STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (26 page)

Chapter 31

Thomas drove back to the flat and tried to pacify himself in front of the TV. Any relief about Miranda was tempered with an aching sense of loss, of still not knowing where she was. Added to that, Petrov had lied to him — a man he’d put himself on the line for. And for all Karl’s efforts, if Yorgi was holding Miranda, well, Karl was just as powerless and clueless as he was. It all added up to a very poor starting point. He couldn’t settle, roaming the channels, wondering whether Karl would bring any more super-duper painkillers when he collected his car. And speaking of killers, was that
his
destiny now?

Karl turned up an hour or so later. They sat in Thomas’s flat, the TV turned low in the background, not achieving a great deal. He put Karl straight about Diane’s phone message, early on — no point torturing the poor guy. But Karl had little to share in return.

“Honest to God, Tommo, we’re doing our utmost.” Which was like saying: ‘A’ for effort, ‘F’ for achievement.

Thomas sat back in the armchair. Karl was sitting pretty much where Miranda had been, last time at the flat. “Did you get the package from Petrov?”

Karl shifted on the cushion. “Yeah, it’s a sealed DSB — can you believe that? Teresa’s speaking to her people tomorrow about what we do with it.”

That hurt.
Yeah, no rush or anything
. He decided to leap the ravine. “Only you and Christine knew I wasn’t working when Miranda was taken — from my car.”

Karl banged his cup on the table. “Now wait a minute . . .”

Thomas held up a hand. “So they
can’t
have been after Miranda. I mean, why
then
, the day after we spirit Petrov and his family away? And if they’d had the tracker on my car beforehand, they could have picked me up
with
Petrov at his home.”

Karl calmed down. “I see your logic. Then the tracker must have been put on your car at the hotel or later on. But who else, other than Yorgi, would be interested enough in Petrov to want to get hold of you?”

“Dunno. Someone who’s interested in Yorgi? Or working with him? It’s the same thing from our perspective. Maybe
our
was stretching things a bit, but he was softening Karl up for the biggie. “Miranda’s missing and she’s still at risk. It seems to me that Petrov and the DSB are our best leads. I want the DSB.”

Karl’s eyes widened. “And just what are you intending to do with it?”

“I’ll take it to Sir Peter Carroll. He has connections — MI5, Army Intelligence; I don’t care who. I just want Miranda back. There could be something in that DSB that leads to Yorgi.” The thoughts came thick and fast now; “Perhaps it’s Yorgi they want and they think I can give him to them.”

Karl scratched his teeth on a knuckle. “What you’re asking — the DSB . . . it’s not something . . . it’s not my decision. I can speak to Teresa later, but even then . . .”

Thomas looked at Karl, really looked at him. Did he already know what was in the DSB? Had Karl been playing him for a fool?” “Well, I’m going to see Sir Peter tomorrow, with or without the DSB.”

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from, Tommo. You do what you need to,” Karl held up his hands. “I just wouldn’t want you to be disappointed if your ‘special relationship’ with our glorious leader isn’t as special as you think it is.” He checked his watch. “Look, you’ve had a hell of a day so I’m going to piss off and give you some breathing space.”

Thomas tossed Karl his car keys.

“All I’m saying is: don’t be too hasty. I’ll talk to Teresa and get back to you.”

* * *

“Hi Sheryl,” Thomas kept his tone measured, leaving little space for her to interject. He focused on the things that he wanted her to know, starting with the biggest and the best. “Miranda called home today; no, Diane told me. Yeah, it’s great news. I’m seeing someone official tomorrow . . . yeah, straight after, I promise.” It was gone one when he finally mustered the energy to go to bed.

He put the call in to Sir Peter’s office at seven thirty next morning; he’d been thinking about it since six. In the intervening time, he’d come up with nothing by way of a story, so he’d stuck with the need to see him urgently. He’d still head over to Harwich and play the waiting game.

