Bertie and the Kinky Politician (13 page)

Coberley had confirmed Celeste was the only human occupant of the house, but she was not alone. Several smaller heat sources occasionally moved. He identified the parrot immediately, primarily because the report stated it would be there, but it took him a while to figure out the tiny infra-red signal appearing intermittently in one corner was likely to be a sleeping hamster or some other such nasty little rodent. All seemed tranquil, then the heat signature of another creature appeared, one that scuttled hurriedly across the room towards the patio doors.

‘Hey up, Bob, she's moving,' he murmured. ‘Coming directly towards us.' Both men were far too experienced to allow Celeste's proximity to the CRAP to rattle them. It was highly unlikely she'd notice the minuscule probe nestling in the centre of its silicone bird dropping. Coberley switched to UDDERS just as Celeste drew back the curtains and opened the door. ‘How sweet, she's putting out the cat.' He witnessed her actions with perfect clarity. Celeste held the door ajar and a fluffy bundle scampered outside. Coberley zoomed in. ‘That's interesting.'

‘What is?'

‘The cat.'

‘Why? Does it have two heads?' The door closed and the curtains were drawn again. Celeste left the salon for a moment and so Coberley, for want of something better to do, continued to track the Persian as it strolled insouciantly across the lawn towards the shrubbery, no doubt to seek out its favoured loo stop.

‘Well, come on now, that's not really very likely, is it!'

‘I'm ever hopeful.'

‘Sorry to disappoint. My point is that the cat's one of those long-haired types.'

‘So?' snorted Pritchard dismissively. He was a top-class field operative with the most secretive agency in the United Kingdom, a man with the highest possible security classification, an unobtrusive visitor to many of the more troublesome countries around the globe, an expert in a wide range of espionage techniques, black belt in any number of obscure, oriental fist-flailing Grasshopper martial arts and totally fluent in Russian and German, however, his interest in the nocturnal habits of cuddlesome domesticated quadrupeds was, it had to be said, minimal.

‘So how do they wipe their bums with all that hair?'

‘How the hell should I know?'

‘Must get a bit messy.'

‘I sincerely hope your observation isn't based on personal experience.'

‘A mite gooey, wouldn't you say?'

‘Oddly enough, I'm not interested.'

Coberley smiled. ‘I'll bet Bloxham suffers from the same problem.' Rod Bloxham was another JSON operative and the only officer in the department to sport any facial hair. A broad isthmus of black beard connected each ear via a forested crescent around the jaw, knitting everything together into one unbroken hirsute jungle through which appeared only eyes, nose and, just occasionally, lips. Coberley guessed that, when it came to matters of hygiene, his colleague and the cat quite possibly shared the same logistical problems of cleanliness.

‘Call me provincial, but it's a thought I find strangely repellent!' said Pritchard, pulling a face.

‘That's the one thing separating us from the lower species, you know.'

‘What is?'

‘We can't lick our own backsides!'

‘You really are truly horrible at times.'

‘Although I believe there's a girl in a brothel in Hamburg who can disprove that theory.'

‘Really? Is there a website?' The Transit had full roaming broadband capabilities and some clever software patches allowing them to bypass all known password protection systems. Just the ticket to access the occasional smutty porn site to while away the hours when things got really boring.

‘How should I know?'

‘Well that's no good.'

‘Did Bloxham ever tell you about the time he hid a micro flash card in his pubes?'

‘No, and please, for the love of all that's good and holy, don't elaborate further.'

‘Couldn't find it.'

‘What?'

‘He lost it. He had to be scanned with a metal detector. Migrated around to his back hair.'

‘Are you serious?'

Coberley chuckled. ‘Nah, course not. Wasn't his back hair at all – it was hidden in his navel!'

Pritchard sighed heavily. ‘Listen,' he said in a pained voice. ‘I know you like to pass the time bringing up these little anecdotes, but could you please pass the next ten minutes bringing up some silence. Please? Just for me?'

‘Sure. No problem,' replied Coberley. There was a five-second pause, which appeared to be the absolute limit of his resolve. ‘Anyway, going back to Hamburg, they reckon there's a higher concentration of contortionists in the brothels there than anywhere else on earth. Fancy that.'

