The Bordeaux Connection Page 15

  “Unlikely, and trust me, it’s covered.” Maria said. “There’s a reason for the empty seats at this table.”

  Mike was only slightly reassured. “How about the country residences?”

  “A bit of a trek, but can’t be ruled out.” Maria noticed a strange look in Mike’s eye. “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t like coincidences either, and earlier today I was reminded of one. Pickering and Hughes share a residence.”

  “Chevening.”

  “What trains go from London Bridge?”

  “Everywhere. Currently there are nine platforms. Platform six is notoriously the most crowded in Europe.”

  “Is it possible she could have headed for Chevening?”

  Maria was unsure. “Possibly, but even if you’re correct, why return to the scene of the crime?”

  “In my experience, that’s precisely where most criminals go,” Kit said.

  “This isn’t Arthur Conan Doyle,” Maria said, “even if you are something of a hound.”

  “If Mrs Hughes and Pickering were both involved with Randek, at least up to a point, it stands to reason Chevening could have been the hub. Has it been checked?”

  “Not yet, but under the circumstances, such things cannot be ignored.” Mr White nodded, his dynamic eyes focused on Mike and Kit. “I want both of you to get right on it. There’ll be a car waiting for you outside the citadel in two minutes. If she is currently seated aboard a train to Kent then you’ve every chance of beating her to it. If you do find her, I don’t want her to leave the building unescorted.”

  Mike nodded. Kit asked, “And if she isn’t there?”

  “There’s nothing else we can do until Everard reappears on the radar. So either way, I don’t want you out of Kent before morning.”

  *

  The car was already there when they left the building. Mike took the wheel, whilst Jay rode shotgun. Kit lay with his feet up in the back, complaining of his injury.

  The orders were to drop Jay off in Knightsbridge. His reconnaissance of the apartment earlier that day had come up with nothing. Now, however, the plan was different.

  “If Hughes’s wife did return to Knightsbridge, it’s possible she’s already left,” Mike said, driving west. Though it was approaching 10 p.m., the traffic was still heavy around Westminster and The Mall. “Not that you’ll be hoping she’s there.”

  Kit was unconvinced. “If she’s gone to Knightsbridge, why the hell did she get the Tube to London Bridge?”

  “A panic move. Convenience. Throw us off the scent maybe?”

  “Putting her expenses to good use.” Jay smiled.

  “Well just be careful,” Kit warned. “Judging by her form earlier today, if she catches you in the act, she’ll probably throw you off the building.”

  Jay grinned back via the mirror. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Mike smiled, catching Jay from the side. Someone of Asian origin working in The White Hart would have been a no-no just fifteen years ago; he’d never met a man so positive about life.

  Mike took a left turn, following the satnav. “According to this, we’re looking at no more than ten minutes.” He restrained his impulse to add, “Assuming the traffic remains as it is.” His thoughts had already turned to Chevening. “Where the hell is this estate?”

  “Heart of Kent, near Tonbridge.” Kit sat up in the back seat. After lying on his back, moving felt strange. “Not the kind of place one usually arrives at unannounced in the middle of the night.”

  “You talking from experience?” Jay asked.

  “No. But let’s just say, I know the type and I’d hate to be on the receiving end after a bad day at the office.”

  Mike nodded, his eyes on the road. The traffic was flowing, which was good; their chances of beating the train were poor and the last thing they needed was to hit delays.

  As they headed away from Westminster, the fine buildings of history replaced by those of wealth and status, his mind recalled the conversation with Everard in the church. The White Hart were a strange band; despite five years as a Red Beret, he’d never heard of them prior to the day he signed up. It was an invitation few received; one he would never have received again should he have said no early on. When he said yes, there was no going back. How a Frenchman could have heard of them was difficult to know.

  But a question that he guessed would be answered sooner or later.

  *

  In the secret room below the Old Admiralty Building, Mr White scrutinised the screen of his mobile phone. He felt sure that a call from the Prime Minister was likely before sunrise. In past years, he’d not been unaccustomed to receiving one on his personal number, but these days it seemed an unnecessary risk. Even if the conversation wasn’t overheard from abroad, the last thing he needed was for GCHQ to know his every thought.

  Maria was still seated in the same place, tapping on a laptop. “Confirmation from London Bridge. Mrs Hughes was seen boarding a train that terminates in Tonbridge.”

  Mr White nodded. Although it was possible she could have taken it to go elsewhere, as the route would take her within twelve miles of her husband’s country estate it seemed very likely that was her destination.

  “Let Hansen and Masterson know. This could be of direct relevance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Phil was standing in the corner of the room where two years earlier he’d constructed a makeshift laboratory. The two pieces of paper Mike had received from Everard were lying closed near the sink.

  Mr White walked in his direction. “Any update on the . . . well, you know?”

  Phil passed him the first piece. “Classic smoke bomb. Small, but effective.”

  Mr White took the remains of the paper in his hand. He saw burn marks around the outside and evidence of some sort of grey powder. “Have you ever seen anything of the type before?”

  “Similar, but not identical. I’d say it comes in bigger sizes.”

