Plus there was the irresistible bonus attraction of finally putting a net around the one that got away.
‘I need someone who understands what he’s up against,’ she said.
Albert was the last man she needed to tell that Innez had thus far proven rather tricky to apprehend. That was why he and Mr Spank would have to bring along a special friend who helped out on such risky occasions: Madam Boom. A right saucy piece, with a wicked mouth on her, though you wouldn’t want a blow-job from those pouty little lips.
New handcuffs too. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. You live and learn.
Nine-millimetre Beretta M9 semi-automatic pistols: two. Fifteen-round magazines: ten. Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns with night-sight scopes and laser-aiming attachments: two. Thirty-round magazines: twelve. Aircrew Survival Egress Knife with calf-mounting sheaf: one. Ka-bar knives: three. Waist-mounting multi-sheaf for same: one. Hicks G12 grenade launcher: one. Teargas grenades: eight. Groeller-Duisberg gaspropelled dart pistol—
Beep.
The Guarantor instantly interrupts his inventory to consult his PDA. He glances at the screen very briefly then returns his attention to the flightcases in the boot of his Audi A8. The information is important, but it is not the message he must continue to wait for. The PDA shows him the name and location of a private airfield near Hereford, being where the handover will now take place. His contractor, Bernard, will be supervising the exchange personally, arriving via the Proprietor’s private jet, which will be used to take the target out of the country. After that, the next, and final, leg of Darcourt’s journey will be by sea.
The Guarantor completes his inventory and keys the airfield’s detail into his satellite navigation device. He will drive there now, familiarise himself with the approaches, memorise the routes to and from all major trunk roads in the vicinity, as he does not yet know from which direction he and his cargo will arrive. The last communiqué put him in a holding pattern, still awaiting the update that would inform him precisely where he must pick up his target.
There is a major police operation under way; he has been instructed to stand back and allow them to do their job, after which, the police will have far less control than they assume. Doors will be opened and actions taken by people who do not know for whom or why, or perhaps by people who suddenly found they had a compelling reason to cooperate. The Guarantor doesn’t know the details, doesn’t know who else is involved, any more than they would know about his involvement unless and until it becomes necessary. Neither he nor anyone will be given information that could prove in any way a burden or a risk.
Blind Complicity Measures, they are called. These are often a means of reducing the need for bloodshed, sometimes even a knowing trade-off by individuals in positions to make such compromises. The Guarantor’s instructions today, however, contain no directive of restraint. He is authorised to eliminate all complicating factors if necessary, including those facilitating his access. His remit is to deliver Darcourt, an objective he implicitly understands to supersede all consideration of life and limb, not least his own. That is what makes him the Guarantor.
That is the deal when you are working for the Proprietor: you are paid extremely well, but on certain jobs it is mutually recognised that you will go to any length to deliver success. If you fail but survive, then you better play dead, because the Proprietor cannot afford it to be known that anybody has defaulted on this arrangement. That is why the apprehension of Simon Darcourt is being given the Proprietor’s highest priority, and why the Guarantor will deliver him, or die trying.
Constabulary et acetabularii
It’s party time, and Angelique has dressed for the occasion. She’s gone for the classic LBD, a diaphanous but not clingy sleeveless affair with a split up the left leg almost to her waist. So far, none of her colleagues has made any remarks or let out a wolf-whistle. She’s not sure whether this is down to a sense of propriety given the occasion, genuine fear that she’ll break their noses, or simply that she doesn’t look all that sexy. Several attempts to glimpse her tits through the fluttering gap at the neckline would suggest otherwise, though perhaps the fact that all they spied was nipple-tape created a sour-grapes effect.
