Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “That, sir, is a shattering blow, but what’s done is done. I guess there’s no going back for us.”

  “Definitely not! So come in whenever you like on Monday. I don’t care any more. And in the meantime, have a great weekend; you deserve it.”

  He leant foreword and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Thanks, sir,” Jo smiled back. “You doing anything special?”

  “No, nothing in particular – and that’s by choice. Mainly chilling for two full days and three full nights, with a couple of sessions at the gym to keep the blood circulating. That’s my idea of a great weekend.”

  “Actually, Detective Chief Inspector, that doesn’t sound bad at all.”

  They went their separate ways.

  Billy Wakeley opened the door and poked his head round. The office of the Recorder of London was large and high and impressive, with oak-panelling on the wall where the door was and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the other three. Two crystal chandeliers hung from ornate ceiling roses. The large desk was covered in discarded wigs and robes, and the judge and two counsels, looking surprisingly ordinary now in just their normal clothes, were seated in three wing chairs around the table where Owen Templar and the LCJ had taken their earlier tea and biscuits.

  “Lord Nicholson to see you, sir.”

  “Ask him to come in, Billy.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “Now, Billy.”

  Charles Nicholson entered the room with what was obviously a pre-set beam on his face. This changed to a questioning look when he saw Owen Templar was not alone.

  “Just need a few minutes with you, Owen,” he said.

  “You most certainly do, Charlie. Please, do sit down.”

  The Lord Chief Justice took the seat vacated by Dean’s standing and politely waving him to it with an elaborate flourish. He waited a few moments, expecting his colleague to dismiss the barristers.

  “Yes?” Owen prompted, inviting him to speak.

  “Just a quick word.”

  “Oh, please feel free to speak openly in front of Mr Calvert and Ms Cartwright, Charles. They have been just as humiliated as I have.” His manner was ultra polite and matter-of-fact, belying the bitterness in the actual words.

  Lord Nicholson hesitated a moment and the muscles around his mouth tightened, as if he was going to take up the challenge, then he relaxed and sighed deeply. “Yes, you’re right. You all deserve an explanation. I promise I’ll tell you as much as I possibly can.”

  Dean and Penny, both feeling like innocent bystanders in this high-level crossfire, also sighed, audibly, with relief. Owen pressed a button on his desk and Billy appeared instantaneously, like a genie from a lamp, in the doorway.

  “Could you get lunch for four please, Billy, and a chair for Mr Calvert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He disappeared for less than fifteen seconds before reappearing, effortlessly carrying another sizable wing-chair, which he placed next to where Penny was sitting.

  “Lunch in ten minutes, sir?”

  “That would be perfect. Thanks, Billy.”

  He turned to Lord Nicholson.

  “Please enlighten us, Charlie.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Everything I know, which, I will tell you now, is not everything there is to know. What I can tell you is that John Deverall – let’s call him that now – is a very special person, one of only six in the world. Four of those six, including Deverall, are in the UK; one in the US and one in France. So everything I say is covered by the Official Secrets Act, and I will need each of you to sign a copy today. Okay?”

  They nodded.

  “Deverall was previously a top sniper attached to an organisation known as the Multinational Termination Unit. It’s not an official group as such, more a virtual pool of expertise. Because of his outstanding ability he was recruited from the MTU by a clandestine section of G-Branch specialising in… well you can imagine, can’t you, given his skill set. Before he could transfer to this section – codename ‘Pages’, a derivative of Phoenix Agency – or ‘Agents’ – he had to adopt a new identity. This meant he needed to be killed off in Afghanistan.”

  “And then rose from the ashes as James Lorimar,” said Owen. “How poetic.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, how did they do it?”

