The Bordeaux Connection Page 2

  “What’s this? No gun. You know what they say about taking chances, Mike?” the driver of the Honda said.

  The driver of the BMW smiled. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Kit? Real men make their own luck.”

  He stopped within a few feet of him, arms folded. From a distance, their appearances were deceptively similar, but close up differences were readily apparent. Kit was in his early thirties; his features still bearing the suppleness of youth yet with deep green eyes that revealed an air of authority born of experience. His own features were somewhat softer, carrying the experience of four years fewer. His eyes displayed a look of clear confidence, a well-defined blue that possessed a teasing mysterious quality.

  His friend’s name was Kit Masterson.

  His, Michael Hansen.

  “Besides,” Mike continued. “After the night we’ve had, I could do with something to keep out the cold.”

  *

  Leaving the cars, the two dark-haired men walked briskly through the unlit car park and stopped at the main entrance. The pub was locked, the lights still extinguished, the sounds of silence interrupted solely by that of a steady breeze moving among the trees. Visually, the building was easy on the eye. Like the nearby village, its origins dated back to the Middle Ages, with additions to the original half-timbered structure made following damage during the Blitz. Whether accidental or a deliberate attack, the facts of history had never been made known. If it had been deliberate, the reasons for the attack would have been self-explanatory.

  On reaching the door, Mike looked at Kit and asked, “Would you care to do the honours?”

  Kit fished a set of keys out of his jeans, unlocked the door and entered. Once inside, he locked it again, all evidence of their entry vanished. Taking the chance of switching on a light was something that neither of them would have considered. The instruction came from the top; not that it was necessary.

  As their eyes adjusted to the new surroundings, they made their way in silence across the wooden floor. A newcomer, seeing the pub for the first time, would have found the decorations un-noteworthy and much as they might expect. The oak-panelled surrounds were largely original, matching a series of round and square tables and chairs that only a few hours earlier would have been occupied by boisterous villagers. During opening hours a wealth of ales and lagers from the local counties was served from the large horseshoe-shaped bar. Away from the bar, the furnishings were more spartan, as if the lure of a good drink was enticing enough for the townsfolk without the need of any extra embellishment. It served a purpose. The village had never been one for outsiders. Should a newcomer arrive, be it a businessman on a journey break, a tourist, a pilgrim on the wrong trail ignorant of the village’s true past, the façade of polite courtesy masked an inner hard distrust. If anyone should come with more sinister motives, the same rules applied. Secrecy could only be maintained without arousing suspicion.

  As the two dark-haired men found their way to the opposite side of the counter, they came to a secluded doorway from which a set of twelve wooden steps led down into further darkness. On reaching the bottom step, the light changed: a surreal glow emanated from one of the walls, apparently every colour of the spectrum. It was a sight they had seen before; Kit many times, Mike much less. Its source, once upon a time, both had been at a loss to explain. Where a seemingly permanent concrete wall supported the structure of the building above, its red brick stained by dirt and cobwebs and busy with beer kegs and various bottles, the room concealed its greatest secret. The light, it appeared, was coming through the wall. On reaching it, Kit removed a small rectangular key card from his pocket and swiped it, seemingly in mid air. He heard a series of bleeps, then a single bleep. Then a louder sound.

  The sound of the wall moving.

  It opened, revealing a second, larger room, visually unlike any either of them had witnessed outside the movie theatre. Its appearance was unlike anything else in the village, reminiscent instead of both a top-secret military bunker and a hi-tech laboratory. A long, single table-like command console occupied the right side of the room, at the centre of which was a high-speed iMac computer, its images seemingly floating against the far wall like a 3D hologram. Similar electronic equipment flanked the walls, ranging from radar monitoring equipment to landline telephones. While Mike was still to see them in use, their importance was self-evident. Their presence was integral to the organisation’s existence, and its operations, which were planned and orchestrated around the room’s final feature.

  At the centre of the room was a large circular oak wood table, surrounded by chairs. A large emblem crossed the table’s surface, its features vividly defined. Although the table itself was modern, those familiar with the organisation, and many generations before them, had known numerous predecessors. The emblem had never changed, even since the beginning. The creature was four-legged, strong and magnificent, with two bright eyes looking right of centre, seemingly capable of piercing into the heart of an observer. Unlike the similar sign that adorned the pub, the creature was seated, its facial expression otherwise retiring and docile. Where two mighty antlers stood out on both sides of its head, the image became slightly bizarre. Unlike the white antlers of real life, created by DNA, these were gold and formed of the same material. A similar colour filled the object that hung curiously around its neck; a crown, not atop its head but around it.

  So completed the image. What an outsider could easily assume to be a typical heraldic image of a forest animal used on a coat of arms of a family of ancient nobility and prestige, the reality in this case was something rather more significant. The creature was white as it always was, after which the order was named. Over the years the order had known many names, but only one original. This was the headquarters of The White Hart, an order founded by royalty and created to operate in secrecy.

