by Andy Farman
He had not noticed the ‘post it’ on the banister rail until the female peeled it off to read it, and Udi stopped the segment to take a still, a vidcap of the moment when it was square on. He paused the program there in order to enlarge and enhance the note, but was disappointed to see it merely read ‘Spare room’.
The innocuous content failed to elude to the purpose of the gathering, and the simple instruction also failed to register on him that this was no stranger to them there parts, this person knew where the room was. But even had Udi cottoned on, what happened next would have taken its place in his brains list of priorities.
The woman climbed the stairs as instructed and opened the first door at the top of the stairs, disappearing inside, the door being closed firmly behind her with an ominous bang.
For several minutes Udi sat motionless before the terminal, and then his shoulders began to shake with laughter tinged by frayed nerves, before turning to self-pitying sobs. There was no evidence yet of a secret meeting, no conspiracy and no covert plot to justify his actions. The data at the centre from that night, data that still bore the man-made interference, would be blamed on him and that would be the end of Udi Timoskova.
Leaving the room for his rumpled bed Udi plucked a half full bottle of vodka from off the floor and on un-screwing its top he let it fall. Taking a long pull on the harsh spirit he curled into a ball, tears coursing down his face and nursing the bottle in arms wrapped defensively about himself, the picture of abject misery.
Oblivious to the moods of its owner the computer set-up in the other room hummed on, slowly stripping away the layers of interference on the remainder of the download.
Windermere, Cumbria, UK: 2000hrs, same day.
Harry Chapman shivered as he watched the cold wind stir the surface of the lake. Beyond the expanse of water, Langdale Pikes sat ominously, its heights visible only as a darker mass against the backdrop of the night sky.
Hunching his shoulders he turned his back on a view that matched the gloominess of his mood and gazed up at the three hundred year old Low Wood Hotel, sat close to the shore of Lake Windermere.
There was little traffic on the A591, the road that separated the hotel from the lakeside, just the odd car driving along the north side of the lake toward Ambleside and Coniston, or back into the town.
His hands were thrust deep inside the pockets of his thick coat, and a casual observer would have thought he was muttering to himself.
“All stations this is One, signals check.”
“Two, R Five.”
“Three, R Five.”
“Four, R Five.”
Satisfied that the short-range body sets they all wore were still functioning, he asked the officer eating at a single table within the hotel dining room how things were progressing with their principle and her guest.
“Two this is One, sitrep?”
Using the act of sipping tea to mask the act of speaking, Constable ‘Paddy’ Singh of the Metropolitan Police, Diplomatic Protection Group let a waitress pass his table before replying.
“Ice Queen sent back her soup because it was too hot, and the galloping major is making disparaging remarks to the wine waiter about the quality of the cellar here.”
Harry thought that the atmosphere in the dining room was probably colder than it was out here in the open.
“Bet you a fiver that after all that, the pretentious little prick chooses a bottle that costs less than thirty quid.”
Sergeant Chapman was going to lose his bet though, as Major Manson, Coldstream Guards sent away the waiter to fetch a bottle of 1990 Nuits St. Georges, which with corkage set him back £132 and change.
“Okay, so he knows his wine, and has a few bob.”
“He may have a few sheckles to spare sarge, but he’s describing it as one of the good clarets from the southern slopes of the valley.”
“Yeah, and?” Harry’s wine was usually bought from the local off licence, although he preferred a pint of real ale. “So is it from another slope?”
“Don’t be daft sarge, it’s a Burgundy.”
“Well of course, how remiss of me to have forgotten!” the sarcasm dripped from Harry’s words. “If you can afford that stuff my lad, then I am going to be scrutinising your expense claims from here on in.”
“My old Dad’s the wine buff, not that he can afford that quality though.”
Across the room, Ms Foxten-Billings decided to bring the conversation around to the business at hand.
“A friend of mine on the Telegraph seems to think that you are the source of some rumours concerning certain war crimes, perpetrated by your regiment since the start of hostilities.” The major looked slightly uncomfortable at her words. “Major, let me set your mind at ease. This government is more concerned with violations of a landmine treaty we signed in 1998, and that British soldiers were encouraged to kill prisoners, than we are of a man of conscience telling tales out of school.”
Manson remained silent as he weighed up her words, but it was obvious that had his talking out of turn been the issue here, then someone from the MOD would be dealing with him now, not the Defence Minister.
“What really disturbs us is that an allegedly elite regiment of foot guards has totally ignored its elected governments public statements to the international community, that Britain will never again use landmines…the human rights issues of that other matter, are of course something we are morally bound to investigate, no matter the circumstances.”
“Minister…” Mason began.
“Call me Danyella, Simon.”
“…Danyella then. Britain only signed a treaty banning anti-personnel mines, not anti-tank mines. I said nothing to the media about mines.”
“It was in the after action reports…the arrogance of the commanding officer practically bragging about his being forced to acquire the weapons from sources outside the norm, was quite inappropriate.”
