‘I most certainly will, sir,’ nodded Stanley.
Keith Copeland walked along the tunnel linking the Cabinet Office with 10 Downing Street. Ten thirty. Just over three hours since the nightmare erupted and he’d begun to panic. Time was of the essence he’d told them, but thankfully they’d not understood what he meant. It wasn’t just Stephen Bowen’s life and the arms contract at risk, but his entire future. The longer this case remained unresolved, the greater the danger of a revelation that would destroy him.
There’d been three hours of speculation this morning by a media short of facts. Time now for him to go on camera and give an impression of being in charge. Couldn’t delay it any longer. Yet in charge was something he certainly didn’t feel.
His boyish-faced press secretary was waiting as he climbed the stairs into Number 10.
‘All right, Gordon,’ Copeland declared, forestalling the question. ‘I know it’s feeding time. How many animals out there?’
‘A full cage, PM. Shall I tell them five minutes? If that gives us long enough to discuss what you’re going to say …’
‘Nothing to discuss. You see I’m not going to say anything, Gordon. Words, but no content.’
The press secretary bristled at having his offer of advice rejected. ‘Five minutes it is then, PM.’
Copeland slipped into his office and closed the door, desperate for a few moments alone in which to compose his thoughts.
The TV pictures of Stephen had been deeply shocking. Horrible to see such terror in the face of someone he’d known for so long. They’d been at Cambridge together. A friendship, it had to be said, founded more on pragmatism than affection. Thirty years of scratch-my-back that had paid off handsomely just eighteen months ago.
The party had been in crisis. A demand for a leadership contest. Copeland had been pushed into standing. He’d won, but with an infinitesimal margin. Bowen’s change of heart had clinched it. His old ‘friend’ had originally planned to support a competitor.
To Copeland’s further amazement, the party had gone on to win the general election by one seat. Which made him prime minister. It had been time to pay his dues, so he’d found Bowen a job in government.
And now he regretted it bitterly. Regretted the deals he’d made to get where he was, and more important, regretted the other little ‘arrangements’ Bowen had tempted him into.
Outside his front door the media vultures were hovering. But it’d be worse later when they knew more. Best to confront them now.
Gordon was waiting for him in the hall. He checked his watch.
‘Two more minutes, prime minister …’
‘No. I’ll do it now. If they’re not ready they can lump it.’
The signal was given for the constable to open the door. Copeland strode out towards the microphones on the pavement opposite.
‘We’re now live from Downing Street.’ He heard the urgent words of a correspondent alerting viewers.
‘It’s time I said a few words,’ Copeland began, his mind threatening to go blank. ‘You er … will understand there’s little I can say at this stage. The situation is still very confused. What is clear is that Stephen Bowen is being held a prisoner somewhere against his will.’
A questioner tried to interrupt, but Copeland held up a hand.
‘As you know, last week Stephen was on an official visit to Indonesia. At its conclusion he decided to spend a few days travelling privately. Perfectly understandable. The far east is a beautiful and fascinating part of the world … Anyway, during that time it seems he was taken prisoner. We don’t as yet know when or where. As I said, he was not on ministerial duties at the time and therefore didn’t need to be in daily contact with officials. Scotland Yard is leading the investigation. They will I’m sure be given the fullest co-operation by the relevant authorities in the countries concerned.’
‘Which countries, prime minister? Was he still in Indonesia?’ A woman from the BBC.
‘I can’t answer any questions at this stage. The investigation is very sensitive. I’m sure you’ll understand. Now, that’s all …’
An inbred politeness made it hard to back away. It’d be his downfall one day, his wife always said.
‘Will you cancel the arms contract with Indonesia?’ He recognised the Glaswegian tones of the terrier from the News Channel.
‘I …’ Dangerous ground. ‘The contract was a hard-fought one, involving weapons suitable for Indonesia’s national defence and nothing else. There’s no question of them being used in any internal repress …’
Damn, he thought. Cocked it up.
