She looked about as pleased to see me as she would if I’d been Jack the Ripper and holding a six-inch blade dripping with blood in my hand. Her facial expression registered almost total disdain at my presence as I entered the room, as though I were the source of a very bad smell. On every occasion we’d ever met, we’d rubbed each other the wrong way. Well, I’d always ticked her off, at least.
The last time I’d seen her, she’d been being interviewed by an MI5 operative in relation to what she knew concerning the money laundering activities of Darren Ritchie. I’d thought she was likely to be charged with offences relating to assisting in the preparation of terrorist acts, financed by her boyfriend’s involvement in money laundering, but my expectations had been shattered by the successful intervention of her benefactor Christian Perkins in convincing the powers-that-be she was acting in an undercover capacity for the side of the angels.
She put down the magazine.
“Morning, Debbie,” I said politely. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay,” she replied without any enthusiasm, sipping a coffee which was exuding the lovely aromatic smell of cinnamon from where I stood. She didn’t ask how I was. I suspected she didn’t care either. It was a certainty she wasn’t going to offer me a coffee.
She looked at me with a quizzical expression. “That was you I saw in the House recently, wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure because whoever it was dressed a lot smarter than you usually do.”
Was I being politely insulted? “Yeah,” I agreed, glancing at my watch. “Until three and a bit hours ago I was part of Ian Mulvehill’s security detail, but I’m back on Special Branch duty now.”
“Explains why you were in the lobby of the House. You mean you’d have actually taken a bullet for a communist like him?” She almost smiled. The thought of me in the path of a bullet aimed at someone else obviously pleased her.
“The job’s a protection detail. What do you think?”
“Did you like it? What’d you think of Mulvehill?”
“I didn’t particularly like it. Police work’s much more interesting. And I don’t think he’s a communist either, sorry to disappoint you. He was okay but I didn’t really speak to him; I just followed him wherever he went. I just had to stand around and look stupid, and I’ve sustained a career doing that.”
“Whatever.” She almost smiled again.
“The people I saw you in the lobby with. One was your party’s candidate for London Mayor, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, James Blatchford. He was there going to talk to a few London MPs about canvassing in their constituencies. Anyway,” – she looked at her watch – “I’m meeting some people for lunch soon, and I have to get showered and changed, so why are you here?”
“I’m looking for Richard Rhodes, Christian Perkins’ son. We no longer have an address for him and Special Branch needs to talk to him. You know where I could find him?”
“Why ask me where he is?” She sounded guarded. “He doesn’t live here.”
“I know, but you’re his friend, and his father’s also a friend of yours,” I replied, “so if anyone’s likely to know where he is, it’d be you.”
“I knew he’s moved but I don’t know where he’s living now.” She shook her head. “I’ve not seen him for a while. He’s away a lot, you know.”
“Yeah. Works for Titanomachy, doesn’t he? A firm like that could definitely put Rhodes’ mercurial talents to good use, couldn’t they?” I smiled ironically.
“They can, and they do.” She didn’t rise to it. “He’s a trained soldier with proven military expertise the firm’s clients could easily put to good use. He did a really good job at that place in Cambridge recently, the one that’s been in the news a lot, with all those bloody demonstrators outside. That’s why they employ him, because he’s good at what he does.” She paused to finish her coffee. “Why d’you need to speak to him?”
Last night’s shooting at Khaled al-Ebouli had made front page news across all the Sunday papers, so she would be aware of it. “He matches the description of someone seen leaving the scene of a shooting last night, and I want to talk to him about it.”
“What, the one at Mulvehill’s meeting?” Her eyes opened wide.
I nodded. “The very one.”
“Just been reading about that.” She looked at the Sunday Times. “Were you present at the meeting?”
“Yeah. Heard the shots but didn’t see who fired them, or where they came from. But police canvassed the area and found two witnesses, said they saw a man getting into a car and driving away just after the shooting. The description they gave matches almost exactly the last known description we have of Rhodes, and knowing him and what he’s done previously, I need to talk to him about it.”
“You really think he’d shoot Mulvehill?” She sounded aggrieved.
“From what I know about Rhodes, he’d shoot his own mother if paid enough. People like him live in a moral vacuum. There’s no right or wrong in his world, only half now with the balance upon completion, and when would you like it done, sir?”
She didn’t like my comments about someone she considered a friend. That much was obvious from her scowl. I really didn’t care what she thought. Any time spent antagonising her was time well spent in my book.
“Anyway, Mulvehill wasn’t the target.”
She snorted and shook her head as if to say pity. “It must have been that Islamist fanatic al-Ebouli, then. Why would someone like Mulvehill even want to share a platform with an Islamist jihadist? Did you see him on Newsnight? The bastard refused to condemn the slaughtering of Lee Rigby,” she said with feeling. “Mulvehill could be this country’s next PM if the polls are to be believed, and yet he shares a platform with an avowed supporter of Muearada, someone dedicated to waging war against us here in the West and the values we believe in and stand for. One of his entourage was wounded, wasn’t he?” Her eyes opened wider in anticipation of hearing good news.
