by Tony Kent
So the exercise had begun, with the removal of the satnav’s ‘brain’ from the centre console. With this gone – stored in Joshua’s rucksack – there would be no evidence of his recent search and no way to tell where the vehicle’s driver had headed. He had then set to work with the first of his thirty yellow cloths.
Within an hour and a half even the most skilled forensic examiner could not have connected Joshua to the Land Rover. Physically there would be no trace. Nor would there be a financial link. It had been rented by one of a hundred stolen identities. An identity he had not used before and would never use again. As always, Joshua was a ghost.
TWENTY-FOUR
Callum McGregor raised his eyes from a pile of papers as Dempsey walked into the office. Dempsey had not announced himself with a knock.
Dempsey had expected to find McGregor exactly where he was: behind his huge desk, working through an avalanche of documents. But he had not expected to see his friend looking so haggard. The day had taken its toll.
‘What do you have for me, Joe?’
McGregor’s voice was as tired as his eyes. There was no greeting. The two men were beyond that and time was against them.
‘A lot. None of it good.’ The last words were unnecessary. Dempsey’s tone was enough.
McGregor sat back into his chair. He raised a hand to his brow, his fingertips touching the front of his thick, reddish hair. Dempsey’s words had prepared him for the worst. When he spoke again his voice was as dejected as Dempsey had ever heard it.
‘Go on.’
‘McGale wasn’t some crank working alone, Callum. There’s a lot more to it than that.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I followed up on Steven Jones, the SAS sniper. All the way to Hereford. I went to debrief him but he wasn’t there. He never went back.’
‘Then where the hell was he? AWOL?’
‘Worse than that. Jones never even got to Trafalgar Square. The Steven Jones who joined the CTC team wasn’t the real one.’
Dempsey knew that the director would have prepared himself for what he thought was the worst. It now looked like his imagination had not stretched quite far enough.
‘I don’t follow. Are you saying I authorised the wrong man?’
‘I wish you had, Callum. But no. The guy who joined the unit – the guy who killed Sam – he was a replacement. Someone put a killer on your team.’
McGregor did not answer. Instead he just rose slowly to his feet. His full height loomed over Dempsey. But only for a moment. McGregor was thinking. And when McGregor thought he did not speak. He paced. Dempsey knew that and so he just watched, his backside against McGregor’s desk and his arms folded across his chest.
It was minutes before McGregor retook his seat. Now lower in height than Dempsey, his huge width still made the agent seem undersized.
He looked up from the desk. Focus had returned to his eyes.
‘You know what this means, Joe?’
Dempsey nodded.
‘If you’re right it means that whoever is behind this thing arranged it through the security services. That they manipulated all of us.’
‘No other way to read it.’ Dempsey’s tone was matter-of-fact. It had been hours since he had reached the same conclusion.
‘But the connections it would take.’ Dempsey could see McGregor’s doubts struggling against the conclusion. ‘To force a replacement on Henley’s unit. And then to know who that replacement would be, early enough to take him out and put someone else in his place. We’re not talking about small fry here. Can we be sure you’re right?’
Dempsey just held the director’s stare. Neither man blinked. Neither man spoke. It was answer enough.
McGregor got back to his feet. Silent once again as he moved around the room.
‘But what’s behind it?’
McGregor spoke sooner than Dempsey had expected. This time he had not even retaken his seat. Dempsey looked up as the taller man continued.
‘I mean, what’s to gain? Thompson’s no JFK, Joe. He’s an ex-president, for Christ’s sake.’
‘But are we even sure that Thompson was the target?’ Dempsey asked. ‘It was Matthewson who took most of the bullets, and Thompson survived.’
‘We are now,’ McGregor replied. ‘The True IRA made a verified claim for responsibility less than an hour ago.’
Dempsey took a deep breath. The new information explained McGregor’s reaction. Dempsey knew there were holes in his theory that would leave doubts in McGregor’s mind. Why go to so much effort for an ex-president when the current one was right there?