When he got on site, Karl wasn’t there. Ann Crossley was none the wiser on his movements. At ten thirty, Thomas rang him on his mobile, but it was out of use. Christine was the next logical choice; she had mixed news.

“Karl has been assigned elsewhere and is subject to a lockdown. Sir Peter Carroll has asked me to pass on an open invitation to Whitehall.” She sounded bemused.

Thomas had once been subject to a lockdown. Standard procedure on some assignments — all contact with the rest of the team or anyone else expressly forbidden. It was the closest they ever came to secret squirreling.

He weighed up the situation. An open invitation was a definite plus; unusual too, given Sir Peter’s fondness for protocol. What about Karl? True, Christine had warned them that the job was coming to an end — bloody suspicious timing though. His own lockdown had been a three-day stint with the Serious Fraud Office, but lockdowns of just a day had been known; all the more reason to follow things up with Sir Peter in the meantime.

* * *

The sun glanced off Main Building, illuminating it against a photogenic blue sky. In other circumstances, he might have stopped to admire it. Not today though.

After reporting at reception, he gave his details and took a seat. He tried playing it out in his head, sifting the facts to choose what he wanted to share. Someone was missing and somehow he’d got mixed up in helping the brother of . . . He backtracked; how could he explain knowing that Yorgi was a gunman? He was still juggling the facts when he noticed someone standing over him.

“I’ll take you up now.”

No hello, no introductions; this was evidently the kind of person who smiled on the inside, if at all. There was no eye contact in the lift; just the definite sense that this guy thought Thomas was the shit on his shiny boots. Another warm welcome extended to Floater colleagues in the Surveillance Support Unit.

As the lift door opened, he felt a rush of excitement. This was the big step that would bring Miranda home. He should have done this when it first all kicked off. And besides, he’d already passed Sir Peter’s loyalty test; this was like repaying his trust.

The escort left him at the door. He knocked confidently. Sir Peter opened the door and welcomed him in. “Thomas, your message sounded important. I’ve cleared my appointments for the next hour or so.”

Brilliant. Just what the doctor ordered.

“It’s a little early for a drink — I thought perhaps a coffee?”

Thomas smiled as he sat down. Now for the tricky part, keeping Karl and Teresa out of it. Bob Peterson was the logical fall guy, by process of elimination. That and the fact that Thomas thought he was a snake.

Anyhow, big breath and straight in at the deep end.
“I’m in trouble, sir. A friend of mine has disappeared and I think it’s connected with something I saw.” He’d barely got two sentences out when there was a rap on the door. He almost jumped out of his chair.

“It’s just the coffees. Come in!” Sir Peter boomed.

Once he had a cup in his hand, Thomas resumed his story — the edited version. Harwich — Bob Peterson — the red car — Petrov — Yorgi — his missing friend. There were gaps wide enough to park a bus in. He didn’t explain how he’d tracked Petrov down or why he’d kept it all to himself. But the old man was still listening, which was a good sign.

Sir Peter had stopped making notes, right at the point where Miranda went missing. He put a spoon in his cup and stirred it slowly, rhythmically tapping the cup three times. Then he put the spoon down in a precise fashion and laced his fingers together, like some mafia don. He seemed to grow in stature. “Now then, Thomas, why don’t you tell me
all
about it?” A self-satisfied leer lit up his face like a Halloween pumpkin.

Oh fuck.
Thomas tried to quell the trembling in his hand as he put his cup down. He understood now, and felt sick at his own stupidity. Behind the desk, even Winston Churchill seemed to be smirking at him:
checkmate
. Then the penny really dropped — the Churchill speech, off the net, the ‘United States of Europe’ speech from 1946. Jesus, short of taking an ad out in the papers, the clue had been in the painting all the time.

Sir Peter puffed up his chest and cleared his throat. “Let me be frank, Thomas. I’m extremely impressed by your resourcefulness and I regret the recent turn of events. But I believe I can bring about a mutually satisfactory conclusion. Will you let me help you?”

