by Phil Brett
She didn’t laugh, but then neither did she scoff. Instead, she just replied, in a deadpan voice, ‘No, it’s as we agreed. And it’s cold and grey. These TechSpex will be useful.’
I looked at the glasses and thought to myself that they better be useful, because they looked so ghastly – like some kitsch wear from the last century.
The helicopter started to turn and descend.
She shook her head.. ‘I still cannot believe that Youssef left us the message in that way!’
I disagreed. ‘Actually, I think it was brilliant. Who would know what 03.05.1808 meant? They probably wouldn't guess that it was a date, and if by some chance they had, what would it have meant? Youssef knew I was an art researcher so, with luck, I would get the reference to Francisco Goya's painting - The Third of May, 1808: The Execution of the Defenders of Madrid. The detail of who is shooting who and why is not relevant here. What is important is the fact that it is a painting of a firing squad. Couple that with “blood on our hands” and it was a clear sign to what they were planning.’
‘Yet he seemed so dismissive of you when we met him.’
‘Maybe. But he knew he could trust me. I was the one person involved who obviously wasn't a spy. I'd spent almost two years self-harming and having a nervous breakdown. Exactly at a time when you'd want your spooks to be up and running, I was carving up my arms.’
‘So, we were saved by a painting. I must check it out.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Goya.’
I was stopped from talking at length about the masterpiece by a shout from the pilot.
‘We’re here! Just finding somewhere to land. I’ve been told that there is roof garden on the new wing, which is big enough for us. There are several entrances to the main building from there. Hold on. Just confirming actions with air control. They’re not very happy about this, by the way. Working for Jackie Payne or not, military flights are not permitted here. And it didn’t help that you ruled out air traffic from contacting her for confirmation. So–’ She paused to do some piloty things. ‘So, it’s going to be a brief touchdown on the 'ecologically friendly roof-grass', and then I’m back off to the South Downs to pick up my comrades.’
We touched down. Reluctantly, I put the glasses on, feeling rather ridiculous. To my surprise, no screens, graphs or X-rays appeared; instead, I just had a clear, untainted view of the side of Victoria, the back of the pilot and the interior of the helicopter, which we were about to leave.
The door slid open and cold winter air burst in. We jumped out.
The pilot shouted, ‘Good luck!’
Running with our heads down, we moved away from the helicopter and crouched against a triangle of solar panels. Not that they’d be generating much power today. Right this moment, wind power would be far more efficient. I feared that I would be blown off the roof. Watching the chopper fly away, a sharp thought poked me that I wished I was still on it. I was no bloody action man.
Cole touched my arm. ‘Ready?’
‘Yeah. Sophie’s message should be coming through right now, and the film of the events at the fracking centre on will be going viral as we speak, so let’s go!’
We moved towards the lift door, but before we went in, Victoria told me to turn the glasses on. I did and was immediately linked with building’s public address system, which was authoritatively calling for security to check who had landed on the roof. That’d be us. We had deliberately not warned them, because a public announcement that a helicopter had just landed on the roof would, we hoped, put more pressure on the killer. It added colour to the narrative of us saving the day at the fracking plant before coming here to execute the class enemy.
I suddenly stopped, as an image of Jackie Payne in an office, taking a phone call, took over my entire vision. Stroking the sides of the glasses, I minimised it to the top of the left-hand lens. These glasses were great and, over the years, they had been refined a great deal, but it still helped if you could see where the hell you were going.
Now, with comrade Payne to a manageable size, we pushed the lift call.
It arrived. The doors opened to reveal not just the obligatory mirror and harsh light, but as a luxury, three heavily armed NWC militia men. These, thankfully, were not like the ones we had left behind in the south, but were of genuine variety. That said, they did have big guns. Big guns which they pointed at our midriffs. Leaving the lift, they demanded to know what we were doing here. Cole and I flashed our IDs and the authorisation from Jackie.
‘We’re here on official NWC business,’ I told them grandly. ‘Check out the net,’ I added, ‘You’ll see what we’ve been doing.’
