by Tony Kent
Daniel sometimes envied that his friend’s life was entirely his own, but he ultimately knew which of them had the better deal. Even if it had caused some softening of his body.
‘So what’s more important than watching your godson on the road to Olympic glory?’
‘Just the usual. I’ve got a murder trial starting in two weeks. I thought I’d pick up the papers, head home and get some work done.’
‘Work? After today? You’re joking, right?’
Daniel could not keep the tone of incredulity out of his voice.
‘Mike, you need to get out more, get a work-life balance. Come to sports day. Come and cheer on Harry. You can check out his English teacher while you’re there.’
‘I’m out enough,’ Michael said. He seemed a little offended. ‘And don’t go thinking that you need to set me up with women. I’m not past it yet.’
Daniel laughed in reply, but behind the amusement was concern. Michael’s preoccupation with his career was becoming a worry, especially with the impact it was having on his personal life. Or at least what had been a personal life.
It was all a far cry from their university days. Or even their twenties.
Back then they had made the most of their freedom. Both of them young, fit and successful. Michael was the more handsome of the two, Daniel knew that. And this had become more true as they had entered their late thirties. Michael was tall and strong, with classic good looks, thick blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
Daniel was four or five inches shorter. Dusky-haired and, at least in his youth, a much more wiry build. Though not handsome in the traditional sense, the difference between them had done nothing to dent Daniel’s confidence. He was quick-witted and charismatic, a personality that more than made up for anything average about his features.
Their youthful success at charming a stream of beautiful women had been enviable. But those days were long gone. Both had settled down. Daniel to a happy marriage, a contented family life and – he had to admit – to early middle-age spread. Michael had just as committed a relationship, but his was with his career.
Daniel worried that this obsession would prevent his friend from ever finding the right girl. But now did not seem the time to voice those concerns.
It was not long before they had reached the bottom of Chancery Lane, the point at which they would go their separate ways.
‘Wish Harry luck for me.’
Michael stopped walking as he spoke.
‘Get him to give me a call at home if he wins. And you can get me that teacher’s number too.’
Daniel laughed a final time. He was happy to see that his friend’s raw nerve did not run too deep. Already walking along Chancery Lane, his own farewell was shouted over his shoulder.
‘I will do. And maybe Claire can invite her to dinner at our place! Don’t work too hard.’
TWELVE
Joshua flicked from network to network. The image on every channel was identical but the ritual was still necessary. Only on the seventh change could Joshua relax.
Every station’s broadcast schedule had been abandoned within minutes of the Trafalgar Square shooting. Even now – five hours later – there was no escaping the horrors of the day.
Joshua settled on CNN and sat back against the oak headrest of his hotel room’s double bed. He lit a Marlboro and inhaled deeply, relishing the relaxing hit of the nicotine. Then he turned up the television’s volume and fixed his eyes on the screen.
The CNN cameraman had reacted quickly. Fast enough to capture almost every detail at close range. The recording had become the definitive footage of the day, played endlessly across the globe, regardless of the network.
The picture was at first nauseatingly shaky, caused by the cameraman chasing the sprinting gunman. But the lens came under control in time to capture the bullet that bit into the female agent. It was a graphic sight. As shocking as anything ever shown on television. Joshua, though, felt nothing.
He had the same numb reaction to the bloodbath that followed. He did not so much as shudder as Howard Thompson was flung backwards by the first shot. Nor did he flinch at the sight of Sir Neil Matthewson taking five bullets to the chest. The rest of the world mourned the violence that ended with Matthewson slumped in a blood-drenched heap. But not Joshua. The fate of these men meant nothing to him. He was watching – he was waiting – for something else.
The attack had taken five seconds. Maybe less. Yet it seemed to last much longer in replay. Repeatedly paused and rewound, the footage was dissected and analysed on every channel by supposed experts, all dug up at short notice.
All opinions that mean nothing, Joshua thought; because it always ends the same way. It always ends with Joe Dempsey.
The sound of Joshua’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts. It came as no surprise. He had been told to expect a call at 7.15 p.m. As always, the caller was punctual to the second.
Joshua stubbed out his cigarette. He answered the call without even a glance at the caller ID.
‘Why wasn’t Joe Dempsey on the list of agents you gave me?’
Joshua neither offered nor waited for a greeting. There was no anger in his voice but he was demanding an answer.
‘Straight to the point as always.’ The response was smooth. Even through the obvious electronic voice modulator, Joshua could tell that the speaker was calm. ‘I appreciate that. The omission was a misjudgement on my part. Just something I thought it best to leave out.’
‘A misjudgement? A misjudgement? You can’t hire me for an assignment with full access to intelligence and then withhold information. That’s not how this works, Stanton. Your misjudgement cost me my second shot and it saved McGale’s life. It’s my good name at stake here. I don’t fail my contracts.’
‘That’s certainly your reputation, yes. It’s a shame you didn’t live up to it today.’