  “I’m not party to what happened between the decision to transfer him and his arriving in London as Lorimar. But once here he was integrated into a normal civilian existence working at Germaine and Rolland. No-one officially knows – outside the Agency, of course – just how much this company knows and is involved. They are an investment company – that’s a fact. But Lorimar is obviously not an investment expert – unless he’s an exceptionally quick learner. He’s required to be available as and when. However, it seems he chose to apply his skill for personal reasons, thus putting his whole operation at potential risk.

  “And that’s about it, then, as far as explaining the final revelation in court today. You know as much as I do now.”

  “That’s fine, Charles, as far as it goes. We won’t ask you anymore about his background and work. I think we all know enough about the importance of National Security to contain our natural curiosity. What I and, I’m sure, these good people are more interested in is why this had to be sprung on the court like that, instead of determining his identity before the trial and making it clear who he was then. Or, if this only came to light within the last couple of days, at least sharing it with us so we could manage the exposition more professionally? As it was, we looked like complete fools in there.”

  “Well, I didn’t come up with the idea, Owen. Let me assure you of that. I sense that Deverall himself was pulling the strings. His real identity had to come out; there were bound to be people – possibly hundreds of people – who would recognise him. I mean, he’s a pretty striking-looking bloke,” Penny nodded, involuntarily, in agreement, “and there was no way they could keep him under wraps. So it was a case of when to pull the rabbit out. I understand it was he who decided to take it to the wire; wanted to delay this as long as possible while such a tide of emotion was surging along. He felt this would get his message across better than deflecting people with the sub-plot of who he really was. And I reckon he was right.”

  “I think he very nearly lost it at the end,” said Owen. “I sensed a real confusion in the courtroom when he shared that bit of news. But I agree; I think he got away with it because of the momentum he’d already created. Good chap; shame he’s not going to be around – within these four walls.”

  “Anyway, I was told only last night what I just passed on to you. In effect, ‘the prisoner wants to address the court, and should be allowed as much time as he needs to do so’. End of directive. In fact, he wanted to speak after sentencing; I insisted it had to be before. Can you imagine the chaos if you’d passed sentence on Lorimar and were told afterwards he was Deverall? You see, Owen, it could have been worse. Oh, and just for the record, I was just as bloody livid as you were at being told what to do.”

  “I can understand that, but it still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell us beforehand, when you and I met this morning, instead of just half of what you already knew.”

  “Couldn’t trust you to go through with it, Owen,” he answered with a sly grin. “You’ve got more integrity than I have. I couldn’t imagine you sitting there pretending it was James Lorimar when you knew it wasn’t. You’d have had to lie to the court, in effect. So I decided not to tell you. You’re still squeaky clean; I’m the bare-faced liar. Or at least the bare-faced withholder of the whole truth.”

  The door quietly opened and Billy entered with the luncheon trolley. He pushed it up to the occasional table and began to hand out napkins.

  “Thank you, Billy,” said Owen. “We’ll help ourselves. Time for your lunch anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” He left, closing the door.

  When they had helped themselves to Mr Wakeley’s ex
cellent fare, they sat back relaxed in their chairs, full plates on knees.

  “Do you know why Deverall was allowed to call the shots, Charlie – no pun intended, by the way?”

  “I assume because he knows some pretty important stuff. Certain people may have felt it was necessary to appease him, perhaps in exchange for his agreement to plead guilty. I mean, he’s off limits now for people following up this identity thing. I suppose they probably wanted him put away. Though my guess is he won’t be queuing for his gruel with the rest of the prisoners.”

  “That was my next question; they’ll have to segregate him, won’t they? They can’t stick him in with a load of Bradys?”

  “All I know is he’s going to Pentonville. I don’t know whether they have penthouses in Pentonville – it sounds like they should have – and if they do, I guess that’s where he’ll be staying.”

  They laughed at the play on words, all equals now.

  “So basically,” said Owen, “we just ignore the fact that this man is supposed to be dead, and just treat him as if the Lorimar story still applies?”

  “Yes,” said Lord Nicholson, with uncharacteristic brevity.