‘It’s okay,’ the tallest one said. ‘I know who you are. You’re the Alan Wiltshire bloke. You’re Peter Kendall.’
‘Kalder, but yeah, that’s me.’
He turned to his mates. ‘He’s cool. Let them in.’
‘Thanks. Hang around. We may need you,’ I muttered.
Any chance of them asking why that may be, what exactly we were doing here or whether they could have my autograph, was lost when Cole brushed past them, thrust me into the lift and closed the door.
Pictures of Asher Joseph and Gita Devar appeared separately in the right-hand lens on the TechSpex glasses. Gita was in the NWC Hall, addressing a meeting, wildly gesticulating and bellowing passion and not a little spittle. Asher could be seen reading a magazine of the Democratic Lefts in the NWC canteen. Roijin had helpfully patched us into the NWC internal cameras, so we could keep an eye on more than one person at a time. Not that there were many here: the delegates didn’t really appreciate being snooped on. Which, in fact, was why Victoria had decided to leave Roijin behind at the fracking centre, because she had expressed concerns at using the NWC CCTV for such a purpose. To be more precise, she had called our plan, “prying into the revolution’s democracy and being unnecessarily intrusive”.
But needs must, and so to catch a killer, we were prepared to do pretty much anything. Jackie had wanted us to work in the shadows, and that was what we were doing. We couldn't watch everyone we were interested in. Asking for a more comprehensive CCTV to be installed, with cameras in every room, was not practical. Not in such a short space of time, anyway. We hoped, though, that there would be enough cameras for our purposes. Janet Kovac had told us that Ali had warned her not to tell anyone that he had talked to her, and he had specifically mentioned anyone “close to the investigation”. We wanted all those who qualified as being “close to the investigation” to be under surveillance. I was pretty certain who our mystery killer was, but we had to be certain, so Cole had called a meeting here at the NWC.
The doors opened. On leaving the lift, Cole announced that she would re-join me in a moment, saying that she needed to visit the main reception. I wasn’t so sure that it was such a great idea to split our forces, bearing in mind that we would find it difficult to enlist any of the security here to arrest someone in the building. Let’s face it: we hadn’t felt it possible to tell Jackie Payne!
I stood there, wondering where I should go. Our plan was looking as skimpy as a male model's thong and getting more so, as it went on. In my glasses, Gita had stopped her speech and had sat down and was studying her phone. Her brows were furrowed. She looked serious. Her hand was roughly stroking her chin. Gita looked the epitome of concern. There was movement next to her, and Emily Messager joined her. Perched by her shoulder, she was also looking at the phone and talking with her. She, too, looked highly concerned. Their conversation was growing more animated.
Then, a new face appeared – a very angry-looking Jack Foxton. He had just stormed into the entrance, unshaven, unkempt and unhappy – not in some designer down-at-heel chic, but from being under house arrest. I hoped he would move before Cole arrived at reception, because he looked in the mood for thumping someone. I didn’t think, for a second, that he would be able to land one on her, but a scrap would not be a great help. At the very least, I did worry that, whilst a few attempted slaps wouldn't stop her, it mig
ht cause a delay, or even alert people that we were here.
Roijin had arranged for the film footage of the events at the fracking centre to be sent to comrades who had, in some way, a connection with the investigation. The reason she'd given them was that we all had to meet to discuss these events but, in reality, it was so that one in particular would panic. That was why even Jackie in Norway had seen it. Roijin had set it up so no matter what they had previously been doing, the comrades would receive the video.
In the TechSpex, I could see Jackie making a phone call. Simultaneously, my own phone vibrated. In the surreal world I now inhabited, I was spying on the leader of the revolutionary movement at a vital conference in Norway. I could see her pick up her phone and make a call to me here in London, at the home of the NWC, to discuss spying. This could easily extend my stay in The Anchorage. I ignored the call, both to protect my sanity and to stay focussed.
Foxton had disappeared. Obviously, he was now in a CCTV-free zone. Probably looking for someone to authorise the imprisonment of me and Vic. No doubt, he was regretting that imprisonment was the worst he could arrange. Especially galling must be the revolution’s disapproval of torture.
