He sat back in the chair radiating his usual degree of smugness. The word smug in the dictionary should have a picture of Stimpson alongside it rather than a definition. There was silence for a few moments.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, DS McGraw . . .” He turned towards Perkins.
“Why’s the Branch being taken off this investigation?” I demanded. “Someone taking a potshot at a public meeting where the leader of the opposition is present, as well as a known jihadist, is a matter for Special Branch. I was there when it occurred; I have an interest.”
“You may well, but for the moment it will not be pursued. Am I clear?” he said, with just a touch too much firmness in his voice.
I nodded. I stood up and turned to leave. Again. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“It’s customary where I’m from to address a superior officer as sir, DS McGraw.” Stimpson looked as though I’d stuck my tongue out at him.
“Thanks for the heads-up, sir.” I left the room wanting to spit.
*
Smitherman looked up as I entered his office. He could sense my agitation. The walk from Portcullis House back to the Yard had done little to calm my thoughts about why the Branch was being taken off this enquiry. I couldn’t see any reason why this should be the case.
He gestured for me to sit. I did.
I gave him a quick run-through of my talks with Justin Gregory at Titanomachy and then with Christian Perkins, concluding with my discovering where Richard Rhodes was now staying and my leaving a message for him to call.
“But you’ve yet to speak to Rhodes,” Smitherman stated. “Correct.”
“Well, for the moment,” he said, sitting back in a relaxed pose, “you won’t either. He’s off limits as far as the Branch is concerned.”
“Stimpson’s just told me that. Why?”
“I don’t know the full facts, but from what Stimpson told me, Rhodes is now temporarily assigned to MI5. He’s doing something for them.”
“Like what?” I was sceptical.
“At present he’s working for Titanomachy, bodyguard to some US businessman who’s currently in London.”
“That’s what they told me earlier,” I agreed.
“It’s true, that’s what he’s doing. The thing is, he’s doing this for MI5 in an intelligence gathering capacity.” Smitherman looked straight at me.
I was sceptical. Rhodes doing anything requiring brainpower struck me as absurd. Rhodes wasn’t a thinker; any thinking he ever did was with a weapon in his hand or with his fists.
“The man he’s working for, Donald Dellvay, is European marketing director for Hembreys, a US conglomerate based in Massachusetts, somewhere just outside Boston. He’s currently here in the UK as Hembreys is doing business with a firm here.”
“What’s MI5’s interest in this?”
“Are you familiar with Hembreys?”
I shook my head.
“It’s mainly a chemical company, one of the largest in the USA. It manufactures many of the industrial chemicals used in all kinds of products, and mostly they’re sold to other businesses. But one of the chemicals it manufactures is a key ingredient in making chemical weapons. You remember hydroxilyn?”
This was a top secret chemical which’d been stolen by rogue MI5 operative David Kader and intended for use in Red Heaven’s attempt to cause an explosion by the Albert Hall. Fortunately, we’d stopped the plot and recovered the hydroxilyn before it could be used.
“Hydroxilyn is a catalyst chemical. Mixed with certain others, it helps produce a chain reaction which generates the energy to make bigger and more damaging explosions. One of the compounds used to make hydroxilyn is manufactured by Hembreys. Our government buys chemicals from them for usage at experimental places like Porton Down, but the Government deals through intermediaries, doesn’t deal directly. The business itself is perfectly legitimate, been going since the 1920s and highly regarded in its industry. Even the US government does business with it.” Smitherman stated this matter-of-factly.
I waited while his secretary brought in his tea.
“However, Hembreys also has interests in pharmaceuticals. It produces drugs used to treat animals. Several large companies use them. To this end the firm’s gone into partnership with a British company, Ambersial, or it will do once the new Ambersial research facility is up and running just outside Cambridge.”
I’d heard Cambridge mentioned twice in the past twenty-four hours. Justin Gregory had mentioned Richard Rhodes being dispatched to Cambridge to help Ambersial with the security arrangements for the builders constructing the new research facility. Hembreys was now getting involved with the company this was being built for. I also remembered two leading animal rights activists had died in a car crash not too long after Rhodes had been involved. Now Rhodes was working with Hembreys.