  “One last question, Charlie,” said Owen, smiling broadly now. “Who the hell managed to tell the Lord Chief Justice what he had to do in his showpiece courtroom?”

  They all laughed as the person in question squirmed exaggeratedly in his chair.

  “Oh, some big red-faced Brigadier chap in a loud checked suit. Looked like something out of a bloody Carry On film.”

  CHAPTER 12

  At 10.00 am that same morning, Tom and Jackie met with Andrew in his office in the Norman Shaw Building. Their initial discussion centred on the first day of the Lorimar trial, but moved quickly on to George Holland’s speech two days ago and the overwhelming media support it had received. Andrew was clearly desperate to add his Party’s voice to the crescendo of demands for action. His ‘significant hurdles’ warning to Tom had long since been consigned to the waste bin and now his ascension to the bandwagon was absolute. Also, to Tom’s surprise and contrary to his initial concerns at her involvement, Jackie seemed now to be supportive of his list of proposals, although this was mostly due to Andrew privately suggesting to her that she should put her own views aside ‘for the good of the Party’.

  The meeting ended at 1.30 pm, with Andrew charging his two colleagues to produce a joint message to share with the House and, as a consequence, the press, in two weeks’ time, to coincide with the next debate on urban development just before the summer recess. Not a full-blown plan of attack, he said, but some preliminary details on intent, just to set the scene. As they were leaving the room, Andrew called Tom back. “Just a quick word, Tom.” Jackie also turned, but Andrew gently dismissed her. “Have a good weekend, Jackie.”

  “You too, Andrew,” she said, looking at Tom with suspicion. He returned her look with a shrug and closed the door after her.

  “Not a happy bunny,” said Tom. “I suppose she thinks I’m standing on her toes.”

  “Well so you are, and kicking her shins as well. But I’ve got a nice surprise for her. She’s about to be unveiled, on Monday, as the architect of the New Justice Regime, which is what we are going to call your plan, Tom.”

  It took a few moments for Andrew’s words to sink in, then Tom’s own words came as a minor explosion.

  “Yes, my plan, Andrew! You’re damn’ right it’s my plan – mine and Grace’s, anyway. I’m not sure where Hewlett comes in to it at all, never mind her being the fucking architect. She hasn’t put forward one original idea.”

  Andrew leant back and smiled.

  “Language, Tom, language. Do sit down and stop frothing at the mouth.”

  Tom returned to the seat he had only just vacated, prepared to be unimpressed by anything Andrew was about to say.

  “The fact is, Tom – and this is between you and me and these four walls – we are not going to release a watered down, diplomatically diluted version of your plan the week after next. No, we are going to leak the whole fucking lot next week; Wednesday, to be precise.”

  Tom instinctively opened his mouth to respond before his mind had time to formulate any words.

  “And with the name of Jackie Hewlett by then firmly stapled to it,” Andrew went on. “Now, I am certain that the public’s reaction will be a resounding ‘yes’ to the proposals, which will have the country counting down the days to the next General Election. In which case, the plan will pass seamlessly back into your capable hands, with full accountability to prepare for its implementation from the moment the last vote is counted. And from that point, this will be the fastest-tracked piece of legislation in this country’s history.

  “But… in the unlikely event that I am wrong – that we are all wrong – and the voters reel in revulsion from these barbaric measures, then I will reluctantly accept Hewlett’s resignation, her position as the originator of such monstrous proposals having become untenable. I think this second scenario will prove to be a fairy tale. A bigger worry is that our proposals won’t go far enough to satisfy the bloodlust out there. But, just in case, I am quite prepared to lose Jackie, but I’m not prepared to lose you. So your name can’t go with it for that reason.”

  Tom continued to remain silent.

  “Well?” said Andrew, getting a little agitated by the lack of response. “I take it you do agree with Jackie leading this now that I’ve explained the reason?”

  Tom found his voice.

  “Well, I think you’ve made up your mind, haven’t you? Does Jackie know about this? Is she okay to go along with it?”