Dempsey saw the problem. But he also knew when he was right.
‘Callum, there’s something else.’
McGregor stopped pacing.
‘What?’
‘We were able to identify the man who replaced Sergeant Jones.’
At first McGregor said nothing. He just stared. Dempsey knew what that meant: a hundred questions were filling McGregor’s mind.
‘You identified the guy? How?’ McGregor seemed to change his mind the moment he heard his own words. ‘In fact, never mind “how”. Who is it?’
‘The shooter was James Turner.’
McGregor’s jaw slackened as he heard the name. He was visibly shocked. The first time Dempsey had ever seen it. But then how could he be anything else? How could McGregor have expected that Sergeant Major James Turner – probably the most highly decorated soldier in SAS history, and a man whose whereabouts had been the subject of speculation for the best part of a decade – would re-emerge here and now?
Dempsey knew more about James Turner than anyone. That was inevitable. But he also knew that McGregor – like everyone in any branch of British intelligence – was well-briefed on the SAS’s blackest mark. So Dempsey did not need to explain who Turner was. And he did not have to explain that the man had specialised in a field open to only the very best military operatives: the termination of persons worldwide when their continued existence was deemed ‘contrary to the national interest’. Few knew that the state was involved in such activities. But McGregor’s position placed him in that number.
McGregor had been a senior operative with military intelligence during Turner’s active years, but he was not then the power he was today. His influence had been more limited, Dempsey knew, and so he had heard the name but had never met the man.
He did not speak as the implications of Dempsey’s revelation sank in. Dempsey knew not to interrupt. McGregor was a brain. Smarter even than Dempsey, and so Dempsey had no doubt that the director understood the implications of Turner’s involvement.
The pacing began again. The thinking walk. McGregor moved – slowly, this time – towards the full-length window at the far side of his office. Once there he looked out, down onto the deserted Vauxhall Bridge and the Thames running below it.
‘You’re right, Joe.’
When McGregor spoke again it was as downbeat as Dempsey had ever heard.
‘If Turner’s involved then this can’t be a simple shooting. There must be more to it. Shit!’
His last word was fired out. An expulsion of despair.
‘But who the hell’s behind it? What in God’s name is going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dempsey’s response was blunt. ‘There are a lot more questions than answers right now. But we’ve made a start. Give me the resources, Callum, and I’ll get to the bottom of this. Let me question McGale and I swear I’ll find out why Sam died. I’ll find Turner.’
The intensity behind Dempsey’s words was unmistakable. As was McGregor’s hesitation before responding.
‘It’s not that simple, Joe.’
‘What do you mean? What isn’t?’
‘You know what. I can’t be seen to let you run our investigation while you’re still in the firing line for what happened. Jesus, for all I know you’re still a person of interest in the American Secret Service investigation. And even if you’re not, Davies is looking to hang the DDS out to dry
on this. Especially you and Regis. Which means I can’t stick you in the field, not with that hanging over your head.’
‘Then don’t let anyone see you do it,’ Dempsey said. ‘I can do this off the books, Callum. It’s probably better to do it that way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because if I’m not on the case then you didn’t hear the name James Turner tonight. And you not hearing that is the only way you keep control, because as soon as his name is out this whole thing will explode. The Americans will swoop in if the shooter is a man we trained, and you’ll lose control of this investigation. But if they don’t know about him? Well then it stays your show.’
‘But the Americans will have to find out at some point. It’s not like they’ll leave this alone.’
‘Of course they won’t. But we’ve got a head start here Callum, and by the time their team digs up Turner’s name I’ll have dealt with him.’
Dempsey’s tone was now neutral. He would take no pleasure in what he was proposing. Dempsey was a complicated man. A trained killer with few equals, but who despised the trade at which he excelled. He was also the best investigator under McGregor’s command. The most capable of finding Sam Regis’ killer. Both men knew that. And both knew that if that killer was Turner, then he could never see a courtroom.
