by A P Bateman
Mereweather nodded. “Neil, do you want to contribute?”
“Certainly, Simon,” Ramsay replied. He opened a note pad and glanced down. “We have entered his DNA and fingerprints through the Police National Computer, but so far no match. We have Interpol looking at their database. King said the man appeared to be East European or Russian, we’ve extended our interest to the FSB, but we’ve heard nothing from Moscow so far.”
“How do you know he was from eastern Europe or Russia?” The Home Secretary asked. “I thought you killed him?”
“We had a brief chat,” King said. “It wasn’t a clean kill. It seldom is.” He looked the Home Secretary in his eyes, but the man diverted to the floor. He’d never met a man like King before, probably hoped he never would again.
“Well, if we’re relying on the Russians, we’ll be waiting a while,” said Amherst. “They’re still smarting from last year and the exposure of members of their leadership and in particular, ex-KGB and FSB operatives who attempted to commit terrorist activities on these shores.” Amherst glanced up. “We’re not sure they’re our friends anymore.”
“They never were,” King said.
“Expert, are we?” The Home Secretary asked, somewhat sarcastically. He looked at King again, and once again, could not hold his stare.
King smiled, but it was a cold, emotionless expression. His eyes were the coldest grey-blue imaginable, like a wolf’s. “I know more about Russian intelligence and the lengths they will go to maintain an east-west divide than anybody in this room,” he replied. “And more about the Russian-backed operation that the director has just mentioned than anyone else here, except for Caroline, of course.”
There was a silence, long enough to be uncomfortable.
Hollandrake gathered his papers together. “So, we may not get an identification.” He stood up. “Well, this all seems to be a waste of time,” he said. “I didn’t think MI5 were the right outfit for an investigation like this. This is more of a police case. I will take my findings here today to the Prime Minister and afterwards, if she agrees, we will engage Special Branch and the police. Ms Darby can continue with her liaison with Interpol, she seems to have a good working relationship with them.” He looked down at King. “But I fail to see your contribution to any of this. You are obviously a rough-tough soldier type, with a past I’d prefer to know nothing further about, but you’re of no service on this case.” He turned to Director Amherst. “Reassign him, will you? From what Ms Cunningham has detailed in her report, he is by no means an investigator. And knows nothing of forensics either.” He glanced back at King. “And it wouldn’t hurt you or your chances of continuing to work here by buying a decent suit and tie and making a bloody effort. Who in god’s name wears jeans to a meeting with the Director General and the Home Secretary?”
King said nothing. He picked up his cup and drained the remnants of tea. He stared up at the man and smiled when he broke away first. Sir Hugo Hollandrake shook his head and walked for the door.
“Amanda, you can come with me and feedback to the PM,” he said sharply. He looked back at Amherst. “I mean it. Reassigned. At best.”
Amanda Cunningham stood up. “I’m sorry, Alex. Truly I am, but it had to be said. People have died, more will die until these terrorists are caught. It’s nothing personal, it just needs real investigators and detectives on this case,” she paused, swung her satchel over her shoulder and walked between Amherst’s desk and the line of three coffee tables. She stopped in front of Caroline. “I’m sorry about your cottage, really I am. It was such a shame, such a beautiful part of the country.”
Caroline smiled, but it was emotionless. “Thank you.”
“I liked it,” Amanda said, slipping her document folder into her satchel. “The barbecue area was lovely. I bet you’ve had a great many romantic meals together there as well.” She followed the Home Secretary out, nodding to Director Amherst as she left.
Amherst waited for the door to close. He looked at Caroline, who in turn had flushed red and was staring at the floor. “Would you two like a moment, before we commence? I think it may be a good idea.”
King shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
Amherst nodded. “Well then?”
“Actually, Sir,” Caroline said quietly, still staring at the floor. “A minute or two would be helpful.”
“Of course. Use the briefing room,” he said, without looking up.
Caroline stood up and walked ahead of King to the door. King followed. He was embarrassed at the scene, angered at Amanda Cunningham’s broadside, but most of all, he could see that her comments had hurt Caroline. They had been calculated, delivered to hurt Caroline as much as himself. King could not forgive that.
The briefing room was half the size of Amherst’s office. It was dark and empty, but the room was motion sensitive and the light came on when they entered. Caroline stood with her back to him, her hands on her shapely hips.
“That fucking bitch!” she said contemptuously.
King was shocked. Caroline seldom cursed, but he could see just how angry she was. It was a side to her he had never seen before. “Caroline, I…”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Of course not!”
“Kiss?”
“No!”
“Then what?”
King perched on the edge of a table. He looked at her back, wished he could see her face, but he knew her well, knew he couldn’t rush her. “I wanted to talk to her about her findings. It wasn’t the sort of talk for a hotel bar.”
“Of course not,” she said sharply. “So why not at Sir Ian Snell’s house?”
King shrugged. “It kind of snowballed. She suggested her hotel bar. She said she was staying in Truro, I had to pass through Truro to get back to the cottage. I didn’t think it would be very private. I suggested a coffee at the cottage, she said she was starving, so I offered to cook something. I hadn’t eaten all day either,” he paused. “It was dumb, but innocent. At least on my part.”