“But MI5’s interest is not in the company itself. As I said, the firm’s legit. Their interest is in Dellvay.” Smitherman stopped to take another sip of tea.
“Why?” I asked.
“Five thinks Dellvay’s been siphoning off small amounts of this compound for making hydroxilyn for usage elsewhere. They now believe he was Kader’s connection to get hold of the stuff. As an operative, Kader’d not have been able to just waltz in and help himself to hydroxilyn, so he’d need a contact, someone who could acquire small amounts without too much suspicion being aroused. They think Dellvay might’ve been that person.”
When Kader and his accomplices, Reagan and the Addley brothers, had been cornered, Kader had been shot and killed by an undercover MI5 operative, Christine Simmons, so how he had acquired the hydroxilyn we’d recovered had never been made known, or at least not to us in the Branch. This could explain how Kader had acquired enough hydroxilyn to blow the Albert Hall into the outer stratosphere.
“This is why MI5 wanted someone with him,” Smitherman said. “They wanted someone alongside him to monitor what Dellvay does. A bodyguard from a reputable firm was one way, especially as Titanomachy is run by Americans. They’re unlikely to suspect an American firm of working for British security. Dellvay thinks his firm’s hired someone who works for a private security agency as a bodyguard, but in fact, when MI5 learned Dellvay was looking for domestic protection, they arranged for Stimpson to get Rhodes placed next to him. Rhodes then gives MI5 the breakdown of where Dellvay goes, who he sees, what he does, and so on, and he can do it close up without arousing any suspicion.”
I waited while Smitherman answered a phone call with a curt-sounding, “Okay, I’ll be there soon.” He drained his tea cup. I didn’t want one anyway.
“People like Dellvay representing politically sensitive companies like Hembreys are constantly at risk of kidnapping or blackmail or worse,” he continued, “especially in the current political climate, so, when it became known he was planning to visit this country, MI5 were behind a credible threat against him. They based it on some of his known activities, so it’d be one he’d believe and take seriously. I don’t know what it was, but it was hoped this’d spook him enough to want protecting whilst he was here. And it worked. He consulted a security agency in Boston, asking about firms in London able to offer protection services. Because Dellvay’s on a watchlist, his inquiry triggered an alarm at the agency. They have links with MI6, so they tell them about what Dellvay wants. MI6 tells Stimpson, who tells the firm to recommend Titanomachy. They do, and Dellvay gets offered Rhodes as a bodyguard but, unbeknownst to him, one who’s working in conjunction with British security. Rhodes picked him up at Heathrow and is his driver as well as his bodyguard.”
“And Dellvay doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Not so far as we know.”
“So, if I read between the lines, I can reasonably assume Rhodes was involved in Saturday’s shooting – he certainly fits the description of the shooter – but he can’t be questioned about it because he’s working for MI5. What’s the connection between al-Ebouli and Hembreys?”
Smitherman sat lookin
g inscrutable. “This is a very sensitive area, DS McGraw. I’ve no idea if Rhodes was or wasn’t involved, or if there even is a connection, but we’ve been instructed not to look into what’s going on for the moment. Presumably MI5 has something in place and doesn’t want our involvement to risk interfering with whatever it is. So, for the moment, we’re sidelined. You follow me?” He said this firmly, like a teacher telling a promising class it needs to buck its ideas up.
I said I did. “So, what now?”
Smitherman informed me I was behind with bringing him up to date with recent investigations, some even from before my stint with the SPS. He further reminded me I still had other operations to focus on. I thanked him for his time and returned to my desk.
*
After a few hours of completing two reports, and being briefed on a couple of ongoing operations involving suspicious activities with underage boys and girls by two junior staff members at the Albanian Embassy, I’d had more than enough deskwork and thought a workout at the gym was what was required to shake the lethargy out of me. I was almost out of the office when I saw Smitherman walking towards me.
“Piece of news I’ve just heard you might be interested in.” He almost smiled.