  Mike and Kit stopped on reaching the table and stood formally to attention. There were twelve seats surrounding the table, all of military style, appealing to the eye, but designed for business as opposed to comfort. While eleven of the seats remained vacant, one was in use. The man was in his late sixties, his greying hair styled in the same military buzz cut that had been brown forty years earlier. Like the two men before him he was clean-shaven, his dark suit credible for either an officer or politician of high rank and status. His name was immaterial; if he had a real one, Mike had never heard it. He was simply the Director, the spokesman, the King.

  They called him Mr White.

  “The Prime Minister is due to put out a statement at 07:00 hours tomorrow. Downing Street received the draft less than one hour ago; on this occasion I decided to prepare it personally. Reasons for this latest endeavour must never be made known. For us, you might say, business as usual. As far as the press are concerned, the business in Edinburgh was merely a botched art theft by members of the criminal underworld, which was misinterpreted as a terrorist attack.”

  Mike nodded, while beside him Kit remained quiet. The Edinburgh saga had been completely unexpected. A series of explosions on the Royal Mile had been quelled, on this occasion the heroes of the hour were the local police – at least in the eyes of the media. As far as the wider world was concerned, The White Hart didn’t exist; there were no records found in government departments, no list of active personnel – past or present. The budget was restricted to ‘Black Budget’ from the armed forces, just as it had been throughout living memory. An auditor or accountant perusing the relevant files in the main MoD building in London would find only four letters: CNMA, letters that failed to explain their true importance. They stood for Cromwell’s New Model Army in honour of the man who had resurrected them from the dead. Less than eighteen months as part of the order, Mike was still to learn every detail. He understood only when not to ask questions. It was a world where the consequences of ego could be destructive. The real heroes could never be known. Nor, at least, would they ever be tried in a law court. They were answerable only to one.

  Mr White continue
d, “The PM asked me to pass on his personal thanks to the men in question for their role in helping to avert a national catastrophe.”

  Kit smiled wryly, silently replaying the recent incident where an overweight Frenchman with links to the criminal underworld had been uncovered holding a portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie stolen from beneath the National Library. The portrait had been recovered, the enemy arrested.

  “Tell him, anytime.”

  Standing alongside him, Mike’s attention became drawn to the eleven empty seats, one of which was usually his.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Tonight there will be no others,” the Director rose to his feet and turned towards the control console, entering something into the holographic screen via a slick nine-inch electronic tablet. “The situation in Scotland is over; the mopping up can be left to the local police and, once the two thugs are deported, the gendarmerie. It’s what they’re there for. The other two, for now, remain at large.”

  Kit bit his lip. “Presumably they’re still in Scotland?”

  “Sadly, no. Both were seen leaving Peterhead harbour at 21:21 this evening. Searches are being made to locate the boat but, so far, they have come up with nothing. Needless to say, someone’s arse is in for a kicking. Several eyewitnesses were able to identify the boat; whatever it was, it was not native to the harbour, or Scotland. As far as I’m aware no one has been able to track them.”

  “How about the guards at Edinburgh?”

  “Two KIA. The others, so it would seem, had been knocked out by some form of sleeping gas. Fortunately they were left alone after that.”

  Mike remained silent. He sensed that the reason for their being summoned so late was not of relevance to the mission just gone. The pictures on the hologram changed to form a large map that centred on an area of England, apparently a village or small dwelling in Somerset. A name appeared in white bold lettering.

  Montacute.

  Mr White turned away from the console, his attention on Mike and Kit. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

  Mike eased himself into the nearest seat, alongside Kit and with a clear view of the screen. Its pictures changed rapidly, as if a piece of software was constantly updating its features. The semi-translucent form was still expanding, the map now a satellite view of the area in question. The pictures sharpened: greenery, trees, water features all within the grounds of a large estate, at the heart of which was a period mansion.

  “What you see before you is Montacute House, a late Elizabethan mansion located in the village of the same name in the south of Somerset. For many years it was owned by the Phelips family before ownership passed to the National Trust. A few days ago, it was the setting of a high-profile gathering hosted by the wife of the Prince of Wales.”

  The pictures changed again. Replacing the satellite overview, Mike saw photographs of a lavish banquet set in the gardens, against the picturesque backdrop of well-maintained lawns and woodland. Mike recognised faces: royals, MPs, celebrities of slight to moderate fame from the well respected to the talentless. One face reappeared three times in a row, an actress and former page-three girl who Mike had once had a crush on.

  “You know, she actually looks better with her clothes on,” Kit said.

  Mike smiled while Mr White paused the slideshow on a group photograph that included the Prime Minister, the Deputy Prime Minister, two other members of the Cabinet, and their respective partners. All of the men were visually familiar.

  The women, apart from the PM’s wife, less so.

  Mr White zoomed in on a blonde-haired woman, aged somewhere in her early to mid-fifties. She wore a lime green dress, modest earrings and was smiling awkwardly. Like most women present she was attractive for her age.