  Mr White returned him the scattered remains. “And the other thing?”

  “Well it’s not a weapon . . . I suggest you see for yourself.”

  He unfolded the paper and gave it to Mr White. It was lined, a single page that had been folded into eight, partially crumpled from being in Mike’s pocket.

  The Director looked at it for several seconds. There was handwriting, written in French. At first he struggled to believe his eyes. Then as the seconds passed, realisation dawned.

  “Good God!”

  18

  Kent, 11 p.m.

  It was dark beyond the hills. Darker still on the roads. The streets were deserted and had been for some time. Even in the main towns, the area wasn’t the most populated of places. The largest had about 60,000 residents, but there were days when it could appear to be much less. The work was usually related to the high street, much of which had been affected by modern times. The Internet age was a wonderful thing, unless you were a high street retailer. As prices fell, shoppers celebrated. That was the theory. It was one that had held true in every walk of life since the Stone Age. Everyone loves value for money.

  Unless you’re a seller.

  The villages that littered the landscape had long been sources of legend. Like the picturesque dwellings of Cornwall and Ireland or the legendary valleys of Wales, there was something about the Kent countryside that cried out mystery. Most of the villages were said to be haunted; be it by lost in time Romans, cursed Vikings or little girls who failed to do as their father told them, each one had a story to tell. Even some of the modern inhabitants were inclined to believe them, especially those who grew up with the tales. Those who didn’t believe them often played a part in creating them. It was an alternative way a business could thrive without the high street.

  Within the county’s famous rolling countryside, the sights that had inspired artists, writers and poets throughout the ages, the North Downs were difficult to miss. Unlike the nearby world-renowned towns and cities, there were no international railway stations
or evidence of mass transport infrastructure to scar the landscape; the scenery, instead, was more at one with bygone times. Chalk hills were rare in England, but a prominent feature in the south-east. What began in Surrey as an iconic hill line on the edges of the stockbroker belt was a major feature of the countryside all the way down to the coast. It had been claimed that the scenery on the coast was even more special; an area that, in its own way, had helped win England a war – perhaps many. Even before the days of Vera Lynn, there was something about the white chalk cliffs that was capable of lifting the spirits of even the most down-heartened onlooker. The conservationists designated it an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Those who knew them best needed only one of those words:

  Outstanding.

  Among the isolated residential areas on the North Downs, the village of Chevening was an easy one to miss. Like the surrounding hills, visually it was a throwback to a slower time, when the sound of metal on metal was more likely than an explosion in a theatre. The parish was smaller than most. The latest census indicated the population was less than 3,000, with many more coming as tourists. Most visitors came for the walks; even in the modern day, the Pilgrims’ Way, once famed in Middle England as the route to Becket’s Shrine, still swept through the landscape. According to the local historians, it wasn’t just pilgrims who had walked the pathways. Just as the Home Guard had kept a watchful vigil against the Nazis, a thousand years earlier a different group of Englishmen had done the same, their way to Hastings lit by a comet. It was once said that whoever controlled the area controlled England.

  Little had changed in a thousand years.

  The house itself was newer than many in the village. According to its historical records, the fine Grade I listed Jacobean mansion that governed the 3,500-acre estate had been built on the site of something much older. Its legacy belonged entirely to one family. Reading up on the facts, Mike couldn’t help sense a ring of familiarity about it. What began with soldiers ended with statesmen. As the decades rolled by, the focus changed: war craft to extravagant architecture. As always it ended with art. Mike had been inside enough government buildings to know that a number housed valuable collections. If the size of Chevening was anything to go by, it would probably be the mother and father of all collections.

  A legacy created by earls, extended by politicians.

  The journey had taken just under an hour, even staying close to the speed limit. Mike had ignored Kit’s constant nagging about his inability to “floor it”, choosing instead to remind himself the worst thing they could do was attract unwanted attention.

  The route had proven straightforward. Following the directions of the BMW’s inbuilt satnav system, a ten-mile stretch along the A2 was completed in less than ten minutes. Joining the M25 at junction 2, the journey continued at a steady pace. At this hour the traffic was light and there were no speed restrictions to contend with; even if there had been, Mike knew Kit would have been in two minds about sticking to them. A quiet word in the correct ear would take care of these matters. It was one of the greatest conundrums of the job. Speed usually meant greater efficiency, but doing a job where livelihood depended on anonymity, it could also create difficulties. The flashing blue lights and deafening sirens of authority were a magnet for unwanted interest.

  Fortunately, tonight this hardly mattered.

  As the voice on the satnav indicated a right turn, Mike took the turn off the motorway, following which a series of roads and roundabouts took them deep into the countryside. It was the heart of England – green fields, woodlands, quiet country roads that could lead anywhere. If the satnav was correct they were less than two miles away.

  “Eyes peeled,” Kit said, scanning the countryside. “Even cabinet ministers aren’t stupid enough to give away their exact address.”