I confirmed he had been: a shoulder wound, nothing serious.
“Shame it wasn’t between the eyes of all his party, especially al-Ebouli himself.” There was vehemence in her voice. “It’s outrageous we let these bloody terrorists live here and spread their poison and their hate-filled rhetoric in this country. He’s even allowed to work in this country, a university lecturer.”
Her voice had risen in incredulity, as though she were addressing a Tory party selection committee. This was the kind of rhetoric they would expect from a candidate. I wondered briefly whether she still harboured hopes of becoming a Tory MP.
I paused and stared at her for a moment. “So far as I’m aware, Red Heaven aren’t exactly spreading love and peace wherever they go, yet your boyfriend helped move money around the world for them. That didn’t seem to bother you, as I remember. We still have your comments on tape.”
Darren Ritchie had been involved in helping launder money through a series of connected companies in Italy and tax havens in the Caribbean, which had eventually ended up financing the terrorist activities of the group Red Heaven. I’d interviewed them both about this and, unbeknownst to them, had recorded the conversation in which Frost admitted turning a blind eye to what he was doing as she’d seen political advantage to be gained; the father of one of the people involved was a Government minister. But Christian Perkins had interceded on her behalf and no charges had ever been brought. And now Darren was dead: killed, I believed, by Bartlett Poe. Tied up in all this was a woman employed in a senior capacity in the policy research department of the Conservative party and on the approved A-list of candidates, those likely to be selected to contest a winnable parliamentary seat for the party.
“Red Heaven’s killed a number of innocent people,” I said. “That’s far worse than just spouting revolutionary rhetoric in my book. Words you can ignore, but bombs going off are somewhat difficult to ignore, wouldn’t you say?”
She didn’t seem too happy at the comparison I’d drawn, but she didn’t immediately respond to my comments.
“Darren was duped into doing what he did, and he paid the price for it.” Her voice had softened a little. She was still feeling his loss. I didn’t press the matter further.
“If you do see Rhodes, tell him Special Branch needs to talk to him.”
“I’ll do that.” She rose from her seat. “Now, I really do have to get ready, so if you’ll excuse me . . .” She raised her eyebrows. I took the hint.
It felt peculiar to walk away without leaving her frothing at the mouth at my comments. I was losing my touch.
*
Rhodes hadn’t been apprehended when I returned to the office. Police had examined the getaway car found, but no fingerprints or other clues had been gleaned from it. The driver of the car had somehow managed to leave the area without being picked up by CCTV. All we knew was that someone had taken shots at Khaled al-Ebouli but, other than a vague description of someone getting into a car and driving away, we had no leads.
The media were commenting on the shooting being a very sinister development in British politics, which had previously prided itself on the degree of tolerance shown to political opponents, and speculated on whether the rules of the game were changing.
The midday news said the BBC’s morning flagship Sunday Politics show had focused on the shooting, with spokesmen from the three major parties alongside several seasoned political commentators speculating on whether, if politicians like Mulvehill didn’t offer platforms to jihadists like al-Ebouli, the body politic in the UK would be much healthier. One scribe even called for law preventing someone like al-Ebouli speaking in any premises under the control of any local authority.
Smitherman spoke to a small group of detectives in his office. He informed us MI5 had been in touch and were liaising with security services across Europe concerning the identity of the shooter. They’d also got no leads and were looking at mercs and assassins known to be in the UK this weekend. Their belief was that Muearada were responsible but so far they had nothing to substantiate that view. Police were continuing their search for the gunman. Smitherman mentioned two bullets being recovered from a car at the school where the meeting had taken place, but they’d not provided anything substantial, other than indicating what kind of rifle might have been used.
He didn’t, however, reveal to the meeting what he’d told me earlier, about someone planted inside Muearada who’d tipped the Branch off about a likely attempt being made on al-Ebouli’s life soon. Was this because others present already knew, or because he wanted knowledge of this kept to a minimum? The meeting finished and I followed him to his office and asked about that omission.
“I was hoping you’d notice that. The fewer people who know this, the better, that’s why. Getting this person into the group took some organising and it’s important he not be compromised. He has to keep his head down, maintain a low profile. But he did say this group was going to get someone from outside, someone not associated in any way with Muearada. That way, of course . . .” He extended his hands. I knew what he meant.
I then mentioned to Smitherman my suspicion the person seen leaving the scene of the shooting fitted the description of Richard Rhodes, and that I’d been looking for him earlier. Smitherman looked surprised.
“You’re quite sure it’s Rhodes?”
“Not for definite, but the description matches that big bastard. He’s a known shooter and a merc. I’m on his tail looking for him.”
Smitherman looked contemplative. Something was bothering him. “Be careful with that.”
“Huh? Why’s that?”
“It could be we’ll not be involved in this much longer. There’s something going on involving MI5 and it may be it’ll be a matter for them.” He sat back in in his chair, lips pursed and looking out the window.
