ThornScope_Federation of Europe

by KC McLaren

  “Yes it is, Egil. I think we’ve come to that point in our relationship where you and I need to have a serious conversation,” he said.

  “Sir? I’m not sure what that means. You sound upset. Are you okay?”

  “I can’t go into it over the phone. I need you to meet me.”

  “That sounds very serious, Bill.”

  “Yes, very.”

  “I’ve just got out of the shower and I’m waiting for my partner to pick me up. We are supposed to be heading back to Thames House, I presume you have been brought up to date with regards to today’s events?”

  “Yes. Don’t bother going to the box,” the Home Secretary said referring to Thames House, MI5 HQ, “I need you to come to Marsha Street, it is safe here.”

  Egil raised an eyebrow and thought, safe?

  “And your partner,” the Home Secretary continued, “is that that Jason guy you keep going on about?”

  “Yes, Sir. It is, but…”

  “I don’t have time to explain,” the Home Secretary said cutting in, an air of frustration in his voice, “and not over the phone. Do as you are told, Egil.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Egil replied worried about his godfather.

  “Please. Thirty minutes, my men will be expecting you. Use my private entrance.” The Home Secretary hung up.

  Egil put the cordless phone back on the table. Taken aback, he had never heard his godfather sound so much in distress before. The plot thickens.

  Still with the towel around his waist, he got hold of the burner phone from his coat and called Jason.

  “How long before you can get back here?” he asked when Jason answered.

  “You missing me already? I’ve just about got back to my place,” Jason replied.

  “Forget about that. Sorry. I need you back here and now. We have a meeting with the Home Secretary in less than thirty minutes.”

  “What the hell is going on, Egil?”

  “That my friend, I’m not sure. But whatever it is, Bill sounded very serious. How long before you can get back here?”

  “I’m turning around now. Oh, I can use the blue lights, how fun. I’ll be there within ten minutes, meet me outside,” Jason said, ever the joker.

  “Good, I’ll be down stairs waiting,” Egil replied, cutting the call.

  He didn’t bother about putting the suit back on, instead he opted for a pair of black jeans and casual shirt. He glanced at the gun and holster on the bed. In all the time he had been at MI5 and apart from range practice twice a week, he had only carried a weapon once, and that was overseas. He put on the holster, checked the gun, and then placed it into its holder.

  As he left the apartment and thought about the conversion with his godfather. What had he meant about being safe, and how much did he know about this conspiracy? A shudder went down his spine as he remembered the last words from the PM. The one and only priority, get Jonathan Beckett back – the UK’s sovereignty depended in it.

  Chapter 35 | Hello Jonathan

  JONATHAN OPENED HIS EYES. A dark cloud of doom hung over him. It pressed down trying to force his head into his chest. Just to add to the merry-go-round of the day, a nasty tasting bile crept up into his throat making him choke and cough. He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down, trying with all of his might to resist the urge to throw up. He raised his head and found himself in a damp, musty smelling room sitting on a hard wooden chair with a table in front of him. The room felt small, cold and empty. A dimly lit bulb hung from the low ceiling casting its eerie weak light onto the centre of the table. Oh well, he thought, it could be worse. However, apart from not breathing, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with anything. He realised he was not the only one in the room.

  “Wakey-wakey, Beckett,” the voice said.

  Jonathan looked up and through his blurred vision recognised the man’s voice as his captor. He longer wore his Matrix fashion outfit, instead tee-shirt and jeans. Jonathan noticed the holstered gun at the side of his hip. He laughed to himself thinking, didn’t he know it was illegal to carry a gun in the UK? The captor held a syringe in his hand. “What the hell’s that for?” Jonathan said finding it hard to speak.

  Ignoring Jonathan, the captor took hold of his arm. Jonathan instinctively pulled away.

  “The injection will help counteract the knockout drug,” the captor replied. “It has booster vitamins mixed in. My special blend. You’ve been through the wars today.”