  Mike nodded, guessing he had a point. The signs suggested they were on Chevening Road, a clue Mike thought, if nothing else. Following the road, the signs confirmed they’d entered an area called Chipstead, a village that could have been a hamlet. As the long, narrow road continued north, a number of houses appeared on both sides, their façades an attractive mixture of modern and red brick Victorian. There were cars parked on the road, compensating for the lack of driveways, but they were still to find anything with lights on. Further on, the countryside returned, the occasional mansion surrounded by tall trees and hedging. Across the motorway, the houses disappeared, replaced instead by mile upon mile of greenery that seemingly headed forever into the distance. They were getting close, Mike thought again. Only a government building could exist in such seclusion, yet also so strangely close to London. A long brick wall on the left caught his attention; the land beyond it was veiled by the bricks and large trees. Everything about the location cried out privacy, in contrast to the wholly accessible open space across the road. Up ahead, he saw houses, a church tower rising above them in the distance.

  Unquestionably they had made it.

  Visually the village matched his expectations. The redbrick frontages of the cottages were laden in ivy, a postcard image of a forgotten time. Again there were cars parked on both sides of the road, but nothing was moving. The occasional light coming from one of the cottage windows was the exception rather than the norm.

  “Eyes peeled, Michael,” he heard Kit say again, not that it was necessary. According to the satnav, less than half a mile remained.

  He guessed the real thing wouldn’t be much further.

  Up ahead a number of signs came into view. One in particular that caught his eye read Private Road and preceded a large wooden gate, situated between two red walls of varying height. The walls were of similar construction, though more clearly visible than the one he had passed a short distance back. He braked, coming to a standstill, and looked at Kit.

  “Shall we drive all the way? Or continue by foot?”

  *

  Kit’s preference would have been to enter the grounds the old-fashioned way. Stealth, lightless, unnoticed. The lack of light was their best asset – that and the trees. The estate contained over 3,000 acres, but he could tell from the GPS they were a lot closer than that to the main house. A quick hop over the wall and they would come to a small area of woodland, dense enough to cover their approach. All that would remain would be to gain entry.

  Tonight, he knew, the actual plan would be different. Unlike the clandestine affair of earlier in the day, the Deputy Prime Minister had officially agreed to their visit. Mike drove to the main gate where he was met by a security guard in uniform who saluted half-heartedly as Mike passed over his ID.

  “Good evening. I believe we’re expected.”

  The security guard examined his card under the torchlight. “Follow the road to the left, Captain. You can park outside the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  *

  The estate office was located on the right; like at Chequers and Dorneywood the house was officially owned and managed by a separate trust and allocated to the Prime Minister under the conditions of the late owner’s will. There were lights on in the estate buildings, unlike the house itself.

  The house was a picture. Neither of them had expected anything less. Even in the fading light, the symmetrical three-storey red brick building was like something out of a fairy tale. A well-maintained stone flight of steps led up to three rounded archways that provided the base for four Doric columns that supported a triangular gable above the third storey. Standing adjacent to the main building, two sister buildings faced one another, connected by curved walls lined with topiary like hedging. Like the house itself, everything about the design was perfectly symmetrical. Completing the design, a circular lawn covered the ground directly between the three buildings, the grass recently cut and smelling of summer. At the centre was a stone ornament; using the night-vision setting on his opera glasses, Mike saw it was a birdbath.

  They left the car and approached the entrance, Mike armed with a set of keys. Inserting the correct one, he felt a sense of anti-cl
imax.

  “Hang about. You never know. There may be staff inside who don’t know we’re coming.”

  Kit began to laugh. “Staff? Where do you think this is – Windsor?”

  Mike turned the key, eyeing Kit with the usual scepticism of not knowing whether he was joking or not. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a grand hallway with a white tiled floor and a spiral staircase that led to the floor above.

  The entire house seemed deserted.

  “The quickest a train can arrive from London Bridge to Sevenoaks is twenty-eight minutes,” Mike said, having looked the data up on the command console of the BMW. “If she’s coming, she should be here by now.”

  “Apparently she was going to Tonbridge. Of course then she would have to wait for a cab.” A thought entered his mind. “Maria, are you there?”

  *

  Maria had left the Old Admiralty Building and was now sitting behind the wheel of a car, parked close to Knightsbridge.

  “Loud and clear. What’s your position?”

  *

  Kit replied, “Inside. No sign of life. Not even from the staff.” He glanced at Mike.

  “Good work. What’s it look like in there?”

  “Well, it’s suitable for a lady. Perhaps even a duchess,” he said, quietly aware that Prince Charles had once turned the place down. Further along he saw a series of long corridors with oak bookcases and lined with red carpet. “What’s the earliest she could have arrived?”

  “The train was for Tonbridge. Current reports say it arrived forty minutes ago. Assuming she was still on it, she should be with you pretty soon.”

  “I thought she was definitely on it?”

  “Unfortunately Sevenoaks and Tonbridge are less equipped with CCTV so we can’t entirely rule out the possibility that she got off at an earlier station.”

  He decided to let her off the hook. “What are we looking for?”

  “If a link does exist between Mrs Hughes and Pickering, there may be evidence of something somewhere. There’s a study on the first floor, apparently it’s close to the living quarters. See what you can find.”