There was someone else he would be trying to get into trouble. Glen Bale was entering the room where the meeting was going to be held. We had deliberately chosen one which had cameras. He was looking at his phone, watching the film footage of the arrests at the fracas at fracking. Possibly, he was wondering what happened next. No doubt, he was also asking himself how it was going to look to people that I – someone he considered to be as politically soft as a campaign cuddly toy – had prevented a murderous outrage, whilst he had locked up the lover of a leading member.
So, we were now starting to gather. Others were arriving. I could see a huddle of people from the CIM in the NWC reception. Others were about to arrive.
Victoria contacted Joseph. ‘Ash, Foxton's gone off radar. Could you have a look around and see what he's up to? We last saw him in area L4, by the admin offices.’
Without speaking, Joseph got up and, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world, headed out of the canteen. As he did, he kept glancing at the magazine, as if there was an article which was demanding his attention.
Nothing much altered for a moment or two, with no one doing anything startling. Just then, I heard Victoria's voice. ‘Ash, don't worry about Foxton. I think it's about to kick off, so go in and join Glen.’
He nodded, ditching the magazine, and swung towards the room where Bale was. Coincidently, he was only a few minutes away. As he entered, Bale took a phone call and went deathly pale. It wasn't a call telling him that he had won an award. His scrawny throat gulped, making him look like a stoat who had just been caught in a trap.
I started to walk towards the room, or rather tried to. I had to admit that I was finding it difficult, with images of different comrades flashing up and down in my glasses. I was like some half-stoned art student, trapped in his own half-arsed video installation: the type that was all the rage at the beginning of the century, the type which was supposed to be an oblique comment on the human condition. Well, my condition resembled a roundabout at a fun fair. Nausea was beginning to bubble up and a headache was emerging above my eyes. I stood by a water cooler, against the wall. Whatever the intention of these bloody things, simultaneously walking and using them was downright awkward.
Gita Devar was just sitting, looking shocked. Emily Messager was taking a call. Foxton was still unseen. Jackie had finished her call and had gone online. Bale's face was contorting in all sorts of expressions. Asher was now waiting by his side, perfectly calm. Suddenly, Emily Messager rose to her feet, curtly said something to Gita Devar and left the room, simultaneously leaving CCTV coverage.
I pressed the top frame of the glasses. The screen flashed the recent calls. Bale had just received one from Jackie. Easy to guess what that had been about, especially as he was now shouting at Joseph whilst trying to contact me.
Emily’s had been unlisted. It had now finished, lasting a matter of seconds. I played it. A softly spoken voice, with a touch of a North American accent, had simply asked, ‘Could I please speak to a Raymond Baker?’
She had sounded rather taken aback, and answered, ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘This is his phone provider. His other number is about to be discontinued, and I need to contact him urgently.’
She spoke quietly and carefully. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know this person.’
‘Sorry to have disturbed you.’ And with that, the call had gone dead.
I snatched the glasses off my face and rammed them into my pockets. Running, it took me two minutes to get to the main meeting hall. Not so much opening, but crashing through the doors, I ran in and headed straight to Gita Devar. A few delegates turned and looked at me, wondering if this was something which should interest them. It was, and they would know all about it soon. But not now.
As I reached Devar, her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Pete, what are you doing here? I just saw you and Vic—’
‘Never mind that!’ I whispered, in as assertive a tone as I could, without disturbing the debate which, from the seconds I had heard, concerned care for the elderly. ‘Where’s Emily Messager gone?’
She looked confused. ‘Er, she said she had to leave.’
‘Without her bag or coat?’ I asked, pointing to both on her chair.
She looked at them and then at me, but didn’t answer. Her mind was processing the surreal sequence of events which had gone from discussing old people’s homes to videos of armed reactionaries being arrested to me looming over her in a state of anxious urgency.
‘Well?’ I hissed. ‘We don’t have much time. Did she say anything else?’
‘Er, um, no. She got a call which seemed to upset her. What is this, Pete? You barge in here and then—’
‘Did she drive here?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a simple question, Did she drive here?’