She’s not really sure the frock is her, to be honest, short notice and limited choice dictating her wardrobe. She had to find a dress that would meet certain requirements, and which they had two of in stock – not to mention the perennial issue of her size. She wasn’t aware of ever feeling like she was surrounded by towering females, yet the racks of every fashion store she visited were stocked to cater to this army of Amazons. Still, when it comes to the little black dress, they say it’s the accessories that really make it. Tonight Angelique is sporting a Walther P990, two spare clips of .40 calibre ammunition and a number of other little trinkets, all secreted about her in locations that dictated the need for the aforementioned high split and loose neckline. It’s why she couldn’t go with anything too figure-hugging, as it’s not just her nipples that are taped down across her front.
To complete the look, and as an insurance against it getting chilly, she’s also draped herself in a pashmina, one that can really bring the heat.
The doors are opening in a few minutes. Watches are synchronised, radios and earpieces tested. Shaw takes a long, worrisome look around the place, from the balcony to the stage, from the gantries to the exits. They’ve had complete control of the venue for two days, but this is the point when all the variables enter the equation: around three hundred of them, in fact, none of whom are aware of what is really about to take place.
Panic is the greatest threat. As well as a high-visibility presence of uniforms, there will be undercover cops everywhere, though when they get the signal to move in, their job will be more about controlling the audience than apprehending the villain. With any luck, if the Tivoli staff can get enough champagne down the guests, they’ll be too pissed to realise it’s not part of the show.
Shaw gets a signal from the stage, and another from front of house. The music will be starting in one minute, the doors opening in two. He turns and addresses the cops before they disperse amid the incoming audience.
‘These people you’re going to be among: they don’t know it, but they are his allies tonight. They are the biggest danger to this operation’s success, so be ready for chaos, be ready for desperation, be ready for abject stupidity. Just for fuck’s sake don’t shoot any of them, not even Steve Wright.
‘I don’t care how much of a sham this is. I want nobody to lose their concentration for one second. The fact that we’re here to arrest a guy who’s voluntarily giving himself up means we should be all the more ready for surprises. Just because we think we know what the game is, doesn’t mean we really know what the game is. Remember that.’
‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to a very, very special occasion: a star-studded occasion, an exciting occasion, a glamorous occasion, but also a solemn occasion. Most of all, though, it’s a defiant occasion. Because tonight, this is Jessica Hanson, once more talking to you live from inside the Tivoli nightclub in the West End. I was here presenting for PV1, the night Simon Darcourt hijacked the Nick Foster Lifetime Achievement party. A lot of the people sitting here right now were present that night too. We know we can’t turn back the clock, but we can pay tribute to the stars we lost that night, and we can show our solidarity with the ones still missing. Most of all, though, we’re here to tell Simon Darcourt this: the Luftwaffe couldn’t do it, Al Qaeda couldn’t do it, so you are kidding yourself, matey, if you think you can make us afraid to party!’
And with this, the lovely Jessica turns and steps to one side as the members of re-formed Nick Foster aberration SWALK take the stage to kick off the show with their twenty-year-old number-one hit: ‘That Precious Look’. The horrifically dated Foster-signature synth-brass melody booms out as they spurt from the darkened mouth of this ridiculous snaking tunnel arrangement that dominates the rear of the set. It projects through the floor-to-ce
iling illuminated fibreglass backdrop spanning the width of the stage, though as it is the passage through which all of tonight’s stars will make their entrance, I can’t decide whether the symbolism is more phallic or vaginal. Thus I don’t know whether to describe the spectacle as four cocks emerging from a giant twat, or four cunts coming out of a prick.
Once they’ve been hoovered back up it again, Jessica informs us: ‘This amazing stage-set behind me was designed by Maximilian. The tunnel – or tube might be appropriate – represents the distance between the real world and what’s on the other side of our TV screens. But there are five people out there somewhere tonight who know that the world on the other side of that screen is just as real as the one the rest of us live in, so the tunnel also represents a passageway between the hostages and ourselves, a passageway to freedom we want to lead them through.’
She’s so got this off a press release. Who the fuck is Maximilian? She says it as though we’re all supposed to know the name, and yet I can tell she doesn’t have a fucking clue either. Say a name with sufficient gravitas and people will nod sagely, going along with it for fear of betraying that they’ve never heard of the bastard and are thus ignorant philistines, or even worse, not cool.