‘Repression, prime minister? Why does Britain sell weapons to a country with such a lousy human rights record?’
‘The British government has repeatedly made its views on human rights known to the Indonesian government. Repeatedly. Now that’s all …’
‘Is it true, prime minister, that a substantial aid package has been offered to Indonesia as an inducement to buy British arms?’
The prime minister flinched. The man was fishing.
‘No. It is not true,’ he flannelled. ‘We do provide aid to Indonesia, as we do to a great many countries all over the world. But there is no link whatsoever between aid and arms. Thank you.’
He turned on his heels, pulse thundering.
‘Any plans to send in the SAS?’
Copeland heard a ripple of laughter amongst the press. As the door closed behind him he paused by the mantelpiece in the hallway to steady himself.
Got away with it that time, he thought. But he knew in his heart that with every hour that passed, his chances of surviving their relentless probing could only reduce.
Six
The News Channel
12.20 hrs
THE WORDS ON the VDU were a blur. Charlotte was flagging. On the go now for nearly nine hours. Her hair felt like it had been rolled in cooking oil. One more bulletin to perform for, then she’d slip out for a sandwich, a Diet Coke and a cigarette.
Her hopes of reaching Kutu were dimming by the minute. Every time she’d cast eyes on Sankey in the last few hours she’d flashed him her sexiest smile, but there was no sign of him softening. And to cap it all a friend at Reuters had warned her the Indonesians were already watching like hawks for foreign journalists. A total waste of time trying to get in, he’d said.
No point in her snuggling up to Sankey for an air ticket, then going all that way only to be turned back on arrival. Suicidal from a career standpoint. However, before she gave up there was one last avenue to explore.
The picture elements for her lunchtime news package were mostly in place. The PM’s inadequate statement, police chief arriving at the Cabinet Office, file footage from Indonesia and the kidnappers’ video itself. All she needed were new facts to move the story on.
There was a number she’d been trying to ring all morning, but unsurprisingly it had been permanently engaged. This time it rang out.
‘Stop the Arms Trade.’ A mature, female voice.
‘Cindy Holdsworth, please.’
‘Not available at the moment. Who’s calling?’
‘Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel. Tell me, do you have a press officer called Melanie?’ Some faint memory. Something she’d read. In the Guardian probably. A personal connection she might be able to exploit …
‘Yes. Melanie Carter.’
Bull’s-eye. They’d been at Oxford together. Hadn’t known her well. Not seen her since. But it was an ‘in’.
‘She’s on another line. It’s been very busy this morning.’
‘Not surprised,’ Charlie remarked. ‘I suppose Cindy’s had the police round …’ she added casually, stabbing in the dark.
‘Oh … well I couldn’t say.’ Charlie’s hook had caught a fish. ‘Do you want to hold for Melanie in the press office? You’re third in the queue. If you like I can fax you the statement she’s given out …’
‘Maybe that’s best for now. But can you slip her my name before you put the
next call through? Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel. I’m an old friend.’
‘Can’t promise. But I’ll try.’
‘Thanks. Are the police still there by the way?’
‘I really don’t know anything about that, Miss Cavendish,’ she replied testily. ‘Now, do you have a fax number?’
Charlie gave it to the woman then rang off.
Melanie Carter. The only female she’d ever met who didn’t seem to mind being overweight.
She tried the Scotland Yard press office number again.
‘Your call is in a queue. Please hold.’
‘Who in the world’s got time to hold,’ she snapped, ringing off and hurling herself at the fax machine. The first page from STArT began to emerge.
‘The British Government’s approval of arms sales to Indonesia is a disgraceful act which gives unwarranted international respectability to a regime that continues to defy the world on human rights. Arrest and torture, imprisonment and murder are the Indonesian government’s answers to protests against injustice.
‘STArT has campaigned for many years against Downing Street’s double standards, and will continue to do so with any legal means at its disposal. STArT has never resorted to criminal acts in pursuing its cause and never will. STArT wishes to extend sympathy to Mrs Sally Bowen for the suffering she is undergoing, just as we sympathise with the thousands of victims currently suffering at the hands of the Indonesian regime because of arms sold to them by Britain.’