‘Yes. Look, Pete—’
‘What car has she?’
‘Why do you want to know this, Pete? You are acting weird and, I have to say, rather aggressive, which I don’t care for.’
‘Because – and I don’t have time to explain, let alone prove it – you’ll just have to trust me. Emily Messager is an MI5 agent. It was she who killed Olivia Harrison and Youssef Ali. So, what car does she have?’
‘My God,’ she muttered.
I stood, tensing up, expecting outrage, opposition and an announcement that the Trots were once again stitching up the anarchists. There was even a possibility that she'd grab a mike and denounce me. But there was none. Either she herself had doubts or she trusted me. Or it was simply that I was acting so oddly that I had to be telling the truth. Without opposition, she meekly answered, ‘A cream hybrid, with solar roof. A Lui Ping XLV.’
‘Reg?’
‘Er, I can’t remember.’ Finally, a doubt surfaced, but it was a plastic duck, not a fine green-winged teal. ‘Emily? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Gita. I wouldn’t be doing this on the floor of revolutionary democracy if I wasn’t. Can’t you remember even a part of her registration number?’
She thought for a second. ‘OIL. There were the letters OIL on the plate. O and I are together with the L a few numbers on. It was a standing joke that such an eco-warrior would have them in her reg. It was a coincidence, but a—’
I wasn’t really in the mood for nostalgic humour on random acts of plate allocations.
‘Cheers,’ I said, leaving her and running into the corridor.
That second, Victoria rang. ‘Roijin has just called. She's been checking NWC communication files in a little more depth. She's found that Emily's claim to have been here at the time of Olivia's Harrison's isn't true. Previously, she'd found that a terminal had been used by Emily, which gave her an alibi, but it seems it was done by remote. It was skilfully done, but Roijin was able to beat the camouflage and found that t
he remote could be eventually traced back to Battersea. She's our killer!’
I was right. ‘And Messager just received a call, which was obviously her boss responding to my sister’s communication, telling her to run.’
‘I saw. Meet me at the entrance. I’ll call Ash and Glen.’
We met up a few seconds later, with Cole saying goodbye to Bale.
She waived an ignition card in front of me. ‘We got lucky. This is from the carpool. Great piece of metal. They wanted to give me some right horse and carriages!’
Running outside, the cold winter air hit, almost taking my breath away. ‘Is that where you’ve been? Being snobby about what car you’re going to borrow?’
‘Well, you might like poodling about on a moped—’
‘Scooter. IT'S A SCOOTER!’
‘Whatever. It has the power of a lawnmower. What car has she got?’
I told her.
‘I was right to be choosy about what car to have then. Lui Pings are fast. The Chinese are very proud of them. Didn’t anyone wonder why an anarchist was driving one?’
‘Dunno,’ I replied, trying to keep up with her running. ‘Does anyone question why you’ve got such a sports car?’
She grinned. Pointing at a red BMW, she announced, ‘Here we are! Get in. You call Jackie, whilst I will try to see where our friend Emily has gone.’
Sitting down, I buckled up and called Jackie. She answered on the first ring, and before I could get a word in edgeways, embarked on flow of praise for our work at the extraction centre. Interlaced with her tributes were regretful comments concerning Jack Foxton. ‘There is going to be a lot of trouble with our NWC rivals when news gets out about Glen’s actions. I’ve already talked to him and told him what to expect.’
He had been acting with your full knowledge, I thought to myself. Unlike us.
Cole was looking on her car monitor to see if any Lui Ping sports cars, with the letters O, I and L, were in the vicinity.
I took a deep breath and decided to inform Jackie that our allies were going to have another reason to distrust us. To my horror, I began with a defence of the Baleful Glen. ‘He was only doing what he thought was right. To be fair to him, he hasn’t been able to pay the investigation his full attention because of the constant threat of cyber-attacks. This has meant that he has been busy countering them and beefing our defence. Maybe he was too keen to see Foxton as the culprit so he could get back to his work, but Jacks, that’s one of the problems of using part-timers in this sort of thing.’