“Oh yeah?” I was hesitant.
“Yes. Did you know Phil Gant’s back in London?”
“No, I didn’t.” I was surprised.
“Arrived last Thursday, I’m informed.”
“How d’you know this?”
“Someone in Immigration whispered in my ear. His presence in the UK is supposedly a secret, which is why his visit wasn’t recorded in the usual way. I just thought you might be interested in knowing this little snippet.”
“Do we know why he’s here? Does this have anything to do with what you told me about earlier?”
People like Gant weren’t tourists or holidaymakers. There was only one reason why someone like him visited a country, and it usually spelled bad news for someone.
“I thought maybe you might want a little chat with him.” Smitherman raised his eyebrows. “He’s staying at the same hotel as last time, over on Park Lane.”
I thanked him for this.
*
I drove to the Four Seasons hotel. I parked alongside some very expensive top-of-the-range Rolls-Royces and Maseratis and, after having the big glass front doors held open for me by a top-hatted, uniformed employee who informed me he hoped I would enjoy my stay, I entered the very impressive and grandiose foyer. I suspected it took serious money to stay here. My only chance would be to hide overnight in a cupboard and hope a cleaner didn’t find me.
I approached the reception desk where, after being shown my ID, an extremely well-spoken Asian woman with immaculately coiffured black hair, resplendent in her royal blue business suit and white silk neck scarf, confirmed that Mr Philip John Gant, an American national, had checked into the hotel on Thursday last and was booked to stay for a week. She said he was not currently in, as he’d left earlier. She didn’t know when he’d be returning. I thanked her.
I was walking across the foyer towards the exit when the doorman outside held the door open, and Mr Philip John Gant himself entered the premises. He looked surprised when he saw me, but kept walking and stopped six feet away from me. He smiled wryly and nodded.
“Wondering when someone would look me up. McGraw, isn’t it, if I remember correctly?”
“DS McGraw, yeah. You got time for a chat?”
“Why not?” He was still smiling as he glanced at his watch. “I’m in no hurry.”
We strolled across the foyer and into the bar area, which was certainly plusher than the pub I frequented near my flat. At the bar, I noticed there was no price tariff. But then, if you could afford to stay at the Four Seasons Hotel, you didn’t need to check prices on a bar tariff. The crooked Texan billionaire Nelson Bunker Hunt had once memorably said, “People who know how much they’re worth aren’t usually worth that much.” I’d found that comment insulting when I’d first read it and still did.
Gant bought a beer for me and a G&T for himself, which he had charged to his room. The cost of this round was probably what my partner and I would spend on a four-course Chinese takeaway. He led me to a table in the middle of the room.
“God save the Queen.” He raised his glass in a toasting gesture and downed his G&T in one. I sipped my beer. I didn’t recognise the brand name. It was flat and tasteless.
“My guess is you wanna know why I’m in London,” Gant said.
“That’s a good guess.”
“I like this town. Would you believe that?” He grinned widely.
“Yeah. Like I’d believe you didn’t kill the Phipps brothers last year.” I returned his smile. From across the room we probably looked like a couple of old pals enjoying each other’s company over a drink. But I was aware I was sitting across from one of the world’s foremost assassins. A man capable of killing me in a heartbeat if he so chose. He was ex-US Special Forces and as good at killing as they came. I suspected his body count would fill every chair in this room.
“I don’t get hassled here in London. I can just enjoy the sights and wander around.” He gestured to the barman for another drink. He looked at me, but I shook my head. I wasn’t going to finish the one I already had.
“Yeah, right. Now tell me why you’re really here. You’re about as much a tourist as I’m an American.”
He paused to take his new drink from the barman. “Okay, I’ll tell you, there’s no secret. My old comrade Richard’s back here in town and, as I’m not working at the moment, I thought I’d come over to England to catch up with him. I’d not seen him for about five or six months, so it’s been good seeing him.”
“Richard Rhodes,” I stated.
“The very one. You know him, I believe.”
“Yeah, and not by choice either.”