Charlie tore off the curling paper. Returning to her desk, she glanced towards the editor’s office. The door was closed, but the Venetian blind was open. Sankey sat behind it facing her. Her heart gave a little flutter. Sitting opposite him was Steve Paxton, the blonde, tooth-brush-haired guardian of the Channel’s finances. Sankey was pounding his chair arm to emphasise a point.
She felt a tremor in her stomach. Excitement and fear. Sankey loathed Paxton. Never talked to him unless he absolutely had to. And the only reason she could think of for a dialogue at this particular moment was because Sankey urgently needed money. Money for her to be sent to Kutu.
Help! Her dream could yet become fact.
She returned to her desk, tapped at the keyboard until the PA wires came up, browsed them for anything new, then dialled STArT again. Lucky. It rang out. Twice in a row.
‘Stop the Arms Trade.’
‘Hello. Charlie Cavendish again. Thanks for the fax. Is Melanie free now?’
‘She’s on a call. But I gave her your name and she does want to talk to you. Will you hold?’
‘Yes, please.’
She checked her watch. On air again in fifteen minutes. The pictures were edited. Just needed to update her script and record her voice, then tidy up her words for the live-spot in the studio.
‘Press office.’
‘Melanie?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel.’
‘Hello Charlotte! Long time no speak. I’ve been watching your stuff. Congrats. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, two things, Mel. First, can you confirm the police have been round to see you?’ Silence from the other end. ‘Come on, I know they’ve been there.’
‘Then why do you need me to confirm it?’
‘Melanie! Come on. Just a line about what you told them.’
‘We’re just not talking about this, Charlotte. Even off the record. The point is we don’t have a problem with the police and I don’t want the media creating one. You’ve seen our press release – we think kidnapping’s a lousy way to further the cause of human rights.’
‘But do they suspect you?’ Charlie pressed. ‘Do they think you’ve got something to do with Bowen?’
‘You’ll have to ask them.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Frankly I think they came to see if we had any ideas. But that’s utterly unattributable. And you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘Fine. Thanks. But do you? Have any ideas, I mean?’
‘Charlotte, you can read, can’t you? The press release is quite clear.’
‘Yes. OK, OK. You don’t indulge in criminal acts …’ She remembered now why she’d not kept in touch with Melanie. The woman became supercilious when irritated.
‘What was the other thing you were after?’ Melanie prodded. ‘No. Let me guess. You’re trying to get to Kutu and want some contacts … You and the rest of the British media.’
‘More than that, Mel. Advice really. People keep telling me it’s impossible to get in.’
She heard Sankey’s door open and glanced up. Paxton marched out, glaring at her.
‘Not impossible to get in, Charlotte. Hard, yes. And extremely dangerous. The Indonesians don’t like journalists. They’ve killed a few over the years. But if you really want to try …’ She paused as if uncertain how far to go. ‘Um, look. There is a woman in Darwin who’s made it in a few times. Shot video in Kutu secretly. Quite good stuff. I’ve seen it. And she knows more about the place than most. I’ve not mentioned her to anyone else, but if you could come to some arrangement so she does camera for you, you’d have one hell of a headstart. Want me to give her a call? I think you two would get on.’
‘Um … well, yes. That’d be great. But don’t commit us. If she expects to be paid big money, it won’t work. We’re cheapskates at the News Channel.’
‘I guessed that. She might do a deal. Want me to try?’
Uncertainly Charlie flicked a glance at Sankey’s office. If only she knew whether his no had become a yes. Then she saw Tom Marples frowning at her and pointing at the clock.
‘Yes, Mel. Please. See what she says. Got to rush now. Another bulletin coming up. Great to talk. Speak in a while.’
She dropped the receiver back on its rest, then keyed her screen to the script slot. She typed fast and accurately. Her mother had forced her on to a course straight after school.
