“But the French girl?”
“Oh yes, rather lovely, and if I were that way inclined, who knows…” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Now, don’t say but again or I’ll slap you…it was all a necessary part of the cover story within the Ministry. She was a French government officer – they have their interests in Guinea well covered now.”
“OK, I hear you, I think. Perhaps sometimes less is more?”
Her look said ‘Perhaps’ and ‘leave this now…’
Roberts shook his head then smiling, turned to Kate.
“How are you? At least you can give me some good news?”
“I can. I’ve got a posting to Washington. Starting next month. Fancy a drink, you can buy. The Sanctuary sounds lovely. We could even dance if they have a jukebox.”
Red grinned. “Met your match there, officer. Watch her though she’s had a recent head injury, could be a little unstable…but she’s your type.” She winked and walked away with her husband of many years.
Roberts gestured to the car. “There’s probably room for you if you fancy a shandy?”
“I’d be honoured to be allowed into such an elite drinking club. Last time I was down that way I was running like an Olympic sprinter with her arse on fire.”
“Now there’s an image. Go on, get in, we’ll wait for the others.”
Cade stopped at the side of a famous name, immortalised in stone.
“So how can I help you ma’am?”
“Less of the ma’am Jack, I’m young enough to be your sister.”
“Then how can we help you Prime Minister?”
“God, you’re incorrigible. If I wasn’t spoken for…”
Cade couldn’t believe it. Here he was in a rain-soaked cemetery in his best suit, immaculate Oxford brogues, slightly muddied with a few blades of fresh grass, and talking to the Prime Minister. In fact, being almost propositioned by her. She was an attractive woman, but he needed to think on his feet.
“And how is your predecessor ma’am?”
“James? I suspect he’s just fine. Haven’t seen him in…”
“It’s OK, boss. We know. Your secret is safe with me. The casual flirtation as a smoke screen is appreciated, but I know you are spoken for.”
She smirked. “You are way too good for this world Mr. Cade.” She began walking again, further away from people – but with her PPO always close enough to pounce.
O’Shea watched from a distance. She’d come to England with Cade and had hardly spent more than a few quality hours with him. The new life that had promised so much had been torn apart by events beyond their control. The sooner she could get him back to New Zealand, with its deserted beaches and endless forests, the better.
She hated sharing him with anything or anyone.
But that was the PM he was talking to, and this was neither the time nor the place.
Daniel approached the group of brightly clothed African women.
He knew they might speak one of thirty languages, but erred on the side of French, which had been adopted, then abolished, then re-adopted once more.
It worked and broke the ice.
“My name is John Daniel.” He beckoned to a distinguished-looking male who had been standing on the outer margins for a while. Wearing a similar navy suit and white shirt with a black tie, the man walked quickly towards the group.
“Ladies, this man is also called John. He was a great friend of Tom’s. His parents knew him very well, too. Please come closer. You are safe with us.”
The group edged forward, still weary, only weeks before they had been holed up in a cold and damp aircraft hangar, waiting for God.
Hewett spoke, much to Daniel’s surprise, in fluent French. “Ladies, we have been busy over the last few weeks. The information you provided has enabled us to arrest a number of senior government people. You are safe now and always will be. That lady over there is the Prime Minister.”
The women giggled and held hands, excited by the prospect of being so close to her.
“The Prime Minister asked that Mr. Daniel, and I set up accounts for you. These are your bank cards. We will show you how to use them – on another day. Today we are here to celebrate Tom’s special connection to you. He would be so proud and happy to know that you and your families will have better lives, and that you will each have this amount of money to live on.
He handed each a piece of paper. A bank statement with many zeroes on the total balance line.
“He wanted you to be happy.”
The oldest woman spoke in English. “Sir, we are so happy to be here. But this, this makes our lives so much happier.”
She spoke rapidly, and it became clear that she was converting the sum into a currency they understood. One of the younger girls pivoted slightly, as if she was going to faint.
“Can we please pay for his headstone?”
Daniel looked at Hewett. “Be rude not to, I guess.”
“Anything you would want on there?”
“Just his name and his navy rank and these numbers.”
Daniel smiled. They were numbers that had become very familiar to him and the Griffon team. Numbers that had led them to an isolated sea fort and the answers to an old man’s long forgotten questions.
“I will personally see to it that those numbers are on there.”
The PM waited for an answer. She wasn’t used to such a delayed response.
“Ma’am, allow me to get this right. For the last few weeks, you’ve been receiving mail from an unknown source that states that your life might be in danger? And you want me and my team to investigate it? Surely that’s a matter for your own people to resolve, or the Met Police Diplomatic team?”
“Normally I’d agree Jack.”
“I sense a ‘but’ hanging in the rather damp air.”
“You sense well.” She pulled her collar up around her neck to keep away the chill, as a few drops of rain and spirits of politicians past announced themselves.
“You’ll know that my Home Secretary Oliver Berry was run over by a bus. There are some saying in hushed tones that he may have been pushed.”