“Well, I do, and that’s why I’m in London.” He sipped his drink. “Anything else?”
As he spoke, I was struck by a thought. Gant had been in London last Saturday. He was a big guy, about the same height as Richard Rhodes, though not quite as big. Could it have been Gant rather than Rhodes the Longhursts had seen leaving after the shooting? The person they’d seen leaving the premises had got in the driver’s side. Gant?
“Yeah, you pay any visits to North London last Saturday?” “North London? Where’s the hell’s that? Is it even on the map?” He laughed. “No, I didn’t. We went out for dinner with Richard’s father. Some place in the West End. His father’s a senior MP, quite eminent, I believe.”
“One way to describe him.”
Gant smiled, then looked at his watch and stood up. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, DS McGraw. Good seeing you again.” He raised his glass, toasted me, downed his drink in one gulp, then turned and left the bar. I waited a few moments, took another sip of beer, grimaced and left it on the table.
Gant was getting into the lift as I was crossing the foyer. He waved slightly as the lift doors closed. One night in his hotel room was probably what I paid for a whole month in my flat.
*
Monday evening. Smitherman’s desire for a halt to the public meeting at Conway Hall, where Khaled al-Ebouli was due to speak, did not materialise. The senior police officer on the ground decided to allow the meeting to proceed, believing the absence of any publicity concerning the meeting even taking place, outside the Muslim campaign itself, would keep numbers down, minimising the potential for trouble. He was wrong.
During a violent scuffle outside whilst the meeting was in progress, a young police officer, attempting to keep people demonstrating against the meeting away from al-Ebouli’s supporters, was slashed in the neck with a sharp blade. His carotid artery was severed and, despite the best efforts of nearby medics to staunch the bleeding, he died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.
Because the presence of al-Ebouli had not been made public, police had originally decided on a low-key approach to the meeting, so only a couple of dozen officers w
ere outside the hall, with several more in a police van nearby. But, somehow, news of al-Ebouli’s presence had leaked out and had been mentioned on LBC radio during the afternoon, which increased the numbers attending considerably. It also increased the numbers of those demonstrating against his participation at the meeting.
Police had formed a skirmish line in an attempt to keep the crowd back from the entrance to the hall, as it was already full, but some had managed to break through and had clashed with several supporters of Britain First, who were protesting against the meeting being held from the other side of the square. Missiles were thrown and, in the ensuing struggle to keep the crowds apart, the assailant produced a knife and slashed at the policeman’s throat. In the crush, as police attempted to use force to separate the two sides, surrounded on all sides by demonstrators and counter-demonstrators, nobody’d initially realised a slashing had occurred. But when the body of a police officer was seen lying on the floor, with a pool of blood around his head, it was apparent something serious had occurred. The crowd almost took a collective deep breath as the gradual realisation of what had occurred spread. People began to shout and to disperse wildly. The crowd could be seen moving in all directions in a haphazard scramble, attempting to get away from what looked like a serious assault.
CCTV later picked out a man, with a baseball cap covering his forehead and a scarf covering his face, fighting his way through the crowd from where PC Jones had been slashed, running away towards High Holborn. He’d escaped in the melee as police attempted to fight their way through the crowds after him. After a tense stand-off lasting a few minutes, more police arrived and those still in the square were kept apart by two lines of police officers. The situation was quickly brought under control, though not before the suspected knifeman had fled the scene.
Conway Hall, at the north-eastern corner of Red Lion Square, had a long history of permitting radical dissent inside its hallowed halls, and many illustrious persons with a history of espousing controversial views had spoken there. But dissent was becoming ever harder in the current climate. The summer of 1974 had seen a student dying in the square after a demonstration against the National Front, using the hall for a meeting, had turned violent, resulting in some of the worst scenes of public disorder on Britain’s streets for many years as police and anti-National Front demonstrators fought running battles. And in October 1985 PC Keith Blakelock had died after being stabbed several times during an outbreak of civil disorder following a botched arrest at the Broadwater Farm estate in North London, when police were attempting to restore calm.
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