The Bordeaux Connection Read online

  Too long.

  He shouted and removed an ID badge from his pocket, flashing it as he passed. He jumped the turnstile in one movement, narrowly avoiding kicking two people in the head. A piercing shout came out from the nearest member of the Transport Police. Mike ignored him and sprinted towards the eastbound stairwell. A large crowd was moving in his direction, indicating a train had just arrived, its recent passengers making their way tenaciously up the nearby stairway to the exit.

  The platform was close; he could smell the warm recycled air pushing up against him as though he’d recently entered a sauna. He took shallow breaths as he slowed his pace, trying his best to postpone the intake of lactic acid around his legs.

  A train was on the platform, people entering every carriage. Everard was already there, heading for the nearest doorway as the “Please mind the gap” message played automatically through the local speakers.

  Everard was successfully aboard; Mike saw him move along the carriage before losing sight of him amongst a cluster of passengers. He was closing in on the doors, closer, closer still. He heard a whistling sound, followed by several bleeps.

  Time was running out. He went through the gears, nearer and nearer. He saw the doors closing, surely less than a second remaining. He tried to slow his pace, but failed.

  Losing control of his feet, he smashed into the doors and bounced backwards.

  *

  Everard didn’t dare look. He knew that his pursuer had made it on to the platform, his pace quickening with every step.

  There was a large group of men standing near the rear of the carriage. He moved towards them, trying to hide himself behind a covering of bodies. He heard the sound of bleeps coming from the doors. As the doors closed, he breathed a deep sigh of relief, allowing the recycled air to enter his lungs.

  He heard a thumping sound, followed by the feeling of vibrations. Something had hit the side of the train; he looked and saw what was responsible. People watched from the windows, stunned and confused at the sight of the young man outside the doors.

  As the engines roared into life, he smiled, no longer bothered by the discomfort or sweat. There was a chance he wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he’d bought himself a moment to catch his breath.

  *

  Mike somehow managed to keep his feet. He’d taken the impact on his arms, fortunately avoiding injury. As the train began to move, he felt the developing feeling of fury escalate as he watched the looks of surprise on the faces of the onlookers.

  Amongst the passengers he saw one with no right to be there. The cellist was on the opposite side of the carriage; he’d somehow managed to find himself a seat. As the train departed he saw him wave, then stop.

  Then look away.

  He heard someone calling him from behind, the Transport Police. Slowly, he turned, looking the man in the eye.

  He removed his ID card from his pocket.

  *

  Everard had never been so relieved. Ten years earlier, he knew the race would have been more straightforward, but today the unthinkable had nearly happened. There was always a chance that one day your luck would run out. One day, everything for which life had been lived, preparations made, would simply be in vain.

  Today, thankfully, was not that day.

  Still, one thought continued to linger. The man had got close, too close. He’d seen two of them; had it not been for the conversation in the church, he would never have made the distinction. In time, the full repercussions would be made known and appropriate actions taken. That discovery was arguably as priceless as the mission itself.

  After all these years, he now had proof that the order still survived.

  *

  In a first class carriage on a train heading into the east of the country, Mrs Hughes heard her mobile phone ring. Removing it from her handbag, she checked the display and saw it was from her husband, his mobile number.

  There were things that needed to be said; things that, in time, would make sense. He deserves the truth, she thought. In no circumstances would the opposite be true.

  But now was not the time.

  Ignoring it, she replaced her phone inside her handbag and closed her eyes.

  17

  The meetings always started on time. Even in the darkest of scenarios, Maria had never known anything else. It was the way of the organisation, the way of the country. How many times had similar things occurred? she wondered, as she gazed at the secretive surroundings. Though she’d seen the room many times before; a large, ornate, well equipped subterranean chamber located beneath the Old Admiralty Building and within two hundred yards of where one of the great men of English history had conducted war proceedings, tonight she felt extra tension in the air.

  Tonight was undeniably different from others.

  She sat at the round table, which was a first; like the great one of the legendary Camelot, traditionally it was only the knights and the king who ever sat there. Being there with the hard leather frame pressing against her back, seemed unnatural, but not because of the material. She was sitting in the shadow of former glories, following in old footsteps.

  It was a privilege of the rare few.

  Two seats away from her, Kit’s expression was uncharacteristically stern. His back was hurting, but he’d experienced worse. He’d replaced his glasses with contacts and took a paracetamol tablet to temporarily ease his discomfort, knowing that rest would come soon enough.

  At the head of the table, two suited men of different yet imposing features had been engaged in conversation with Phil and Jay for well over ten minutes. Though Maria had heard every word, she sensed this was a conversation she was not meant to be a party to. One of the two, she knew well, and never questioned. The other she knew less well, yet experience told her that he too was not a man to be questioned. Both in their own way were great and highly respected men.

  And, tonight, men who were looking for answers.

  A knock at the door changed the atmosphere; whether it eased the tension or escalated it she was unsure. Whoever it was, the new arrival was over twenty minutes late and would need to have some good excuses.

  Atkins walked towards the door and studied the visitor through the eye slot. The knock had been to a particular beat; Maria associated it as a form of password.