Thomas’s first instinct was to hurl the bastard through the window and watch him crash to the concrete below. But this was the real world and he was all out of options. “What do you want?”

“Supposing Petrov had something that didn’t belong to him; something we could exchange for Miranda.”

Thomas froze. He hadn’t mentioned Miranda by name.

“Can you get it, Thomas?” the voice was insistent.

He closed his eyes and drew breath. “I’ll talk with Petrov.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very persuasive. Shall we say twenty-four hours? And Thomas, it would be better for
everyone
if the package remained unopened,” Sir Peter slid out a desk drawer and retrieved an A4 Civil Service envelope. He passed it across, but before Thomas could break the seal, Sir Peter brought the meeting to a close. “I think that’s all we have to say to each other at this juncture. Goodbye Thomas — twenty-four hours. It’s best if we resolve this without Yorgi’s involvement.”

He had to use the chair to stand. He felt Sir Peter watching him as he staggered for the door. A guard was waiting in the corridor. Thomas shuffled along behind him in a daze, brown envelope in hand like hospital bad news. At the lifts, he felt his insides shatter. “I need the gents.”

The guard stood outside the main door, like a bouncer. What did the guy think he was going to do, swim down the u-bend to freedom? He leaned against the sink and ran the tap to try and drown out the hissing in his head. A spasm brought up a clump of brown-stained sick. It reeked of coffee and fear. He let it slide down the plughole then splashed some cold water over this face. He left the tap running and dried his hands.

And now for the envelope
. It was sealed tight; not last minute, and still wet with spit, but something planned in advance. Inside were photographs. The top one was a herd of people, slightly blurred, moving away from the camera. A sign on the wall settled the mystery: Walthamstow Central. He looked more carefully at the centre of the picture; and there he was, merging into the crowd.

He flicked through the other photographs frantically, half expecting the worst. He wasn’t disappointed; there was Pickering — his parents’ house, Pat and the kids. Those bastards had everything on film. The last shot was the final dagger through the heart. A telephoto lens of him and Ajit, sat in a car by the police station. It had been a rat trap from start to finish.

He sneered at his reflection and shook his head. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and the tears he was holding back. He slipped the photos back into the envelope, turned off the tap and opened the door.

* * *

Back on the street, everything seemed larger than life; everything except him. As he looked over his shoulder, Main Building soared above him, all-powerful, impregnable. On impulse, he opened his mobile to try Karl again. Did he dare? It would be a disciplinary offence if he got through — both for him and Karl. He was completely screwed.

He walked over to the park and sat down on a bench, the open phone still in his hand like a weapon. They might be watching him, even now. He hunched forward, pretended to play with the buttons and glanced around. The only people nearby were a woman with a baby in a stroller and two college kids playing with a Frisbee. The stroller could be a disguise for a directional microphone and a camera, with the students waiting for him to move.
Yeah, right. And maybe the Frisbee was a hover camera.

He cradled his head and leaned forward, tasting bile. Through the chink of light between his fingers, he watched people ignoring him. He needed coffee; he had a lot of thinking to do.

The espresso he bought from the coffee stand in the park didn’t taste so great, but its effects were undiminished; such were the restorative powers of premium caffeine. He needed a plan, fast. He sipped rhythmically and went through a list in his head.

Point 1: Sir Peter Carroll had said they’d prefer that the package wasn’t opened. So who had the package now? Answer: Teresa. But he could hardly ring up every Intelligence office and ask if a Teresa worked there. But . . . he did know where she’d been — he could go back to the building where they’d interrogated Petrov. Someone there must be able to get hold of her. He took a bite of the muffin as a reward and held the sugary stodge in his mouth until it melted.

Point 2: Get some time off work. He couldn’t be in two places at once. Christine would sign it off, and if she took issue with it he could always refer her to Sir Peter. He texted her to say he was coming in for a chat when he picked up his car. She responded immediately that she’d wait in for him.