‘What about you? You’ll have killed a man. When you do that off-duty, Joe, it’s called murder.’
‘No, Callum. When it’s James Turner it’s self-defence.’
Dempsey needed to say no more.
‘You know I’ll have to suspend you from duty to make this look right, don’t you? Which will stay on your record.’
‘When was the last time I worried about my record, Callum?’
‘And resources. They’ll be limited. To stop anyone getting wind of what we’re doing.’
‘That goes without saying. And all I’d need is information, anyway. Just keep my security clearance live and I can get most of that for myself. And anything I can’t access, well, I can come directly to you for that.’
McGregor was silent for a few moments more. Dempsey suspected he knew what was going through his mind now. When McGregor finally spoke, those suspicions were confirmed.
‘What about if it goes the other way, Joe? What if he’s better than you?’
For the first time that night Dempsey took a seat at McGregor’s desk. He knew from the question that the decision was made.
‘If he is, he is.’ Dempsey’s tone was fatalistic. ‘I’m not doing this because I want to find out, Callum. I’d be happier if I never came across that dangerous bastard again. But we trained him. The British military. Which means we killed Sam, and we killed Matthewson. So we’ve got a duty to stop him, Callum. I’ve got a duty to stop him.’
‘You? Why?’
‘Because I know him. I know how he works. How he thinks. So I might be the only one who can do it.’
McGregor didn’t respond. He knew that it was true. British Special Forces had only one active soldier who could be compared to James Turner, and right now that man was sitting on the opposite side of Callum McGregor’s desk.
The director looked at Dempsey for a long moment.
Assessing me, Dempsey thought. Trying to understand me.
Dempsey had enough self-awareness to know he was a contradiction. A man with such a talent for death and destruction, and yet such a distaste for the same thing. McGregor had spotted that paradox before most. He had even used it to lure Dempsey from the SAS to the DDS, to a life where killing was a less regular occurrence.
He was sure he knew everything about me, Dempsey thought. But now there’s something he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if I’ll be good enough.
Finally McGregor spoke. He rose to his full height as he did so. Ramrod-straight and formal.
‘Then you can consider yourself suspended, Major.’ McGregor’s voice was slow, his meaning evident. ‘Pending investigation of your actions in Trafalgar Square yesterday.’
Dempsey rose to his feet as he was addressed. He stood bolt upright, his right hand clasping his left wrist behind his back.
‘Sir.’
‘You of course retain your rank and your credentials, but you understand that you are not to engage in any investigation in your capacity as an operative of either the British Army or the Department of Domestic Security until further notice.’
‘Sir.’
‘And that you are no longer licensed to carry a firearm of any description within the borders of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.’
‘Sir.’
‘In which case, Major, consider yourself dismissed and therefore at ease.’
Dempsey’s stance slackened.
‘Because there’s something you need to know before you begin.’
Dempsey frowned. A silent question.
‘It’s about Eamon McGale . . .’
TWENTY-FIVE
The digital clock on the wall twenty feet away read 4 a.m. It came as no surprise. For Sarah Truman this was well beyond the longest day of her life.
She sat in a makeshift cubicle; the closest thing the network had given her to an office. It was cramped when she was in here alone. With Jack Maguire wedged in with her it was practically inhumane.
The space was little more than a well-equipped desk surrounded by three partitions that acted as walls. Anyone over five foot eight could easily peer over the screens, making privacy impossible. This bothered Sarah. Privacy was exactly what she and Maguire needed.
‘So what do we know about Lawrence so far?’ Maguire asked.
Sarah knew she was being tested. She needed to be in full command of the facts for what was ahead.
‘Well, we know he’s doing well for himself.’
Sarah replied in hushed tones; 4 a.m. it might be, but the twenty-four-hour newsroom bustled with activity. They risked losing the story if anyone overheard.