  The former head of the MoD opened the door.

  Mike entered, his appearance surprisingly presentable. She saw him glance in her direction before sitting down in between her and Kit, his usual seat at the table. He cleared his throat and sipped slowly from a glass of water, one of twelve laid out.

  Mr White stood at the top of the table, alongside Atkins who took a seat. Seeing him at the table was less unusual.

  “I don’t need to remind any of you, of course, that anything said here must remain inside these walls. I don’t care if the Queen or the PM himself asks you any questions. I trust that is quite clear?”

  Heads nodded in unison.

  Mr White folded his arms and slowly circled the table. His focus was on Mike. “Hansen. Let’s begin with you. I suggest you start at the point Masterson was beaten up.”

  Mike took a second sip from his water, ignoring Kit’s clear raising of his eyebrows in frustration. He started by going into detail of his leaving the opera house, recalling everything that had happened since: the run, the church, the Tube . . .

  “You were at the station and still couldn’t catch him?” Kit asked, interrupting.

  “Somehow the bastard’s timing was perfect to the second. I was running so fast I couldn’t stop myself; only just managed to stay on my feet. Everard was sitting on the other side of the carriage when it left.”

  “Heading where?” Atkins asked.

  “Circle and District eastbound.”

  “Where does that take him?”

  “Blackfriars,” Maria answered, instinctively. “Next up is Mansion House, Cannon Street, Monument and Tower Hill. It also passes Liverpool Street and King’s Cross St. Pancras.”r />
  Atkins bit his lip. “Put out a call to every station on that line. I want all the surveillance footage checked . . .”

  “Already taken care of. Footage shows Everard leaving the Tube at Monument and disappearing somewhere along Fish Street Hill. I’ve put out a call for the CCTV footage to be checked from the nearby buildings. That should come in within the next hour.”

  “You’ve spoken with the police?” Mr White asked.

  “Not directly, but thanks in no small part to the attack on the Royal Opera House being mainstream news, Everard is already the UK’s most wanted, whether people are aware of his identity or not. The Royal Opera House’s own cameras had already confirmed his presence.”

  “Did it catch him with the Foreign Secretary?” Mike asked.

  “I’m still to hear all the details at this stage. However, unfortunately it did capture him running away from Mike and Kit.”

  Mr White cursed under his breath, whilst Atkins slapped his hands on the table.

  “Gentlemen,” Atkins looked at Mike, Kit and Jay, “I congratulate you. Earlier today you were given specific orders to keep tabs on the wife of the Deputy Prime Minister and since that time you’ve somehow managed to let this happen under your very noses.”

  Mike bit his lip, choosing to sip from his water as opposed to entering any arguments. Technically, the evacuation of the Deputy PM and his wife had been a success.

  “The bastard was planning on pushing the remote anyway,” Kit said, quietly livid. “The size of the blast confirms the attack was intended to spread mass panic.”

  “Why?” Jay asked. “If they just wanted the Deputy PM and his missus, why not just target them?”

  “Who knows?” Kit replied. “Perhaps they wanted to make the assassination look accidental. After seeing that video late last night, I can’t shake the feeling the attack was more on Mrs Hughes than her husband.”

  “You might have a point,” Mr White said, “though a few words from the Foreign Secretary I’m sure could help clarify the matter. Speaking of which, where is he now?”

  “Upstairs.” Kit pointed. “They’ve put him under temporary house arrest in his apartment. A couple of bobbies were on hand when I arrived at the Cabinet Office.”

  “At least that’s something,” Atkins said bluntly. “What news on the death toll?”

  “Fifteen for sure,” Maria said. “More are in hospital.”

  “How many?” Kit asked.

  “Could be over thirty,” Maria replied.

  “Good God,” Kit said under his breath.

  “What news on the substance?” Atkins asked.

  “Tests are ongoing,” Phil said. “We won’t know for sure till samples of the exploded liquid gets checked in the lab.”

  “Where is it now?” Atkins pressed.

  “On its way to the lab.”

  “You weren’t interested in finding out yourself?” Mike asked.

  “I’d love to, Mikey. However, sadly everyone outside this room still thinks I work for the RAF as a fuel jockey. I did manage to study that photo you sent in more detail.”

  “And?” Mr White asked.

  “Unclear. But based on that one photo alone, coupled with Captain Hansen’s eyewitness reports of the colours on the X-ray setting of the opera glasses, I’d conclude we could well be dealing with something containing high amounts of nitro-glycerine along with some form of alcohol.”

  “Nitro . . .” Atkins tailed off. “I thought that stuff went out with the ark.”

  “It’s highly unstable, and most of our contemporaries tend to prefer something more steady. That said, it can still pack a punch if you know what you’re doing.”

  Mr White turned to Mike. “What happened after you missed the train?”

  “Nothing really. I got a lecture from some orange jacket who didn’t realise who I was.”

  “What did you tell him?” Kit asked.

  “Just the usual crap. That I was undercover and not to ask any stupid questions.”

  “What happened then?” Maria asked.