  Jonathan, with an expression of a ‘fuck you’ look on his face, tried again to struggle free and immediately felt the sting of a back-handed slap to his face.

  “Not the right move, Beckett. How many times have I told you? There is no point in struggling. That was just a little slap, don’t force me to do more.”

  “Thank you, that woke me up,” Jonathan replied simply.

  “Always the wise guy,” Brad said. “If my instructions were harm you, then believe me, I wouldn’t need drugs to do it. May I continue?” Taking the syringe and holding it up in the air he turned back to Jonathan. “It will make you feel a lot better than you’re feeling now.”

  So he was under instructions, from whom, Jonathan wondered. “Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?” Jonathan replied and tried to remain calm but the words stumbled over his tongue and he sounded like a pathetic drunk.

  “Don’t you remember? But all in good time, Beckett.”

  “Remember what? Death, mayhem, penthouse war zone, kidnapping at gunpoint? Oh, and those lovely, what did your dead friend call them? Flash bangs? Pick one, it’s been a quiet day so far,” Jonathan replied, not overly liking that he had emphasised the word dead. Don’t bring yourself down to their level, he thought.

  The captor, again, ignored him.

  Jonathan only remembered parts of the helicopter ride though. Ah yes, he thought, the spray in his face knocking him for six – that was fun, never did like flying. He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness, the whooshing noise of the rotor blades hell bent on making him stay awake forcing his blurry eyes to open and shut. He couldn’t figure out where they had taken him and had no recall of how he came to be in the room. It was all just one long confusing blur. He didn’t care either, so long as Sara, Alan and the PM were safe. Sara? The vision of her being unconscious came back to him. He felt bad, but he couldn’t do much about that now. Forced at gunpoint to leave the penthouse ended any thoughts of helping her. He could only hope that someone had already taken care of her and she too was out of harm’s way.

  “Am I a hostage?” Jonathan asked.

  “Hostage?” the captor replied looking rather amused. “Not quite, I don’t believe there are any plans to ransom you, Beckett, but I feel that I’ve known you for such a long time. You are disoriented, let me help you. And please, call me Brad.”

  “What are you going to do, hit me again? Who do you work for? And no, I don’t want your help. But I doubt that matters much,” Jonathan replied as best as he could.

  “So at least we agree on something today,” Brad said, ignoring Jonathan’s questions. “However, let’s keep to the task in hand. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. If it makes any difference, there is nothing in this syringe that will harm you, on the contrary, it will make you feel a lot better. It would be rather ironic to have to cause you more pain just to prove my point.”

  Jonathan, defiantly, kept staring at the captor but knew there was no point in putting up further resistance. In any case, his head was pounding, and it wasn’t from the slap. If the cocktail of drugs helped to clear the sledge hammer ringing bells in his head, then fine by him. But no way was he going to give this murdering bastard permission, instead he forced up a closed-mouth smile.

  “I’ll take that as a yes then,” Brad replied. Relaxing the strong hold on Jonathan’s arm, he placed his thumb in the crook of the inside of Jonathan’s elbow and expertly put the needle into a vein. “It’ll take a few minutes before it kicks in.”

  Brad removed the s
yringe and put it in what looked like a first aid box. He took hold of Jonathan’s other arm. “Here, put your finger over the needle mark. We may as well do it the right way.”

  Brad bent down and picked something off the floor. A bottle of water. “Give it a few mins then drink it. You’ll be dehydrated.” He placed the bottle on the table then picked the box up and walked towards the far wall, his figure almost melted in with the surrounding darkness. Jonathan gazed over to where his captor stood leaning with his back against the wall, arms folded holding the box, watching.

  Feelings of resentment crept into Jonathan’s mind. He didn’t want to feel better, he wanted out of the room. But this guy was right, the pounding in his head started to subside. Jonathan thought of offering a thank you. Bollocks, the thank you faded as soon as it formed in his brain.