She took a sip of her wine and gave the waiter returning her soup a tight, perfunctory smile.
“Now tell me Simon, how many mines did your battalion lay, and what type were they?”
“Well, there were at least two hundred anti-tank mines, but as to the type and mark I really couldn’t tell you, Danyella. They were Warsaw Pact era weapons after all, hardly items I could be expected to be familiar with.”
Danyella considered his words before leaning forward intently.
“So how do you know they were anti-tank mines and not anti-personnel, hmm?”
Major Simon Manson was not a great believer in study of the enemy’s arsenal, or even that of newfound friends, for the simple reason that he didn’t see it as being his job. After all, that was the job of his warrant officers and NCOs, wasn’t it?
“I see your point madam; in fact if one were to be quite truthful, then one did have one’s doubts.”
Danyella sat back in her chair with a broad smile on her face. This man was a bore and an insufferable snob, but he was so going to be so easy to manipulate into saying precisely what she required of him.
“Anyway, enough of the Westernitz…”
“It was the Wesernitz, ma’am.”
Danyella dismissed the error with a casual wave.
“…what happened at Leipzig, Major?”
Major Manson had walked almost five miles before a vehicle had stopped, on the day his services had been dispensed with. To add to his embarrassment the vehicle had been an RMP patrol, and they had kept him standing in the open with a man covering him whilst they discovered why a man wearing a major’s insignia was without a weapon and miles from his unit. Satisfied that he was not in fact a deserter, he was given a ride to a field hospital where he could catch another ride up to brigade headquarters.
He’d had plenty of time walking along a MSR to formulate a reason for being relieved of his post, and should the battalion suffer similar losses as it had at the river, then there would be few around to dispute his claims.
“Feelings were running very high amongst t
he guardsmen, a lot of the guys hadn’t made it out and rumours were flying around that the enemy had shot our wounded. These were all from unreliable sources ma’am, but it takes little to persuade a ranker that blue is in fact pink.”
“Did you confront any of these, so called witnesses?”
“Indeed I did, but none were credible, not a one was an officer.”
Manson’s unspoken assumption that she would share his contempt of anyone who was not a holder of the Queens Commission was quite wrong; hers extended to the entire military elite, as she thought of them with distaste.
“At a time like that I imagine the officers were busy quelling such gossip?”
“It was that very subject which saw my removal from command of my company. Lt Col Reed felt that the rumours should be encouraged, to increase the men’s aggressive spirit. I of course objected, and found myself relieved of my post.”
“That does seem a rather drastic move on his part?”
“We’ve always had differing styles of leadership, and the man lacks the ability to see the pros and cons of another point of view, so he simply did away with a conflicting opinion.”
“And after that battle Simon, how many prisoners did your battalion send to the rear?”
“Far less than one might expect, and most of those were stretcher cases for the field hospitals.”
Danyella was working the spin in her head as she listened, and formulating a report stating that these wounded soldiers had probably only been spared due to the actions of the medics and stretcher-bearers on the battlefield.
It was just one more piece of evidence that should really have shown the prime minister, when he eventually read it, that he had made a serious error in her appointment. Even he was aware that a battalion provided its own medics, and the stretcher-bearers were the regiment’s musicians in peacetime.
It was also another indication that the new PM was not doing his job by enquiring as to why she was not devoting all of her time to the duties of her office instead of delegating the matter to the proper authority, the Provost Marshal’s office.
Two hours later with the meal completed and further discussion over drinks at a quiet corner table, Danyella Foxten-Billings and Major Manson parted company.
Danyella had arranged for his reassignment to Horse Guards in London, where they would have more access in the days ahead. On return to the secure location near Renwick, she would contact the Director of Public Prosecutions and set the wheels in motion.
During the ninety-minute drive back across the Fells on almost empty roads, DC Singh prattled on about his nice warm surroundings of the evening and the good food he had eaten, rubbing in the fact his colleagues evening had been anything but.
Paddy Singh was a talker, he could talk the hind legs off of donkey and wherever possible he practiced that ability whether the audience bid it or not.
He related the details he had heard about arresting an entire infantry battalion, and how the major’s account had varied to fit the bill according to the views of Foxten-Billings.
Harry Chapman was not greatly interested in the goings-on of his principles, so long as they did not compromise the business of protecting them from harm, however on the return journey Paddy Singh’s account of the couple’s conversation got his attention, especially when he heard which unit had been the subject but he kept his own counsel until Paddy had finished and asked the question.
“Sarge, this battalion they were talking about, did they run away from a fight or something?”
The main worry in Mrs Chapman’s life these days was the safety of her youngest brother, a lance corporal in the 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards, so he was about as up to date as any of the citizens of the UK as to how that unit was fairing.
“No Paddy, no one’s done any running away, far from it in fact.”
“Well according to the ice queen she has already ordered the second battalions re-activation. Most of the replacements are already going into it instead of going to the front, and this Manson character will be the CO. She said that it would replace the first battalion in the line once the arrests were made.”