  “Nothing. I headed for the opposite platform and got a Tube to St James’s Park.”

  “You didn’t cause a scene?”

  “Not really, assuming you discount the people on the platform thinking I was just some idiot who couldn’t use a door.”

  “Not far wrong,” Kit said.

  “This isn’t a joke. Any of you.” Atkins turned to Maria. “What news of the DPM’s wife?”

  “Nothing concrete. Although a woman of her description was seen leaving the Tube at London Bridge. I haven’t had a chance to check the footage personally.”

  “Any word of her husband?”

  “Still with the PM. Last I checked he was trying to make contact.”

  “Well, he’s probably not going to be leaving Number 10 any time soon, so we can no longer rely on him. What about Mrs Pickering?” Mr White asked.

  “Also in the building above. Ironically she’s currently being kept in Mr Hughes’s apartment. The PM was adamant she be kept away from her husband.”

  Mr White nodded, his tone subdued. “Well, gentlemen,” he looked at Mike, Kit and Jay, “this leaves us with a very unusual situation. Now, as you all know, I’ve never been one to point the finger. It was a difficult job and you don’t need me to lecture you on the consequences of failure. The repercussions of this will no doubt be long lasting. Questions will need to be answered, but right now they’re going to have to wait. I’m sure I don’t need to remind any of you what’s at stake.”

  Heads nodded in unison.

  “I want every piece of CCTV footage checked. I don’t care who you cooperate with,” he said, mainly to Maria, “be it the police, the fire department, even the brownies. Any leads we have on Everard could be critical.

  “You two.” He turned to Mike and Kit. “How are your injuries?”

  “Fine,” Mike said.

  “I suppose I can put off the physio till after my fiancée gets home from work,” Kit added.

  “What did you say to the Foreign Secretary?” Maria interrupted. “Apparently he was in a very bad mood when he arrived.”

  “Well that’s hardly surprising is it? The man had just been arrested.”

  “Either way, he could still be an important lead for us. Guilty or not, getting in the face of a cabinet minister is rarely a good idea.”

  “In his defence, I thought he took the news rather calmly.”

  “He went quietly?” Mike asked.

  “It was all fairly routine, if that’s what you mean? The bobbies didn’t linger on the street either.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Mike asked. “Why do we not have anyone else working on this?”

  “Who says we don’t?” Maria replied.

  The question confused him. “There’s twelve seats at this table, and only Kit, Jay and me are here. Nine of us are missing.”

  Mr White looked at him from the far side of the room. “The word absent might be better used in this case, Hansen. Right now I’m going to need you to concentrate on your own job.”

  Mike nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened in that church? You said he gave you some paper?” Maria asked.

  “He did – two pieces, in fact. The second exploded in my face, a disguised smoke bomb – I’ve never seen anything like it so small.”

  “You have the second?” The question was from Phil.

  “Actually I do, but I haven’t dared open it.”

  “Give it to me.” Phil accepted it, and walked towards the sink.

  “Everard, or whatever the hell his real name is, seemed pretty indifferent to me, until I pushed him about his confidence that I was MI5. He then muttered something in French or German and his attitude changed.”

  “You revealed your identity?” Kit asked.

  “Of course not, but he seemed confident in his own guess. Having spoken to him in the church, I’m guessing we’re not exactly unheard of in certain parts of the world.”
/>   “Just because we don’t officially exist doesn’t mean no one’s heard of us,” Kit said. “I like to think of us as the Illuminati. Or the Elders of Zion.”

  “Or God?” Jay asked, a wry smile.

  Mr White took a seat in the top chair, its design reminiscent of a throne. “If these people are who we think they are, their knowledge of us will be restricted to folklore. Even if one knew more than he should, it still doesn’t change the goalposts. Right now, your conversation with Everard is the only confirmation we have of his involvement – at least besides footage of the actual explosion. Presumably he didn’t talk about Randek?”

  “No. Most of the time he just sneered at me for being young. But, like I say, he seemed to be basing everything on the idea I was MI5.”

  “How about any background checks?” Kit asked.

  “Only what you already know,” Phil replied, returning from the sink unscathed. “The man is wanted, but lower down the lists than most.”

  “How about the Police? GCHQ? Interpol?”

  “No joy; at least not yet. Randek was a different question. It was because of his prominence alarm bells began to ring in the first place.”

  “Well, we’ve already met Everard; we know he’s a bastard.”

  “He revealed nothing of his background?” Atkins asked Mike.

  “Not a thing. The man seemed more interested in talking about French history. Huguenots and gallantry.”

  “Conversations that go nowhere. Intimidation tactics,” Maria said.

  “So he’s actually a woman?” Kit asked.

  “You sure there’s nothing on Mrs Hughes? If she was the intended target, she could know much,” Mike said.

  “Last we saw she was at London Bridge. Probably getting on another train.”

  “How about her other place? Where is it?”

  “Knightsbridge.” Jay said. “Been there already.”

  “You searched it top to bottom?” Kit asked.

  “And then some.”

  “Knightsbridge isn’t far from here. Could she have gone back?” Mike asked.