Mother. Father. God! She’d forgotten all about them. Better ring after the programme to see how he was.
‘How you doing, Charlie?’ Marples yelled, heading out of the newsroom.
‘Fine! It’ll be there.’
She finished and saved her work, then hit the print key. Five minutes to on-air. Jeremy would be waiting for her to record her track. She ripped her script from the printer and headed for the technical area.
‘Charlie?’ Sankey’s secretary ambushed her by the corridor. ‘As soon as you’re off air can you see Ted? Quietly. He says it’s rather sensitive …’
‘Oh … yes of course.’ Her pulse raced. She had won! ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’
But why quietly? Why rather sensitive? Suspicion bubbled up in her head. Sankey was a schemer and a ram. Maybe she’d gone too far with her sexy smiles. Wouldn’t put it past him to demand some little personal favour for sending her to Kutu.
The question was, how would she answer him?
Scotland Yard
13.45 hrs
Nick Randall emerged from Assistant Commissioner Stanley’s office, feeling he’d had a collision with a punch-bag. The head of the security group had made it perfectly clear that refusing the mission was not an option.
The world’s gone mad, he thought to himself as he stepped into the corridor. Normally if someone were to offer a free ticket to a tropical island in the South Pacific he’d grab it like a shot, but this little outing appealed as much as a month in Wolverhampton.
Stanley had flattered him. Told him he was the only man on the force with the qualifications for the job. That it was a coup for the Met to be able to fill the breach left by MI6. And that the PM himself had given his full backing.
Bollocks. As he walked to the lifts, he knew in his guts that the main reason he was being sent to Kutu was for an over-the-hill guvnor to get his name in lights.
The lift took him to the basement. His mind on autopilot, he opened his locker and sifted through the oddments of clothing he kept there as disguises. His passport was what he was looking for. He found it and returned to the sixtee
nth floor.
In the assistant commissioner’s outer office, Stanley’s PA presented him with an application form for an Australian visa.
‘Fill it in, then I’ll take it with your passport to the High Commission,’ she told him briskly.
She was a thirty-something for whom nothing ever seemed to come as a surprise. Nick imagined orgasms wouldn’t even quicken her pulse.
‘I’ll get you some malaria pills too,’ she added, ‘and here’s the chit for your allowance.’
On the rare occasions an officer went somewhere exotic he got a bonus for special clothing. Hadn’t happened to Randall before. In eight years with the Met, he’d never gone beyond the M25.
Four floors down to the cashiers’ office to collect the money and a wad of travellers’ cheques, then to the travel bureau for his ticket. Singapore and Darwin. A 747 leaving at 23.30 from Heathrow tonight. Kutu was best reached from Australia, he’d been advised. He felt as ready for the assignment as for a trip to the moon.
Back on the security group floor he thumbed a coin into a drinks machine and extracted a plastic cup of coffee. In the Ops Room it was quiet. There’d been no more Revenue Men incidents since the Wag’s Bar bomb six days ago.
‘Having chats with the guvnor, I hear? Our company not good enough for you any more?’ cracked a colleague looking up from a VDU.
‘Someone wants rid of me, more like,’ Nick growled, stopping by the bank of monitors for the surveillance cameras. ‘Anything new on the Revenue Men?’
‘Sod all. What are you up to?’
‘A bit of sightseeing.’
‘So you won’t be around for the game on Saturday?’
‘Shit! Forgotten about that.’ Special Branch versus the Flying Squad. Annual match in the Met’s soccer league. ‘Sorry mate. But Chris can do goal instead of me.’
‘He can let ’em in too,’ his colleague complained. ‘We lost six-two last time he stood between the posts.’
‘Well, can’t be helped, friend. Tell him to try contact lenses.’
Nick moved to the end of the room and tapped on the SIO’s door. DCI Mostyn beckoned him in.
‘SIS are on their way over,’ he said in his Midlands mumble. ‘Fifteen minutes, then they’ll brief you. Sounded on the phone like they’d been told to eat shit.’
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