Harry made the decision there and then to break his rule of not remarking on his principles business unless ordered to do so.
After delivering the Ice Queen back into the care of the military police providing security at the ASoG, the Special Branch close protection officers returned to a hotel that had become their billet, but Harry didn’t stay long.
The night manager gave him change for a tenner and Harry left the small hotel. Taking one of the cars he drove south, following the River Derwent along Borrowdale until the B5289 swung west and began to climb Fleetwith Pike.
Harry took a left at that point and followed a narrow country lane to the tiny hamlet of Seathwaite. In happier times it was a stopping place for Fell walkers and climbers, but Harry’s only interest was the public phone box there.
There was no one about at that hour and Harry could see no headlights on the road so he entered the kiosk and placed a stack of coins on top of the coin box. He would use almost all of the coins in the call he made to a private house in Surrey.
Newington Causeway, London SE1: 0812hrs, 18th April.
Commuters exiting from the Bakerloo Line underground station at the Elephant and Castle who headed on foot towards London Bridge made use of the wide pavement there to avoid the pair of vagrants loitering at the junction with Gaunt Street.
The duo had acquired from somewhere a couple of buckets and cloths, and were now not so much providing an unsolicited service to motorists, as a nuisance value for the purpose of extracting beer money.
They waited on the traffic lights at the junction to change to red and then stepped slightly unsteadily up to the driver’s sides of the cars and began washing the windscreens.
They weren’t entirely successful in their endeavours, but they had an average 40% success rate each time before returning to the footway where half a dozen cans of Special Brew sat, though five of the cans were lying on their sides, clearly empty already.
Most pedestrians and motorists either avoided looking at them or curled a lip in contempt at their antics, especially when the drunker of the pair had collided with his partner and fallen in the road while heading for his next victim. It was pathetic, his antics in scrambling to retrieve the bucket that had rolled under a car, and then he had almost lost an arm when the lights had changed again and the traffic began moving. A bus had crushed the cheap plastic bucket before its owner could reclaim it, and that caused his partner to begin swearing at him. Some drunken pushing and shoving followed, which spelled the dissolution of their commercial partnership, and both vagrants headed off in opposite directions with the odd abusive comment still being exchanged until they were out of earshot of one another.
The vagrant who still had his bucket staggered along Gaunt Street past The Ministry of Sound nightclub and turned the corner into Southwark Bridge Road. The change in surroundings must have had a sobering effect on him, because his back straightened and his coordination improved too, as he sent the bucket in a graceful arc over the street to where it landed in a refuse skip.
As he neared the junction with Borough Road a Black Cab, otherwise known as a Hackney Carriage drew up alongside him and he got in, taking a seat before removing his stained and grubby overcoat.
The cabbie glanced briefly over his shoulder, apparently unconcerned that this passenger may not possess sufficient coin of the realm to pay the fare.
“Where to, guv?”
“New Kent Road, under the railway bridge.”
The cabbie waited for a gap in the traffic before making a U turn and heading back the way he had come.
The vagrant tapped on the glass screen separating him from the cab driver, and without taking his eyes off the road the cabbie reached around and slid open the glass hatch, before passing a Motorola PR and a box of make-up removal swabs over his shoulder.
Removing his matted wig Detective In
spector MacAverney listened in to the radio traffic on the PR for a few moments before speaking.
“Control, permission?”
“Go, guv.”
The D.I gave the description of the man who had stoically refused to make eye contact, or otherwise acknowledge the presence of the derelict slopping soapy water across his line of vision, with a hand obscuring his view through the wing mirror as he’d gripped it for support in leaning over the cars bonnet.
But all those efforts could be for nought
“Any problems?”
“Nah guv, good signal…he’s stopped at red ATS, Borough High Street and Duke Street Hill as we speak, still heading for north of the river.”
“Okay, well we’re going to pick Danny up and head back to ‘the factory’.”
“Rog’…oh yeah, Traffic wants to know if they can have control of the lights in the Causeway back?”
“Yes certainly…and thank them for their help.”
The cab, one of several in the fleet of surveillance vehicles owned by the Serious Crime Group picked up the second’ vagrant’ from where he was waiting around the corner from Newington Causeway, and its ‘cabbie’ avoided the rest of the commuter traffic in the New Kent Road by turning off into Meadow Row, and from there made his way to New Scotland Yard.
The Major Incident Control Room at CO had been taken over for a multiple agency operation dedicated to capturing the enemy cell that had killed Constantine Bedonavich, Scott Tafler and of course, two of their own.
SO-19 was one of the departments involved in the operation, but they were unhappy with the Commissioners great efforts to borrow a troop from the Special Air Service, for the critical job of securing the suspects when that time came. SACEUR had initially refused to release them from Germany, but then the deep strike mission a G Squadron troop had been about to undertake was scrubbed. General Allain had relented, releasing the troop for a period not to exceed 48 hours, the time it would take for another mission in disrupting Red Army supply lines to be put together.