‘He’s been involved in a lot of high-profile cases. Controversial stuff, mainly. It’s not about the money with him as he doesn’t really need it; plenty of family money to go around. He lives in a big place in Surrey, near the Wentworth Estate. He has a wife and one son, aged ten. He is thirty-seven years old, qualified for fifteen years and for the past eleven he has run his own firm.’
Maguire nodded. So far Sarah had hit every mark. She continued.
‘He comes from a long line of lawyers. Father’s a top barrister. So were both his grandfathers. He does one case at a time and dedicates himself to it like you wouldn’t believe. He really believes in his clients.’
Sarah stopped speaking. Her summary was over. She was confident that she had everything right, but she was still grateful to have that confirmed by Maguire’s smile.
‘So he seems principled,’ Maguire finally offered. ‘And maybe he’s got good instincts. Like when it comes to picking out the innocent?’
‘Then why is he representing McGale?’ Sarah asked, her tone derisive. ‘It’s not like anyone could say he didn’t do it!’
Maguire did not seem to have an answer. Sarah’s point was solid. Instead he changed the subject.
‘What about the political angle?’
‘Dammit.’
Sarah made no attempt to hide her annoyance. She had left a key slice of the story out of her summary. Now reminded, she sped through what remained.
‘Daniel Lawrence’s godfather is Tony Haversume himself. Which was important even before tonight’s press conference.’
‘Why?’ Maguire asked. ‘Why is that important?’
‘Because having Anthony Haversume’s godson on the case removes any suggestion of an establishment cover-up.’
‘Exactly.’
Maguire seemed pleased with what he was hearing. And Sarah was just as happy to be meeting his standards. She was not just remembering the facts. She was applying them like an investigator. Just as Maguire had taught her.
Maguire continued.
‘By selecting a lawyer close to th
e one man who’d want everything out in the open, the government kills any suggestion that they’re keeping things hidden.’
Sarah smiled at Maguire’s agreement. She knew that the much more experienced cameraman was guiding her. Educating her in the story that would make her career. Sarah could not be more grateful for his help, or more proud that she was learning her lessons well.
It was a short-lived moment of triumph.
A small plasma screen lurked in the corner of Sarah’s cluttered desk. Neither she nor Maguire had glanced towards it as they worked through the information they had collected. That changed as its previous multi-screen news stream was replaced by a single live image: the exterior of Paddington Green police station. Ahead of the building, perhaps twenty yards from its front steps, stood CNN correspondent John Crane.
Crane’s close-up dominated the HD image.
Maguire noticed the change before Sarah. He reached out and cancelled the ‘mute’ button on the screen’s bottom console. Sarah’s tiny cubicle was immediately filled with Crane’s East Coast American tones: ‘The body of Eamon McGale was found by the custody sergeant during a routine cell inspection at 3.10 this morning. Little has been disclosed at this time but there seems no doubt that he took his own life. How this was done remains a matter of speculation as we await an official statement.
‘What we do know is that McGale’s death leaves many questions. Since his identity was made public yesterday evening, a complicated picture has emerged of this fifty-six-year-old university don. A Protestant but a political neutral, McGale spent the last twenty-five years as a lecturer at Queen’s University, Belfast. This ended tragically, in November of last year, when he lost his wife and two sons to a terrorist attack in the resurgent Troubles. From then on he became increasingly detached from his own life until disappearing altogether just under a month ago. It now seems that in that time his sanity slipped enough to lead to the horrors of yesterday. But exactly how that happened we are now unlikely to ever know.
‘More information is expected soon, and we will keep you informed throughout the night. But for now we can summarise the most recent development in this tragic story. Eamon McGale, the man responsible for the death of Sir Neil Matthewson and for the attempted murder of former President Howard Thompson, has committed suicide while in police custody. He died before speaking to a lawyer and before being questioned by police, and so he leaves countless questions unasked and now probably unanswerable. Reporting for CNN from central London, I’m John Crane.’