“Not just a rumour then.”
“No. And that’s why I need to keep this as airtight as a jar of your grandmother’s marmalade. You’ll be aware that the Home Secretary has enormous power as far as policing and national security, and to an extent, prisons go?”
“Of course.”
She bit her navy-blue fingernail, pulling a piece of skin away and watching it bleed. “I’m scared, Jack. I think he has plans for someone currently held within the prison system.”
“And how does that affect you?”
“I fear that those plans include me.”
“I’m guessing this is the part that involves me and the team?”
“It does. I’ve gone so far as to cancel your stay at the hotel and hiring you and Miss O’Shea a decent apartment down by the river. If you’ll say yes.”
“Do I have much choice?”
“Yes, Jack. You can walk away now and I wouldn’t blame you at all. I won’t think any less of you, given what you have done in the last few years. I need a willing horse, if I tell you who I think the author of the letter is, might it help?”
“It might.”
She beckoned him under the umbrella, handed him a piece of paper and whispered into his ear. “You can keep that.”
He took a deep breath, rubbed his hand over his face, shook his head, causing a few of the growing raindrops to drip down his neck, one landing on the paper and causing the ink to spread, deepening as he watched it grow.
“Have you considered having this fingerprinted?” He knew the answer – saw the evidence on the paper.
He stared at her. The leader of the country he had once called home. And she wore the look of a woman in peril.
“Yes. It confirmed my worst fears.”
“Then it seems ma’am that you’ve just become my temporary landlord.”
Cade shook her gloved
hand and saw that she smiled for the first time that day. He then watched her leave before walking to O’Shea.
“Finished flirting with the PM, have you Jack?” she asked, nonchalantly.
“I’m sorry, Carrie. Things have developed a little.”
“You OK?” Suddenly warmer.
“Not sure. Look, we need to get back to the hotel and pack.”
She beamed. “We are heading home?”
“No. I’m staying a little longer. You are invited to join me.”
“Then first, I need to join that lot at the Sanctuary. I feel I may need a really strong drink.”
“I need at least two after what I’ve just heard Carrie.”
“A problem shared?”
“Not here. Later.”
“We need to go and check out of the hotel. Jason has agreed to send everyone home for the night. We’ll meet up at the pub this time tomorrow and talk about our future.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
In a clifftop cottage in Southern England, a man in half naval uniform carefully placed a blanket across the knees of a man much older who was staring out of the window, through aged binoculars, mounted on an old oak tripod.
“Looks like a British frigate to me lad, these binoculars are grand, such detail. I can see a solitary sailor on the stern, lucky bugger. I miss it, you know.”
“Of course you do. We all do. But think yourself lucky that you can still look out onto the ocean and remember the old days. I’ve had to curtail my last trip abroad to look after you. I hope you appreciate it.”
“You have a fair point. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Yes, you are. You look pensive.”
“Is it that obvious? It’s been a long few weeks. Brilliant, but long. I’m too old for this game. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but not with a catheter strapped to my leg.” He laughed like a wayward schoolboy.
“Anything else bothering you?” The younger sailor knew the answer and didn’t expect to hear it from his father’s lips.
“There is, actually. I hope that Michael Turner is comfortable in my coffin.” He winked.
“Well, I’d rather he was tucked up in there than you. Just a shame those lovely girls have to pay for a headstone for a man that is still very much alive!”
The two men laughed. They needed to.
“Here lies Lieutenant Commander Denby – but not really, he’s alive and partially well, living in a seaside cottage and ending his days drinking his son’s spiced rum and being cared for as if they meant it.”
“We do, you cheeky old bastard. And that would cost a fortune to have engraved.”
“Less of the old.” He stopped. “I really do think I’m one of the lucky ones. Able to help my girls to have a brighter future. No more enslavement for them. Only a small dent in the operation, but one that no amount of panel-beating will remove.”
“You are indeed lucky. You’ve probably got one of your nine lives left. The government saw to that. You can stay here now and live in peace. Come on, it’s been a long day, fancy a drink?”
“Tea? Absolutely. Just one last question, son.”
“Do go ahead, sir.”
“Is there any cake?”
“Loads. Absolutely loads.” He smiled. “An almost endless supply.”
“Ah, but is it lemon?”
“Is there any other type dad? Would you like me to read your favourite poem?”
“I would, lad. I would.”
The old man smiled through a growing white beard. There was life in the old sailor yet. For now, he was away from the threat of a troublesome storm and in a much safer harbour. He shuffled slightly in his chair; something was jarring against his thigh.
He pulled out a piece of old cloth and reverently unwrapped it, placed it on the small round leather in-laid table beside him and watched as the fading rays of sunshine cast colours of blue, yellow and green onto his face and up onto the white corniced ceiling.
It was the last of the conflict diamonds. He was far from ready to meet his maker, but when that time came, he had ensured that his son knew who to give it to.