  Mike knew Kit would have had a name for her.

  “Do either of you recognise this woman?”

  Kit shook his head. “She’s not another Lewinsky is she?”

  “Her name is Lavinia Martina Brown, or Mrs Christopher Hughes since her marriage, and also Lady Hughes-Brown since the death of her father,” Mr White said, his fingers tapping against the tablet coinciding with further changes to the screen. “Made her name in the 1980s as a socialite on the Covent Garden scene. These days she’s famous for a different reason.”

  Mike recognised her. “Isn’t she married to the Deputy PM?”

  “Absolutely correct. Elder sister of the wife of the Earl of Stamford. Favourite of her late father. Eldest of three. During the war her father had been a Red Beret.” He gestured to Mike. “Her mother, on the other hand, had been born in Poland. During the war, many suspected her of being in league with the Kremlin.”

  “Was she?” Kit asked.

  “Only if you believe the tabloids, though she certainly fitted the profile. Poles caught in the wrong side of the country at that time were usually the type the KGB went for. MI6 I’m sure kept a close watch over her, but nothing was ever proven. She died at the height of the Cold War, so any misdoings she was guilty of slipped the net.”

  Mike listened whilst simultaneously taking in the features of the woman in the photograph. The latest image to appear was a profile shot, taken not on the day of the party but a head and shoulders view, most likely from a passport or a driving licence. Her hair colour appeared more natural, her earrings pearl, with evidence of possible Botox around her face and neck. Judged on her face alone, she could have passed for early forties.

  “Who is she?” Mike asked. “What’s so important?”

  Mr White walked over to the console and returned carrying what appeared to be a heavy hardback tome. He slid it across the circular table.

  “I wonder if this means anything to either of you?”

  Kit reached for it before Mike had a chance and examined the cover and the contents. “Can’t say that it does, sir. Then again, I’ve always been more into comic books.”

  He passed it to Mike, who spent several seconds staring at the frontispiece. The content was paper, over one hundred pages long and library bound. Three things stood out from the start: the name of the author, the title of the work, and the year of publication.

  Walter Raleigh. The Ocean to Cynthia. 1599.

  Mr White folded his arms. “This mean anything to you, Hansen?”

  “Not really, sir. I’ve never really been much into poetry.”

  Kit was confused. “I thought Raleigh was a sailor. An adventurer. Hey-ho over the wild blue yonder. Discovering fags and tatties.”

  “He was,” Mike said. “However, he was also a diplomat, a privateer and a poet.” He glanced again at the title, recalling something. “Now that you mention it, I thought The Ocean to Cynthia had always been described as a lost work.”

  Mr White’s expression changed. “Precisely. In fact the only copy had been kept at Montacute, along with a famous portrait on loan from the National Portrait Gallery. The book had been kept in the library, owned by the original family for generations. Most scholars would give a spare limb just to touch it.”

  Kit asked, “What’s so special?”

  “The book is extremely valuable; however, there is one problem with the version you have,” he walked towards Mike, picked up the book and threw it across the floor.

  They looked on, dumbstruck. Incredibly, the pages somehow remained intact.

  “This version is a fake.”

  Mike was confused. The appearance of the library bound cover was exactly as he would have expected, the pages susceptible to signs of wear. There were marks along the seam, which suggested evidence of finger contamination.

  “How did you know?”

  Mr White turned to face the screen, entered something into his tablet and wandered across the room. The pictures changed again, the large 3D map intercepted in the centre by a piece of CCTV footage. The camera had been placed in a library and centred on one particular row of bookshelves. A woman had entered, her blonde hair evident despite the black and white pictures.

  Judging by her actions she had no idea she w
as being filmed.

  Mike leaned forward, sensing he knew what was coming. The woman approached the bottom shelf of one of the room’s many bookcases, clearly determined not to get dust on her dress. She removed a certain book, placed it carefully inside her surprisingly large designer handbag and replaced it with another.

  As far as could be seen from the footage, the covers of both were identical.

  Mike was in a daze, Kit even more so. The last twenty-four hours had been hectic: London to Edinburgh, Edinburgh to the wilds of Scotland, the wilds of Scotland to Suffolk.

  Neither of them had slept in almost forty-eight hours.

  Kit broke the silence. “You brought us here tonight because of a book?”

  Mike was thinking the same thing. “If the footage is complete, and assuming she doesn’t have any sort of diplomatic immunity, the owner of the house has all the proof they need to press charges. I’m assuming the police are aware of this?”

  Mr White tapped at his tablet. The footage on the screen disappeared, along with the maps. A series of photographs took their place, seven in total. The first five were similar to the ones they’d already seen: group shots of the woman, her husband and several others present at the party, including more of the Prime Minister. The sixth shot was noticeably different. The woman was dressed in darker clothes, a black leather jacket and stockings. A black fedora hat hid most of her hair and face; even in the still frames, it was obvious her movements were stifled. Mike recognised the location: Tower Bridge. Then: Westminster.