  What an arsehole, he thought of himself, sitting here totally useless. He removed his hand from his arm and picked up the water bottle, opened it up and drank its content. The water was cold and soothing. He placed both hands on the table interlocking them, shuffling in the chair, he straightened his back up getting comfortable. May as well look at least relaxed. Like waiting to be interviewed by a prospective employer, he wondered what sort of job they had in mind for him. Whatever it may be, he knew one thing, he was certainly not going like the offer.

  Half smiling and still defiant, he continued to stare towards his captor. Jonathan thought about the mannequin in the shop window earlier in the day. The half-cocked false smile made his captor look similar. Similar? He tried to stare into the shadows, there was something familiar about Brad’s stature. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Before the apartment?”

  “Yes, you have. In fact, I’ve been tracking you for some time. It no longer matters what you know now. I was at Oxford Street today,” Brad replied.

  “At Oxford Street? Yes,” Jonathan said squinting his eyes, “but you look different.”

  He watched as Brad brought his hand up to his ear and say, “Copy that. Over.” He looked over at Jonathan. “Yes, a little different, the art of disguise. Your guest has arrived.”

  “My guest?” Jonathan replied raising an eyebrow. “I now have a guest? Strange place to entertain people. You could have cleaned up a little.”

  Brad once again ignored the obvious sarcasm. “I’m going to leave you now. I’ll just be outside if you need room service,” Brad said replying with his own sarcasm. “I hope though, when I come back in it’s because you need my help, rather than deciding not to help with my employer’s requests.” He placed his hand on the door-handle and paused. “After all, it would be such a shame to destroy such beauty,” he opened the door and walked out.

  Jonathan wondered what the hell Brad meant about destroying beauty and requests for what? As he continued to look towards the door, he didn’t have time to ponder anything else, another shadowy figure entered the room. The faint light from the bulb above restricted his vision making it hard to see properly. Was it the interviewer, the man about the job? Jonathan smiled to himself, he was feeling confident and had no idea why. Maybe it was the drugs playing with the other drugs and giving him a high, what the hell. It felt strangely good.

  The shadowy figure walked towards the table, the light casting him in a dark hale. Jonathan, squinting, tried to make out the outline of the man.

  “Hello, Jonathan. Nice to see you after such a long time. Nice to have you, shall we say, back home,” said the shadow.

  The bulb above the table was not the only thing turned on, the metaphorical one now going off in Jonathan’s head lit up like a cascade of fireworks. Recognising the voice, all the day’s events came into focus.

  “Home? This is certainly no home of mine. But it makes sense now. You’re the one behind this farcical charade. I should have known.” Jonathan sighed deeply, the realisation of the situation hit him hard. He knew the man standing at the opposite side of the table wanted one thing only, ThornScope. “Still getting your kicks out of wanting to control the world?” Yes, he thought, it certainly all makes sense now. Former shitty Prime Minister. Ego-power-tripper extraordinaire. His guest, his interviewer. His real captor. David Strickland, former UK Prime Minister, stood before him.

  Chapter 36 | Home Office

  THE DRIVE OVER to Marsham Street, the offices of the Home Office, took a lot less time than Egil envisaged. He made a mental note, don’t give an order to Jason about getting anywhere fast. The car frequently lit up like a fire cracker from the various speed camera’s popping off along the way. It was late in the day and with little traffic on the road, they eventually made it to their destination.

  Jason pulled up to the security gate pressed the auto button for the driver’s side window. A police officer from the DPG, Diplomatic Protection Group, armed and suited up approached the window. Another three armed officers stood close by. Egil noticed hey had their gun fingers covering the triggers on their 9 mm Heckler & Koch MP5 semi-automatic sub-machine guns. Four armed officers on duty?

  “Good evening gentlemen, ID’s please,” the officer said.

  Egil gave Jason his MI5 ID which, alongside his own, he passed to the officer.

  “The Home Secretary is expecting you,” he looked into the window and hesitated, “may I remind you that it is prohibited to carry weapons. Step out of the car.”