Caroline turned around. Her eyes were moist. “She’s very pretty,” she said. “And young. And it wasn’t just dumb, it was bloody stupid of you.”
“I know,” he said solemnly. And then he smiled. “For goodness sake, love. I’ve never felt the same way about someone as I do with you.”
“Apart from with Jane,” she corrected him.
King shook his head. “I loved my wife,” he said. “And I was heartbroken when she died. For years. But then I met you. I’ve never been happier. I’m sorry I invited her, but I knew it was a mistake pretty soon after she arrived.”
“Why?”
King smiled wryly. “Because she had been drinking, carried on drinking, then lost it when I suggested she had drunk too much. Especially, to drive back to her hotel in Truro,” he said.
“But you both stayed at the St. Michaels, in Falmouth,” she said suspiciously.
“I know. She definitely told me that she was staying in Truro. I drove all over the bloody place looking for her car,” he paused. “Then all hell broke loose at the cottage and after Randal left with the body, I checked a few places for vacancies and nipped down to Falmouth. That’s when I saw her again, at breakfast.”
“And you shared a table, naturally?” she said quietly.
He shrugged. “Yes. I guess I just wanted to see what she was doing there. I can’t work her out. She’s heading the forensics on this, but she seems too much of a loose cannon, too erratic.”
Caroline looked at him, then cast her eyes down. “This isn’t working, is it?”
“What?”
“You, MI5, us working together.”
King frowned at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Alex, you turned up to a top tier meeting wearing what most men would dress to go drinking in on a Friday night,” she paused. “At a meeting with the Home Secretary, no less. You even knocked the meeting back an hour. Who does that? You don’t want this anymore. You want to hide in the shadows, hunt
down terrorists and put a bullet in them. That bitch, Amanda Cunningham, had it right; this isn’t your line of expertise. You’re not an investigator. But it’s more than that, I just don’t think you want to be told what to do anymore. You need something else. A new challenge.”
“The yacht?” he said. “We could go around the world together. I’ve thought about that a lot lately. The Greek islands, or just circumnavigate the Med.”
“We don’t even know how to sail!” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’m thirty-seven. I don’t think I’m there yet. I could go further in MI5, perhaps run a department.”
“Just rewind a moment,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
She stepped forward and put her arms around him, rested her chin on his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“And you can see that Amanda Cunningham said all that in there both to undermine me, and to drive a wedge between the two of us?”
“Yes,” she said, she hugged him close. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” King said. He smiled, bent down and kissed her. A loving kiss on her lips, but not passionate or a prelude to anything more. “But I’m going to find out. Some bitch you’ve just met says I’m a shit investigator and you have me down for retirement already?” He pulled away from her and opened the door.
“Where are you going?”
King smiled. “The Director General’s office. I guess we shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.”
42
King opened the door to Amherst’s office without knocking. He led the way, nodded to the director as he sat down. Caroline took her seat, looked at the director and nodded a thank you.
“Well?” Amherst prompted King.
“I think I have him suitably rattled,” said King.
“Well, we need him more than rattled,” Amherst said. “It’s going to take more than a pair of jeans and a text rescheduling a meeting.”
Caroline frowned. She leaned forwards, was relieved to see both Ramsay and Mereweather wearing similar expressions. “Sir?” she asked, then glanced at King. “What’s going on?”
“Alex and I met two weeks ago. He’s been working on something for me, reporting directly to me. He has been investigating Sir Ian Snell’s background. He discovered that Helena Snell’s cousin was not the man guarding her. That man has been living on the coast of the Black Sea, living it up in the many casinos and brothels. He came up in an ongoing MI6 investigation. When it was noted he seemed to be in two places at once, and MI5 were performing security background checks on Ian Snell’s employees, including Ivan Kerchenko, our friends across the Thames gave us a head’s up. Naturally, Kerchenko was a person of interest.”
Ramsay coughed. “Sir, is this to do with the gunman at King’s cottage?”
“Yes,” Amherst nodded. “Fill them in, will you?”
Ramsay nodded. “We have a positive identification on the gunman at King’s cottage. Director Amherst told me not to divulge that information during this morning’s meeting. The man in question was Ivan Kerchenko. Helena Snell’s cousin. We received the information this morning, from the Russian FSB. They want to extend us every courtesy after the incident last year near GCHQ.”
Caroline frowned. “So, Sir, what you said about the Russians not cooperating was…”
“A lie, yes,” Amherst said. “This is the Security Service, Agent Darby, do keep up,” he flashed her a rare smile, but it faded just as quickly. He looked up at Mereweather. “Anything on this chap who attacked King on the train?”
Mereweather shook his head. “DNA would suggest Russian or Eurasian extraction. But he’s a clean-skin. Nothing on any databases.”
“Unusual,” King said. “He looked the type to have form, at least. But the fact he was Russian and the fact that Ivan Kerchenko attacked me not five miles away, across country at least, from where his cousin’s husband was shot that same day, ties Helena Snell into this by association. Kerchenko was a former Spetsnaz operative. As was Viktor Bukov. Viktor Bukov is sleeping with Helena Snell. That’s a hell of a connection right there. But the attack happened before Amanda Cunningham and I went back to Sir Ian Snell’s property. Somebody wanted me stopped before it came to that. They wanted me off the investigation before it had begun.”