The reply was at the same unflustered pace. The voice of a man in control, Joshua thought. Of an arrogant man. It was an attitude that coloured everything Joshua’s employer did.
Stanton continued without pause.
‘But then nobody’s perfect. Not even you. That’s why we have contingency plans.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you even think about putting the blame on me.’
Joshua matched Stanton for calm. He had spent his career under fire. Under threat. He was not about to lose it now.
‘You screwed this up, Stanton. How did you expect me to react when Dempsey showed up out of nowhere? I should have been told that he’d be there.’
‘Major Dempsey wasn’t meant to show up at all. At least not until your job was done. So I thought it best to avoid the distraction his presence could cause you.’
Stanton’s deep, metallic voice betrayed no hint of emotion.
He continued.
‘He was positioned to cover an aisle some distance from where Mr McGale was sitting. He should not have had time to get anywhere near your line of sight. We had no reason to believe that he would spot Mr McGale so early, or that he could cover that distance in the short time he had.’
‘Then you don’t know Joe Dempsey.’
Joshua was amazed by such a simple mistake. On a normal assignment he could understand it. But not this one. Not when every other detail had been perfectly planned. Joe Dempsey was peerless. The most effective field agent out there. Joshua knew that. It stunned him that his employer did not.
And then – suddenly – something far more concerning found its way into his mind. He had been so distracted by Stanton’s mistake that he had missed the chilling meaning behind the man’s earlier words.
‘Wait,’ he said, the feeling of nervous energy rising from his gut. ‘Why did you think knowing about Dempsey would distract me?’
Stanton did not answer immediately. When he did, the metallic voice somehow sounded even more soulless.
‘I think you already know the answer to that, Sergeant.’ The final word was emphasised. A message not lost on Joshua
. Stanton continued. ‘I don’t know Joe Dempsey. But I am aware that you do. And if I know that . . .’
He paused for effect, inviting Joshua to fill in the blank.
‘Then you know who I am.’
Joshua’s heart thumped as he spoke. He could feel the blood as it pumped through his temple. The pressure spiking. Somehow, by some means, his identity had been discovered.
‘Yes, Joshua. I know who you are. In fact, I’ve made an effort to know absolutely everything about you, including your family and those few lonely individuals you call friends. It’s a little insurance policy I took out. Just in case you failed to pull off the easiest shot anyone in your profession could wish for.’
A change in pitch hinted at emotion within the disguised voice. It added a little colour but did nothing to lighten the menace. Stanton continued.
‘It turns out that it pays to be prepared. Today’s misadventure might have left some loose ends. If it has, well, you’re going to tie them up. Do that and you’ll receive the remaining fifty per cent of your fee.’
‘And if I refuse?’
Joshua dreaded the answer. Stanton’s mention of family had made it clear that it was not Joshua’s safety he was now threatening.
‘I’m disappointed that you even need to ask. I’m sure there are a number of undesirable people in the world who are just itching to pay you, your wife and your son a visit. Particularly the boy, I imagine. After all, there are all manner of accidents that could occur on an American university campus, aren’t there?’
Joshua was silent. Helpless. It was an alien feeling.
How had this happened? he thought. How could this man know all this?
It did not seem possible. But neither did anything else Stanton had already achieved.
‘OK.’
Joshua’s word limped out, even as his mind raced. For now his choices were limited.
‘Whatever you want. But I’m going to need help. It’ll take some kind of miracle to get me access to McGale in custody. What have you got in mind?’
‘Nothing that involves you.’
The reply was businesslike. As if Stanton’s threats had never been made.
‘Plans are already underway to deal with him. Your role is something else entirely. You’re to be my trouble-shooter, if you’ll pardon the pun. There to clear up any loose ends. There may be none, in which case you can enjoy your pay and the rest of your life. On the other hand there may be a good many. And if there are, I recommend you deal with them more professionally than you managed today.’
Stanton’s statement required no reply. He continued.
‘A secure mobile telephone has been placed in the Land Rover you parked downstairs. The handset on which we are currently speaking is not to be used again. You are to dismantle and dispose of it at the conclusion of this conversation. You are then to go downstairs, collect the new telephone and keep it on you at all times.’
Still no reply needed.
‘Only I have the number. Only I will ever call that number. It is in the interest of your loved ones that you answer that telephone when it rings. You can expect to hear from me before the end of the day, to inform you of our next move. Do you have any questions?’
Joshua did not know what disturbed him most. Was it the level of planning that had anticipated every possibility? Or that Stanton’s surveillance team were good enough to have tailed him to his hotel? There was silence as Joshua considered this. Eventually he found his voice.
‘Just one. If any loose ends do turn up, how do you want them dealt with?’
‘Be creative. Expect my call.’
Joshua heard the phone line clear. He waited for five seconds. Just to be sure. The last few minutes had caught Joshua off guard, but he was a professional. He heard no telltale click. No sign of telephone surveillance cutting off. Joshua disconnected his end of the line.
He sat back again against the oak headrest. Shaken, he lit another Marlboro.
