’d tell my husband.”

  “Tell him what?” The question came from Kit.

  Tears streamed down her face. “Tell him what happened between us.”

  Mike and Kit exchanged glances. Though Kit said no words, Mike knew exactly what he was thinking.

  I definitely prefer the villains.

  *

  In the half-light of a deserted room somewhere in France, the dark-haired listener heard something that stood out among the numerous background noises. Two men were engaged in animated discussion. Though he didn’t recognise their voices, the information he was getting through the data software confirmed that both matched ones on file. One of them had been set to amber, meaning he was high priority. The other was purple, a rare colour.

  Its exact meaning was restricted to above his pay level.

  He typed quickly on his keyboard, making a note of everything that was said. The phone numbers used, though not attributed to any specific people or property, were listed as non-core. In his experience, the non-cores were often the ones the villains would never think had been tapped.