Caroline nodded. “So, what is this about?” she asked, looking back at Amherst. “Why were you keeping the Home Secretary out of this?”
King looked at her. He could see she had a different expression to that of a few minutes ago in the briefing room. She had all but given up on him then, now she seemed ready to hang on his every word. He was a little relieved. “I think the five were a rouse. I think that that three of the world’s wealthiest people on that list were sacrificed. I think Sir Ian Snell was the only legitimate target, and I think the last person on the list will be shot to cover their tracks. Anarchy to Recreate Society’s manifesto was a smokescreen, designed to hide the one person they wanted dead. And in doing so, public opinion of the super-rich dehumanised the people on that list, legitimised them as collateral damage in a war on wealth. So much money has been given away, helped so many causes, that nobody really cares that a few of the outlandish mega-rich have been killed,” he paused. “The list was bogus. If you analyse the rich lists, many of the rankings change weekly. Three of Silicon Valley’s tech giants and two social-media gurus never even featured on Anarchy’s list; no doubt because they give away millions and run education and reform programs. Snell was shoehorned onto the list because of various investments. A list of the rich should be taken on net worth alone.”
“So, what about the Home Secretary?” asked Caroline. “Where does he figure in this?”
“Sir Hugo Hollandrake and Sir Ian Snell were at university together. That’s common knowledge.” Amherst rested his elbows on the desk and steeped his fingers. “I doubt they were even friends, but nobody seems to know for sure. But what we have uncovered, is that the Home Secretary, invested heavily in Snell’s ventures soon after he went into politics. He continued to invest for the next three decades. These investments were well hidden, and it first came to our attention through an Inland Revenue investigation. He covered his tracks well, so did Snell, but there is evidence that Hollandrake is a silent, or rather, secret partner in GeoSpec. Even if just by association. There is also the suggestion from sources of information, and human interaction, that Sir Ian Snell paid favours to advance Hugo Hollandrake’s political career. I have commissioned a team of forensic accountants to investigate both men’s accounts and a connection has been made. It’s tenuous, but forensic accountants are skilled at spotting such links. They pick at a thread and unravel it.”
“And GeoSpec has won the tender for the Goliath missile contract,” Caroline commented flatly. “Quite the mother of a conflict of interests, I should imagine.”
“And then some.” Simon Mereweather interjected. “Sir Hugo Hollandrake has been a pivotal role in championing Goliath. His announcement yesterday that Goliath was now secured and orders for the motherboards from GeoSpec has surprised defence commentators and business insiders alike. I suppose it seems strange to come on the back of Ian Snell’s death, but he has committed the government. Some argue that the deal was already cemented, others venture that the deal shores up GeoSpec and protects British jobs and further investment by the company. And he has always advocated GeoSpec as a British company from the start. Not only has he pushed GeoSpec as the only British company in the tender, with the angle of keeping employment in the UK, but he has defended the country’s need for security by using a British company in such a security conscious project. The Trident system could have been upgraded. Lord knows we’ll likely never use the damned things anyway, but when Hollandrake served as Defence Minister, he set the ball rolling with Goliath, committed it to contract and investment, knowing that it needed a completely new dedicated processing system and that GeoSpec was his choice. Now he’s Home Secretary, and the remit for the country’s defence still lies with him, ultimately e
nds with him, he has kept the pressure on to use GeoSpec, even when several Indian tech companies could do the work for half the cost. Hollandrake argued vehemently that in post-Brexit Britain, we should look to our own tech companies to innovate, especially in matters of defence, rather than importing from countries with less ethical workforce values.”
“We’re on the brink here,” Amherst said quietly. “Enough to bring down not just the Home Secretary, but the entire government as well.”
“Might not be such a dreadful thing,” Ramsay mused dryly.
Amherst shook his head. “Elections are fine. That’s just the democratic process and that’s what we ultimately work for. But the country isn’t in a place where it can cope with shock resignations and snap elections.”
“But Sir Hugo can’t get away with this!” Caroline blurted. She took a moment to regain composure, then said, “He’s used power and influence for his own gain.”
“Well that’s about three-hundred MP’s to keep him company then,” Mereweather chided.
“You know what I mean, Simon,” Caroline said. “This is on an unprecedented scale.”
“We’re not seeing the whole picture,” said King. “Okay, a member of parliament, a cabinet minister, didn’t declare a business interest. Steered a decision towards his investment. It happens. It’s not right, but it won’t change. MP’s are self-serving idiots with less morals and more greed than the average person. Hollandrake may have been involved with Snell’s company, but what does that mean considering recent events? How does Caroline’s experiences in South Africa link to it? Somebody has someone inside the South African Secret Service who gave up an agent, could arrange not one attempted hit on a British intelligence officer, but two. That’s a big payoff for certain. Those forensic accountants need to start looking for a link to the Home Secretary or Helena Snell at the very least.”
“Caroline, what did you learn from the prisoner?” Amherst asked. “What information could he give you about this sniper?”