  “Are you serious, Tom?” Andrew shouted this time, looking totally incredulous. “Are you completely fucking mad? Of course she doesn’t know about it. Why do you think I let her go just now and called you back? She’d be an absolute fool to go along with something like this, wouldn’t she? Except, of course, she’s always whimpering about not getting enough recognition – ‘it’s always Tom Brown’ and all that – so it would serve her right if the worst happened!”

  “Bloody hell, Andrew,” Tom said at last, “you are some ruthless bastard when you want to be. I hope I never become that dispensable or get on the wrong side of you.”

  “Well, at least you have the advantage of knowing what to expect if you do,” said Andrew, with a friendly smile, but with no hint that he was joking. “Look Tom,” he went on, “I need your commitment to this or at the very least your assurance that it will stay just between the two of us.”

  “Okay, I think I can live with that,” he said, without any of the enthusiasm his leader was seeking. “After all, as we have said many times, it’s the end that counts, less so the means.”

  “I think it was ‘the end not the means’ rather than ‘less so the means’ the last time you bored me with that quotation. I hope you’re not softening your position, Tom. Anyway, I thought this would be right in line with your cavalier style – get it out there so people can embrace it, then we will have to deliver it, no matter what. Hewlett will have to support it and Greyburn will have to finance it.”

  Tom realised he was hearing more or less his own words repeated back to him.

  “How did you… ?” he started to ask, and then thought better of it. “So what happens now? How are you going to leak it?”

  “Well, to answer your first question, you go to work with Ms Hewlett, as we agreed, preparing the stuff for Thursday-week. As to your second question, you don’t need to know that. Suffice to say, I shall spend an enjoyable weekend working on it – and the denial, of course. That needs to be ready at around the same time. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this. Isn’t it exciting, don’t you think?”

  Tom could see that he really thought it was. He felt a shiver of anxiety at the thought of the next few days, sitting across the table from Jackie, plotting her demise. Whichever way the public reaction went, she was to be sacrificed; either gently, moved to one side; or precipitously, with possib
le career-ending brutality. He rose to leave.

  “Look at it this way, Tom,” said Andrew, softening his manner, “unless we are completely out of touch with reality – in which case we all need sacking – the feedback we get will only confirm what we already know, and what the government already knows. You need to trust me on this; give me the benefit of the doubt that I’m acting for the best. After a few days we’ll have a clear mandate, just as if we’d already been voted in. There’s no real threat to Jackie, is there? The only thing that can go wrong is if Portman has secretly come up with something even more extreme. Community hit squads armed with Mini-Uzis racing through the streets machine-gunning any gathering of more then three people over the age of twelve. Let’s hope, if he has, his plans are not as far developed as ours.”

  Tom gave a little laugh.

  “Okay,” he said, turning to leave and looking at his watch. It was just approaching 2.00 pm. “I’m going to get some lunch. A cheeseburger I think. I don’t suppose you’ve ever had one, have you?”

  “I must admit, I did see one once, but it didn’t look like something I’d want anywhere near my mouth.”

  He stood up and reached across the desk to Tom, who shook his offered hand before turning to leave. As he opened the door, he nearly collided with a diminutive Chinese girl in a shiny gold mini-dress and impossibly high heels, who was about to knock and enter. The face turned up to his had a smiling mouth and large dark eyes, accentuated by a startled expression.

  “Why, Mandy, we really must go on meeting like this,” said Tom.

  Mandy Lu, the Main Floor receptionist, gave a little laugh.

  “That’s fine with me, Mr Brown,” she said. “You might like to hear this, actually.”

  She turned to Andrew.

  “Just something in from the Lorimar trial, Mr Donald. Well, actually, it’s not the Lorimar trial any more. Apparently the man isn’t James Lorimar, he’s,” she consulted her notepad, “John Alexander Deverall. The son of the woman who… ”