‘Great,' said Pritchard dryly. ‘Just get on with it, will you.'

‘You're unusually tetchy tonight.' Coberley shifted UDDERS again with a touch of the joystick and saw Sebastian's head jerk around. ‘Damn! The cat's heard the motor drive. It's coming over.' He watched the image wax in size. Sebastian ducked under the leafy bush and bent to sniff at the compact camera. Coberley saw its nose loom larger and larger until it was so close the lens was unable to focus.

‘Oh, cock, no!'

‘What's going on?' Pritchard asked sharply.

‘I don't believe it. The blasted cat's just taken a leak over my UDDERS.' He recoiled with a jerk as Sebastian's copious spray hit the lens. The Persian appeared anxious to smother the alien scent of carbon fibre and plastic with his own ammoniac odour and watered with vigour, tail vertical, rear end trembling and head turned to check his aim was true. When finished, he looked back with what Coberley swore was a smug catty grin on his furry face before strolling away to start his nightly patrol.

‘Cobblers!' exclaimed Pritchard with real feeling. ‘Now that's going to stink! One of us is going to have to sneak out and clean the damned thing.'

‘Too right. That's a valuable piece of kit. Hugo will have a fit if some congealed cat's pee gums up the works.'

‘Yeah, but who's going to do it?'

There was an awkward silence. Both were unwilling to volunteer. Both knew exactly what the other was thinking. ‘We'll toss,' suggested Coberley amiably. He had a good record against Pritchard and fished into his pocket. There was a spinning flicker of metal. ‘Heads!' he called. They both bent to examine the coin in the faint red illumination.

Pritchard's shoulders slumped. He muttered a heartfelt imprecation under his breath.

‘Don't forget your tissue,' replied Coberley with a prim snigger, pleased he'd avoided that distasteful little job.

‘It's not bloody fair,' grumbled Pritchard, like a pensioner opening his council tax bill.

‘I believe we applied a mathematically sound principle of selection via a commonly agreed democratic decision.'

‘Yeah, right, you conceited sod!'

‘You always were a bad loser.' Coberley returned to his task, switching from the somewhat degraded image provided by the dripping UDDERS back to the CRAP. Using some clever filtering programmes, he was able to smooth out the distortion created by the curtains and focussed on the stationary figure. The woman quite plainly sat at a bureau. After a few moments, Coberley realised she had started to write. ‘Like puppy dog's noses,' he said softly.

‘Now what are you dribbling on about?'

‘Her nipples. They're cold!'

‘Trust you to notice that.' There was a faint air of disgust in Pritchard's voice. The thought of handling the soiled UDDERS had dampened his enthusiasm for the mission.

‘She's got nice round tits, certainly big enough to keep your ears toasting on a cold winter's morning!'

Pritchard exploded. ‘For God's sake, you're using state of the art equipment the Russians would sell their grandmothers to copy! Each piece of CRAP is a tour-de-force of emerging nanotechnology and can switch from infra-red to image intensifier to normal vision at the flick of a button. It's completely undetectable, remote controlled up to a distance of six miles, can laser range for precision targeting and was developed after years of painstaking research at the cutting edge of data processing miniaturisation. It is the ultimate in sophisticated surveillance equipment and costs the best part of ninety grand a pop. It's the first device sensitive enough to see clearly through curtains and runs indefinitely on a solar powered battery that is in itself too damned clever for its own good – and all you can use it for is to satisfy your unwholesome perversions! There are times when you really do make me puke!' be fulminated bitterly.

‘So you don't want a peek, then?'

‘Don't be a prat, shift over!' sniggered Pritchard immediately. The two men swapped places in a jiffy. The CRAP was extraordinarily sensitive and gave an excellent image. ‘Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. Lovely. Erect and very kissable,' he murmured with obvious appreciation. He had no difficulty in identifying Celeste's contours. She sat with legs crossed, chin in cupped palm, and wrote with quick certainty. Occasionally, she paused with pen between lips and looked up as if for inspiration. Because the CRAP was working on infra-red and consequently sensitive only to heat, the colour gradient revealed that indeed her nipples were colder than the rest of her body, as were her fingers and the tips of her ears and nose. ‘She should be going to bed soon. What's the time?'