The same images still flickered on the screen. Silent. The sound system muted. Joshua paid them no attention; other thoughts now occupied his mind. He ran his fingers through his thick jet-black hair. At the same time the fingers of his right hand tapped out north, east, south and west on the bedside table. The routine calmed him. Helped him think.
Joshua was rarely at a disadvantage. Rarely not in control. It had happened only once before. He had dealt with it then. He would deal with it now. Joshua would do Stanton’s bidding. He would fulfil his contract and he would walk away.
And then later, when the time was right, he would make Stanton regret that he had ever heard the name Joshua.
THIRTEEN
Cabinet Office Briefing Room A fell silent as William Davies strode through the open door. The heads of Britain’s various security agencies had been around the table for close to thirty minutes already. Little had been discussed. The meeting could not begin until the prime minister was present.
Davies walked to the head of the table and took his seat. All eyes were upon him. His own remained downcast.
Davies knew that he looked worn out. Mainly because he was. It had been five hours since the shooting. Some leaders thrive on the pressure. On the stress. Davies did not. The events of the day were a threat to his very survival as prime minister. It was not a situation that played to his political strengths.
He placed his files on the table ahead of him, then glared wordlessly around the room. All eyes looked back at him. Most belonged to men and women who had risked their lives for their country. Together they made up the COBRA Committee, the fast-response body convened in times of crisis and named after the room they now occupied. These were not individuals who were easily intimidated by an angry politician.
Davies’ gaze moved from one operative to the next. He knew them all, but in his tired, increasingly paranoid mind each was a blank canvas. Faceless proponents of a world he neither understood nor welcomed. Davies wanted as little to do with these people – with their secrecy and with their espionage – as possible. Just being among them irritated him.
But today it was unavoidable.
‘I don’t need to tell you what a disaster this is.’
Davies kept his tone soft; an intentional effort. It would help no one to begin with blame or conflict. There would be ample time for those.
‘But I do have to explain the situation to President Knowles. The Americans of course have their own investigators all over this already, so whether this blows up into an international incident could depend upon what I tell him. Now let’s see what spin we can put on this. What do we know?’
Davies watched as each pair of eyes swept around the table. He could tell that no one wanted to be first. They all knew the risk. Trafalgar Square had been a disaster. Millions – by now billions, even – had seen the UK’s most popular politician shot dead. That former President Howard Thompson had escaped with just a shoulder wound was no mitigation. Britain’s security services had been humiliated in the eyes of the world. And their American equivalents were circling, ready to strike at whoever had put their president at risk.
If Davies were to have any political future he could not allow that humiliation to stand. He could not allow an American investigation to get to the truth before his own agencies. The urgency of the situation demanded a scapegoat. Davies knew it. And so, it seemed, did the men and women in the room.
Finally his question was answered.
‘You probably know as much as any of us, Prime Minister.’
Davies turned to face the speaker. It was a courtesy. Nothing more. Davies was interested only in the information. Not in its source.
‘Why don’t you run me through it anyway? It will be helpful to hear as complete a version of events as we have.’
‘As you know, sir, the shooter was apprehended by a member of the Department of Domestic Security. This undoubtedly saved the life of President Thompson. It was, tragically, too late for Sir Neil Matthewson. The assassin has been taken to Paddington Gr
een police station for questioning. This is ongoing as we speak.’
‘And we believe, do we, that this attack was the execution of the threats our intelligence services had uncovered against President Thompson?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. We do.’
‘I’m sorry, but what threats?’ The voice came from the back of the room.
Davies turned to face the new questioner. It was one of the room’s informal occupants, an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Officially present as just a witness, the man seemed surprised at this new information.
‘It was a direct threat from the True IRA against the life of President Thompson,’ the original speaker explained, turning to face the Met officer as he spoke. ‘Specific enough that the former president’s continued involvement in the event was questioned.’
‘Questioned by whom?’
‘By both the UK and the US. With Thompson under threat, his involvement became an additional security factor. One we could have done without.’
The assistant commissioner took the answer and did not pursue the enquiry. Davies, however, wanted to know more.
‘Assuming this is right – that President Thompson was asked to reconsider his attendance in light of the threat – who overruled it? Who insisted on his continued presence?’
‘The White House did, sir. We were told that they would increase the Secret Service presence and that this would be sufficient.’
‘And my office?’
‘Your office directly deferred to the White House on the decision, sir.’
A smile crept across Davies’ face. This information had somehow passed him by – an oversight he would be looking into – but, for now, it was exactly what he needed to hear. The decision had been made by the Americans. That made it very difficult for them to criticise the British government.
Difficult, but not impossible. The full picture was needed.
‘How sure are we that what happened today was connected to this specific threat?’
‘We cannot be absolutely certain as of this moment.’ A second speaker. Another face Davies knew. Another recognition he resented. ‘Not until we have a verified claim from the True IRA themselves. But circumstances suggest that our assumption is correct.’