Good for Jessica, though, you have to say. It’s a nice touch, getting her to present the whole thing: a bit of a step-up from her role last time, being a glorified autograph-hunter for PopVision 1. Her star has risen a great deal since then, in fact, a serendipitous benefit of simply being the woman who was in the right place at the right time. Some of her footage that night is already legendary, inextricably bound to the moment this all began in the public memory, with her inadvertently ironic remarks, such as: Bit of gossip for you folks, just between you and me, the rumour around Tivoli right now is that the guest of honour might be fashionably late for his own party . . . and when he finally makes his entrance, you can guarantee it’ll be a show-stopper. Yep, that little prelude is bound to make the next all-time-TV-moments pantheon, alongside ‘I counted them all out and I counted them all back’ and ‘Mark, help me out here, say something’.
Her reward is that she’s off PV1 and on to ITV. Off the pop beat too: her role as unwitting witness to tragedy has somehow earned her a bucketload of instant gravitas and she’s landed a gig as a serious presenter on Tonight with Trevor McDonald. Not so serious as to say no to that FHM bra-and-panties photo-shoot, right enough, but her new credentials lend just that precise note of solemnity she alluded to for a night like this.
While I’m on the subject, it ought to be acknowledged that quite a few people have done very well out of me recently. I do hope they bear that in mind after I’m gone. I walked in right behind one, as it happens: Pippa Kimble, former washed-up ex-member of Sunshine Seven but now the girl who’s got Jessica’s old job on PV1.
Yes, that’s right: I walked straight in, up the red carpet, in fact. Anything else would hardly be proper, now would it, what with this bash being all about yours truly. Nobody recognised me, which would have come as a crushing blow to just about everyone else who slinked along the same rouge rug this evening, but hardly a surprise to me. I did have my head all but welded to this TV camera at the time, after all.
As per my little arrangement with DCS Shaw, I was sent electronic versions of event tickets and various passes to laminate and tag about my person. This was so that I could sneak in as a guest, event staff or media personnel, with Shaw’s side not knowing in advance which to look out for. Had to make certain things look authentic on the part of the cops, particularly the big moment of surprise, and method acting is always the most naturalistic. The multiple passes also created a miniature deniability firewall for the authorities, rendering it impossible for anyone later to definitively trace back my route inside and apportion blame.
I took all of the tickets, cards and laminates with me, but just as an experiment, I opted not to wear or present any of them: instead I dangled only a tiny press pass from the camera, knowing that it was the camera itself which would establish my credentials. Obviously I can’t know for certain whether I was silently clocked by the police and allowed to pass, but I sincerely doubt it. As I stated, most of my head – and all of my face – was obscured by the camera I was lugging on my shoulder, and despite having no visible credentials, I just glided in behind Pippa, tracking my lens along the faces of the sad sacks lined up behind the cordon. Nobody asked to see any ID, and I’m not sure anyone even noticed the tiny card attached to my hardware. Pippa’s own production crew never even cast a glance my way as I tailgated through in her slipstream.
I was allowed to roam unchallenged like a wandering holy man through a shrine or a temple. No celebs without telly, no telly without cameras. I was carrying the power to bestow the magic blessing, the sacred artefact that confers the mystic consecration. Let him through, let him through.
I notice Jessica has dropped an octave and altered her speaking-to-camera expression since she hitched a ride on the Trevornaut. It’s only been a matter of weeks, but she’s gone from sub-Kate-Thornton airhead bubbliness to full-blown Kirsty Young gravel-voiced austerity, complete with that burdened look like she just swallowed someone’s come and is starting to have second thoughts.
As she witters on ungratefully about what a bad article I am, I turn to pan around the audience with my camera, and I’m almost moved to tears to see everyone who has turned out for me. There’s the veterans of the Nick Foster night – Sandi Bay, Surfs Up!, Angel Cakes, Wendy Clear et al – and it’s particularly touching that they came back, especially in the face of what traumatic memories this place must hold, being where they all watched their conduit to a possible comeback go literally up in smoke. However, it’s some of the other faces that really mean the most. I see the Cadzows and Cassandra, and I bet none of them had to be asked twice, not least to put behind them the frightful matter of the recent misunderstandings. ‘We honestly just took off for a few days...’