  As Jason gave Egil a knowing disapproval look, one of the three other officers approached the driver’s side window.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said to his colleague. “I believe Mr Finstad is just testing out our security. Isn’t that right, Egil?”

  “You’re getting around a lot today, Carl,” Egil replied.

  “We are both getting around a lot. I see that the PM in his wisdom didn’t throw you in the tower,” Carl replied smiling.

  “Isn’t the Tower of London reserved for saintlier royals than the likes of us? What’s the update on the Prime Minister?” Egil asked smirking back.

  “Very funny. As requested by you, there are two teams of four SCO-19 guarding the PM till you tell me otherwise. It’s spreading us thin till we get a new protection team in place. The PM insisted that my team wear civvies clothing too. Pain in the bloody arse. Park the car. I’ll take you to the Home Secretary.” Carl pointed to where he wanted Jason to park.

  Jason closed the window and drove to space, “If I had known you had brought a weapon, I would have brought mine to the party too.”

  “You would only shoot someone not related to anything. Get out, if this is going the way I think it is, we will both need more than guns to protect us.”

  They both got out of the car and Carl came up to Egil. “Follow me,” he said.

  As they walked along the path to the private entrance to the Home Office Carl caught up with Egil. “How are your men, Carl? They took a beating at the penthouse,” Egil asked.

  “Yes they certainly did, we were caught on the hop. Just as well that the explosion in the underground car parking was more show, diversion and noise than power. Even still, one of the team is in the ICU, thankfully updates on his condition suggest he will pull through. The rest of the guys are knocked around, but they will be fine.”

  “That’s good to know. We are dealing with highly trained operatives, Carl. There is more going here than we know. Anything else to report?”

  “Yes, we found three bodies in the blast area, two killed before the blast went off. One of them being another member of the PM’s security detail, the other is the parking attendant. The guy who we believe drove the van is also dead – he took the full brunt of the force. Do you think he was a suicide bomber?”

  “No I don’t, Carl. It’s hard to say, but considering early indications suggests the device had a small blast radius, leads me to believe it a decoy. The driver being killed? That’s the part I can’t figure out. Why did he remain with vehicle? As I’ve said, the blast was not enough to cause any real damage, unless someone was close to it. Makes little sense.”

  “Yes, it all seem
s strange. There has been absolutely no chatter on intelligence regarding to a possible terrorist threat. With the UK security net in place, there hasn’t been an incident in the last four years,” Carl added.

  Intelligence, Egil thought to himself. Yes, very much a lack of anything, even for an MI5 officer. “I feel this has nothing to do with terrorism in the usual sense. What about CCTV, anything there?”

  “That’s the strangest part of all,” Carl replied, “nothing but blurry ghost figures.”

  Egil looked at Carl, “What do you mean, blurry ghost figures?”

  “Exactly what I said. On the CCTV we can see something, a haze moving around of two blurred bodies, but nothing else.”

  Egil thought, that’s the same similar thing he had seen at the Canary Wharf tube station.

  “Interesting,” Egil replied, “I’ll have my man Jason look into it.”

  “OK, that’s your department, spook man,” they both smiled at that joke. With a more serious tone, Carl asked, “Listen, Egil. Seriously, what’s going on? Security has not stepped up so much since the Blackpool bombing of 1984.”

  “You mean the attempted assassination of Thatcher?”

  “Yes,” Carl replied,

  Egil took a look over his shoulder at the other SCO-19 officer following them and stopped walking, “To be honest, Carl, I’m not sure myself. I’m hoping the Home Secretary can shed more light on the situation.”

  Carl looked back at his man too, raised his head and indicated to him to back off a few steps. Jason followed suite.

  “There is a lot more going on here than you’re telling me, Egil,” Carl retorted. “I’m getting grief from all over the place. You know how this inter-departmental wrangling’s can get. The DPG are asking why my teams have been deployed without a formal threat level being invoked by the Home Secretary. Apart from barking orders out he’s not saying much either. If I didn’t know better…”