“So we just let a viable suspect walk away?” I didn’t like what I’d heard.
“You know who his father is, don’t you? You know how well connected his father is across the river?” This was a reference to MI5 at Thames House.
“And?”
“And just be careful, is all I’m saying for the moment.” He didn’t say anything else. I left his office more confused than when I’d entered.
I spent the next few hours looking up known contacts of Richard Rhodes. I contacted my friend Gavin Dennison, at Prevental, but the only address he had for Rhodes was the same out-of-date one in Shoreditch, the one we had. I spoke to several people but no one had an address for Rhodes. No one had seen him.
T H R E E
Monday
Titanomacht had its London office in Villiers Street, just east of Charing Cross station, running downhill from the Strand to Embankment tube station. Their office was based on the top floor, over a restaurant claiming to serve the best Moroccan cuisine in London. I pressed the entry button, identified myself whilst breathing in some gorgeous Moroccan food smells, and was admitted on to the premises.
I walked up the narrow stairwell, wondering how the hell they ever got any furniture up here, to the top floor and entered the surprisingly spacious foyer, which was lit by lights in all four corners. The walls were painted the same khaki shade as a military uniform. There were chairs against two of the walls, underneath several large colourful posters advertising the services of the firm, as well as pictures of groups of soldiers and a portrait of Winston Churchill.
Against the far wall, by the door leading to the main offices, was a desk behind which sat a large man typing on a laptop. He had a head the shape of a medicine ball, and he looked like he’d had an unsuccessful career as a heavyweight boxer, with a nose that’d clearly been broken a few times and, from the shape and width of it, reset by someone with no medical training, and a left ear the size of a tennis ball. He was sporting a marine buzz cut, hair shaved close to his scalp, and wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tie. He looked as much like a secretary as I did.
He rose and came around to the front when I approached the desk.
“You got an appointment?” He had an American accent and his voice had a hard rasping edge which sounded like metal rubbing against metal.
“Yeah. DS McGraw. I phoned earlier. I’m here to talk to someone about one of your operatives.”
He turned a sheet over on the clipboard he was carrying and scanned down. He saw my name and nodded. “That checks out.”
He put the clipboard down and walked towards me. “Empty your pockets. Put your phone and any weapons in the tray there and raise your arms.” His tone had become militaristic, like he was giving me an order.
“Excuse me?”
“Security procedure. Nobody sees anyone without being frisked. That applies to everyone who comes in here, no exceptions.” He sounded positive.
I thrust my ID in his direction. “See this? It’s a Special Branch warrant card. This says I can go in and talk to whoever I want without following procedure, so you just be a good boy and tell whoever I’m here to see that I’m here.” I smiled at him, putting my ID away.
He stared directly at me and I held it. There was a standoff for a few moments whilst he decided upon his next move.
I took out my police radio and spoke into it. “Send a few officers around to Titanomachy, Villiers Street. Some American joker doesn’t understand English and he’s impeding an investigation into suspected terrorism in this country.” I looked directly at him whilst I spoke. This tactic meant he focused on my eyes and didn’t notice I’d not switched the radio on and was talking into an inert handset.
“That won’t be necessary, officer,” another American voice behind me said. I’d not heard the door open. I turned and saw a man standing in the doorway.
“Defer that,” I said to dead air.
“Come this way, please.” He gestured to the corridor and turned away.
I ignored the man in the foyer and followed him along to the room at the end of the corridor. It was small, sparsely furnished: just a desk, a filing cabinet and a few chairs, with a view looking down on Villiers Street. He nodded at the seat by his desk. I
sat.
“I’m Justin Gregory, senior manager. Apologies for William” – he nodded towards the door – “but in this line of work you have to be careful.” He shrugged.
He sounded like he was from the American midwest. He was casually dressed in an open-collared, fawn-coloured shirt and dark trousers. He looked like he was only mid-to-late thirties but I suspected he was older. Looking at his eyes I could see he had what the American military refers to as the thousand-yard stare, the ability to see something far beyond the horizon, suggesting he’d served in the US military at some point. I wondered if he’d seen action in Desert Storm or Afghanistan, or if he was an ex-CIA spook. “DS McGraw, Special Branch.” I produced ID.
“Why does Special Branch need to talk to us?”
“You have a security consultant named Richard Rhodes on your staff,” I began.
“Yes. Yes, we do,” he said firmly. “Richard’s a good guy. Why are you interested in him?” He smiled.
“I’d like an address for him. We need to talk to him about an incident this weekend, but he’s moved and the address we have for him’s no longer valid.”
He nodded. “No problem.” He looked at his laptop and punched a few buttons on his keyboard. He then read me a Shoreditch address.
“That’s the one we have for him, and he doesn’t live there any longer.”
“It’s the only one we have.” He sounded apologetic. “Next time I see him, I’ll get him to forward an updated address for our files. Was there anything else?”
I’d been hoping they’d ask this. “Yeah, now I’m here. What does he actually do for this firm?”
The Rules Page 5