And look, look: there’s Matt Willis, there’s Steve Wright, and there’s Jordan, with thingummy, her sun-tanned dildo. There’s Vanessa Feltz, there’s Linda Barker and, can it be? Yes! It really is Jade Goody!
Dotted elsewhere I spot Tamara Beckwith, Gary Rhodes, Gillian McKeith and, my God, Desperate Spice herself, Geri. Oh, and is that Amy Winehouse next to her? Not sure: it could be Ozzy Osbourne – the table is quite close to the back, after all. I can also see Pete Doherty, Brian Harvey, all of Take That (though sadly no Robbie – oh for a rapprochement, boys, could you not find it in your hearts?) and many, many others.
Looking at all these famous faces is when I truly feel the pity of having so little time left. I’m like Oskar Schindler in reverse: I could have taken more, I could have taken so many more.
Before I can moisten up too much, my attention is drawn back to the stage. They’re playing my song. Not my song, I should clarify: not ‘Hurts Like Dynamite’, but a less-than-golden oldie intended specifically for my ears. It’s a dance-beat enhanced version of ‘Funny How Love Is’ by The Arguments. What do you mean you never heard of them? What planet have you been living on? They scaled the ear-popping heights of number eleven on the UK Indie chart back in the Eighties with their one and only release, a jangle-pop cover of a minor Queen album filler. It was a track that couldn’t have been any more insipidly flimsy had it been released on flexi-disc, all the better so that it took up even less space in the dustbin of pop history.
The only reason it has been excavated from the great rock-’n’roll landfill site is that The Arguments were formed by the remaining members of the first band I was in as a student, and they had this towering moment of triumphant success (did I mention number eleven on the Indie charts twenty years ago? When does the comeback stadium tour begin?) after I had departed. I’m interpreting that this is assumed to bother me somehow, as well as recognising it as my cue. It certainly tells me that de Xavia has had a strong hand in organising tonight’s festivities, an observation confirmed by the accompanying sight of four figures
dressed identically in Rank Bajin outfits, dancing in a barely rehearsed apology for choreography. They’re all in black, wearing cloaks and cowboy hats just like the cartoon, their faces obscured with black drapes, on top of which are printed the character’s iconic staring eyes and grid of teeth. It’s so crass I almost want to applaud.
Angelique watches the hastily recruited ‘Black Spirit Dancers’ take the stage, but from then on she’s back to scanning the audience, watching for a response. The houselights are higher than would normally be the case, but nobody has clocked Darcourt yet. Shaw had hoped they might huckle him quietly and with minimum fuss, aware that the other aspects of the deal would still play out, but Darcourt is clearly determined to have his moment literally in the spotlight.
She is standing by the wall, keeping a clear route between her position and the stage. She’s half a dozen yards away from the nearest table, but close enough to see the expressions of puzzlement and distaste on the faces of those not sold on Jessica Hanson’s preface that the routine represents a stiff British two fingers to the enemy. She knows she’ll hear Shaw’s voice in her earpiece any second too, and he doesn’t disappoint.
‘You’ve outdone yourself, Detective Inspector. Definitely the last time we let you play Harvey Goldsmith.’
Angelique had been given the job of arranging part of proceedings, specifically the section of the programme referred to among the police as ‘the prelude’, of which this was intended to be the climax. Her remit also allowed her to contract out the set design to one ‘Maximilian’, with the strict proviso that there be only one conduit between the stage and the secured area behind.
‘We were told to put on a Get It Up You Darcourt party,’ she reminds him.
‘And could we have made it any more tasteless?’
She slips a hand inside the split in her dress and curls her fingers around the stock of the Walther.
A Snowball in Hell Page 39