She was a beautiful girl, skin as dark as the bitterest chocolate, her young body free of scars, her mind free of fear. Not for her the ever-present trials of a family indebted to Trokosi.
For her there was no Kamsar, no old steam ships and shattered promises of a brighter future. Kamsar was a distant name on a map, on the fold of an atlas, forever hot with an unending veil of red dust that clung to everyone and everything.
She was the future; black or white, it made no difference to the former lieutenant commander – as long as they were happy. There was a headstone bearing his name, in a cemetery full of interesting and important people. It would help him live out his years, watching out over the sea. He was a genuine hero, one who had righted his own wrongs, cast out the devil and seen to it that what was left of his fractured mind was able to make good on his promises.
But there would be no statue for Tom Denby. He despised them.
‘Throw them in the bloody harbour!’ He’d once said.
Doing the right thing was what counted, even if some people would never know the truth behind the lies. All he had ever done was follow orders and now, despite the lack of headlines in the tabloids, the old men behind Operation Griffin were all gone, dead and buried somewhere. The younger ones behind bars for the rest of their miserable lives.
Orders were made to be followed, but they had to be lawful. To follow anything else was abhorrent to the rank and file, but not to the ruddy-faced, cigar smoking bastards in their high-backed Queen Anne chairs. He’d followed them, but not willingly.
“In life you measure twice and cut once.”
Working for the government was supposed to be risk free.
The safety of his family had been paramount. You did what needed to be done to protect your children.
He closed his eyes and smiled, and soon his hands twitched as he fell into a deep sleep.
“Permission to weigh anchor, sir?”
“Permission granted.”
“Destination?”
“Let’s head home one last time, shall we?”
He could hear his son’s words as he gently closed his eyes.
When the last hand comes aboard.
No more a Watch to stand, Old Sailor.
You are outward bound on an ebbing tide.
Eight Bells has rung, and last Watch done.
Now a new berth waits you on the other side.
Your Ship is anchored in God’s Harbour.
And your Shipmates, sailors of the Lord.
Are Mustered on the deck to greet you.
And pipe you as you come aboard.
Her boilers with full head of steam.
Cargo stowed, and Galley stored.
Just waiting to get underway.
When the last Hand comes aboard.
Look sharp, that Hand is you, Old Sailor.
And you’ll be sailing out on Heavenly Seas.
May the wind be ever at your back.
Fair weather, and God speed!
Chapter Sixty-Three
The Sanctuary
The following afternoon the members of the team had regrouped and had entered the Sanctuary where Roberts was already holding court.
“People, I give you Lord Cade and the ever-charming Lady Catherine O’Shea!” A cheer erupted. It was how they were. How they’d always been. Taking the piss out of each other one minute, carrying them bloodied and bruised to safety the next.
As the group got steadily louder Cade motioned to Daniel and Roberts to join him outside in the street.
“You alright, you miserable bastard?” asked a buoyant Roberts, fresh from a dance with Briton.
“Not entirely.”
“Alright then you old dog, what was the main woman chatting to you so intimately about at Highgate. It all looked very cosy…”
Cade took a moment to form the words. After the last few years of
chaos and uncertainty, they didn’t come easily.
As traffic rushed by, headlights revealing darkened corners past which pedestrians strutted, stepping between growing puddles, head down, briefcases under arms, umbrellas failing at their task, whilst the anonymous homeless of Britain’s largest city were equally oblivious and bedding down for the night, amidst a steady veil of rain, he bit his lip, checked around him and then in one sentence told them exactly what they did not want to hear.
“A băga mâna în foc pentru cineva.”
He said it slowly, awkwardly.
“I’m told it’s an old Romanian proverb.”
“And what pray does that mean?” Asked Roberts, eager to return to his drink.
“I’m told it means that you would put your hand in the fire for someone – to vouch for them. In Romania there is a premise that everyone is trustworthy until proven otherwise.”
“Ambiguous at best, Jack,” said Daniel, shielding himself from the cold.
Cade nodded and followed Daniel’s lead, pulling up his coat collar and stamping his feet to keep warm.
“Agreed, but what caught my eye was the signature at the end.”
He handed the letter to Daniel who looked, then passed it to Roberts.
“This real?” He looked at Cade, then scanned the street nervously.
“Real enough to place a cat amongst the Prime Minister’s pigeons.”
“Then it looks like we have a visit to make.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow suits me just fine.”
About the Author
Lewis Hastings is a pseudonym. He was born in the 1960s (a by-product of the long, harsh winter) in Kent, the Garden of England.
By virtue of his father’s role as a prison officer, he became somewhat nomadic, moving from county to county during his formative years.
As quickly as he made friends, they became a distant memory.
His school life was a heady cocktail of fun, misery and abject failure explaining why he decided not to pursue a university career. Thrust into the world of full-time employment at seventeen and having taken the basic entry exam, fate saw to it that the chance of a career in the Royal Marines was forsaken for the love of a good woman.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 58