‘Ten fifteen.' Coberley had finally located Pritchard's supper lurking behind a fire extinguisher. There was a faint crackling of cling film and an odour of tuna filled the van. ‘Bloody Norah, Bob, this is disgusting! Can't you get your missus to put something less rancid in your sandwiches? These smell like a prossie's gusset.'

Pritchard smiled. They always needled each other out in the field. It relieved the tension and made the time pass more enjoyably. Perhaps that was why they worked so well together. ‘If you think that smells, get a load of this!'

He farted. Spectacularly. Three bars adagio, followed by a brief but entertaining encore. It was a full-on anal
a cappella
of which any man would have been proud. Swift revenge for losing the toss.

‘Bugger me!' protested Coberley, waving his hands about to disperse the unwholesome odour, but there wasn't much chance of escape in the back of the van. ‘That's a bit evil, you dirty-arsed bastard!'

‘Went down the Bombay Duck last night. Tucked into a beef phal with sag aloo and two Peshwari nans, all washed down with three pints of gut-rot, make-you-blind cider,' announced Pritchard proudly. ‘Bloody gorgeous it was, too, a fine example of traditional English cuisine.' He concentrated on Celeste's image and ignored Coberley's gasping protests as something truly deadly wafted through the Transit, curling paint and corroding unprotected metal surfaces. What was she doing? Who wrote nowadays when you could easily pick up the phone or send a text? He continued to watch intently, then the answer hit him. ‘Greg, I think she's writing her diary.'

Coberley instantly forgot his complaints. ‘Sure it's not a letter?'

‘Yeah. She's just finished and is flicking back through.' Both men knew such journals were a fertile source of information. A woman's diary reigned supreme because it was so much more expressive than a man's. Women opened their hearts to their diaries in a way that often made for torrid reading. It was a genetic thing. Like shoe shopping. ‘What's the betting Dickless Jimmy's in there.'

‘More than evens. Call him!'

Pritchard punched up a number on his mobile. It was a very special mobile, keystroke scrambled and encrypted. Even GCHQ couldn't eavesdrop on conversations from this phone. Chaplain answered before the second ring.

‘Yes?' It was a bit terse. Perhaps he'd been trying to hump his wife again. Chaplain may be just about the most powerful man in Britain but it was well-known around the office he couldn't get a stiffy!

‘We think she has a diary.' There was a pause while this information was absorbed. Pritchard continued to stare at the screen, the phone held to his ear. The woman finished reading, placed the book into an internal drawer and shut the bureau. She then stroked the parrot from neck to tail, fussing it lovingly. Soft murmurings of endearment were duly recorded by the micro-microphone, as was a strange muted resonance that sounded suspiciously like purring. The image was so detailed he could easily see her lips moving.

‘What do you think, Bob?'

Pritchard knew exactly what Chaplain meant. He flipped over to UDDERS again and scanned the walls and roof carefully for some minutes through the soiled lens. Chaplain waited in silence.

‘I can't see any alarm on the house. Odd for this neighbourhood. The patio doors are the standard wooden rubbish. Checked them out this morning when we put in our CRAP. I figure we should be in and out in two minutes, twenty to photocopy the diary and a few minutes to tidy up. This'll be a doddle. There's nobody else about.'

What he meant was that there was nobody else
human
about. Pritchard, of course, completely dismissed Bertie's presence. The curious absence of an alarm should have been ample warning.

Chaplain sighed. He wasn't concerned about the legality of his actions – JSON operatives had burgled numerous houses, tapped countless phones, intercepted sackfuls of mail, and threatened, assaulted, and blackmailed sundry unfortunates over the years with complete disregard for any law. No, it wasn't a sense of moral outrage that made him pause, more a premonition of doom. He trusted his instincts, and for some inexplicable reason his instincts screamed at him. However, his desperate need to dispatch Timbrill before the auditors knocked on the door overcame his caution. This was an unmissable opportunity.

‘OK. Go ahead. When you've finished, bug out and set up outside Timbrill's flat.'

The phone went dead. Pritchard stared at Coberley's faint silhouette and nodded. The other man switched on the portable laser scanner, leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the console. ‘Anyone for a tuna sandwich?' he asked.