STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (8 page)

Chapter 11

Thomas got waylaid by traffic on the way to Battersea Technology College. He left the bag in a padded envelope at reception, with a note suggesting she be more careful in future.

In the office, Karl was already sifting his junk mail for gold. “Tommo, come and see this. Why would any man want to increase his sperm by 500%? Hey, unless he was a donor and paid by volume!” Ann Crossley looked over without saying anything. Karl called Thomas to one side. “When are you telling Christine that you won’t require the key to the executive wash room?”

“No time like the present,” he glanced at her door. “May as well get it over with.”

“Don’t be too long — I’ll get the coffees in,” Karl stood up and wandered towards Ann Crossley. “Can you imagine a man with five times the sperm? Where would he keep it all?”

Christine was on the phone. She saw Thomas approach and waved him in. “Okay Bob, leave it with me and thanks again for your time.” She put the phone down and did her best to bury a smile. She used to do that with him, when they were exchanging glances at work, back in the day.

“I thought I’d tell you right away that I won’t be taking up the training offer.”

Christine frowned. “I think you’re being very short-sighted. Bob went through your files very carefully — and despite your macho display — he was impressed by what he saw.”

I’ll bet he was.
Thomas pushed his tongue against his lower front teeth to make a poker face.

“You’re making a mistake, you know.”

And there was something about the way she said it that made him pause and sit down. The best defence might not be attack, but it was better than no defence at all. “I was in your part of the world last night — I nearly popped round.”

Christine did a good impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. “I was busy,” she snapped, “and you shouldn’t assume I have no life of my own.”

It all sounded a bit Jane Austen from where he was sitting, but he got the message loud and clear: stay away. Which only made him more determined.

* * *

At Harwich, in the afternoon, Crossley radioed in; she sounded smug. “Thomas, Christine wants you to ring immediately. You’re to report to Sir Peter Carroll, first thing tomorrow morning. Top priority.”

Thomas relayed the news. Karl sucked a tooth. If he’d played his cards any closer to his chest, he’d have worn them as a tattoo. “Well now, Tommy Boy; looks like I just won a pound. Another two says Crossley knows more than she’s saying. Has Sir Peter ever asked for you by name before?”

“Now and again. I’ve done the odd pick-up, up north. Maybe he thinks southerners get a nosebleed if they venture further than Watford.”

“Yeah,” Karl stared ahead, “or maybe you’ve pissed somebody off?”

It was the first time Thomas had visited Main Building in Whitehall. He’d seen Sir Peter in a few buildings since State House in High Holborn. It was as if the old man couldn’t settle. And every time, including at Whitehall, Sir Peter kept his distance from the various offices of the SSU.

The security guard eyed Thomas up and down. In most governmental buildings, Thomas knew, security had been contracted out to agency staff — the engines of bureaucracy made safe on minimum wages. Main Building was not one of those places. Glancing left to right, he counted five people in the reception area who stood or sat ramrod straight and took their duties very seriously; no skiving with the television on here. Most, if not all, would be armed.

“Thomas Bladen?”

He nodded and held up his ID. Despite the twenty or so years since the SSU had existed, there was still a hard core of resentment and mistrust from the
real
security and armed services. Chummy here, sneering back through the reinforced glass, was clearly not a member of the SSU fan club.

“Hand please.” Fingerprint checks had already been introduced, last time he’d attended Sir Peter. And even though he had nothing to hide — nothing that would show on a hand scan, anyway — he still twitched a little as the scanner went about its business.

An escort appeared, to take him up to the top floor. No conversation in the lift, not even a gripe at the weather. And above them the cameras silently filmed every nuance; despite working in surveillance, Thomas could never get used to that.

The lift rose to the top floor, which made him smile; some things never changed. A grey carpet extended before him, complemented by grey walls and a series of identical navy blue doors. The only way to tell them part was by the acronyms — ATFA, SA2A and NORAD Liaison. This was
need-to-know
taken to extremes. They rounded a corridor, he and the silent wonder, along the dog-leg, past FRD, CIA —
surely not
— and then finally a door labelled SSU. The escort knocked curtly then opened the door for him. “I’ll be back to collect you.”

100% pure charm.

Sir Peter Carroll was sat behind his desk in a navy blazer and tie; he had a look of the Cheshire Cat about him. “Thomas, good to see you!” he stood and extended his hand, but that was as much as he moved. Behind him, the familiar portrait of Sir Winston Churchill adorned the wall, with a great cigar in his mouth and a paperweight of a spitfire by his hand.
There’s no place like home.

Thomas had seen that painting maybe a dozen times, most of them at State House when he’d been showing off his photographic prowess. “How can I help you, sir?” He knew the old man would like that.

“Thomas!” Sir Peter elongated the name in mock disapproval. “Will you join me in a whisky?”

He nodded, happy to accommodate his benefactor. They sat for a minute or two, savouring their drinks. Thomas had never been sure how far the informality thing stretched; it had all been pretty loose before he’d joined the SSU but he’d never pushed it since he joined the payroll.

“I’d like you to collect a package for me; from Leeds.”

A Yorkshire pick-up. Coincidence? Thomas didn’t subscribe to them. “Where do you want it delivered?”

“To me, here in Whitehall — Highly Classified.”

He nodded; if Sir Peter were studying his face for a response he’d find none.

“You’ll leave for York from St Pancras station, Friday morning. I thought you’d appreciate the chance to spend time with your family up there.”

Terrific. Must remember to book the street parade.

“Retrieve the item from an office in Leeds on Monday morning. Then straight back here — understand?” Sir Peter lifted an A5 brown envelope from an in-tray and picked up a telephone to summon the escort. “So . . . what do you make of Bob Peterson?”

“Don’t know much about him,” he played dumb. “I gather he’s been working out of Southampton.”
Give or take the odd bit of moonlighting.

Sir Peter laced his fingers together, like a judge about to pass sentence. “Not really your sort, eh, Thomas?”

Thomas shrugged and stuck with his glass.

“I’m sorry you turned down the training — Bob was very keen.”

Blimey; good news certainly travels fast.

“It’s sensible to get Bob on side,” Sir Peter leaned across his desk. “Winning a war is easy — that just takes superior forces. But winning the peace . . . ah, that takes superior intelligence. Do you follow?”

“I think so, sir.” It all added up to a cryptic pitch for
be nice to Bob
. Three raps on the door brought the conversation to an end.

“Monday,” Sir Peter said as the guard closed the door behind him.

Outside, Thomas felt for the envelope; he knew better than to open it on the street. Even though, on past experience, it would only contain travel times, an address and a named contact. It was still before eleven. He rang Christine to check what she wanted him to do next; back to base it was then. On the way over he called Karl.

“Ah, the happy wanderer! How did it go?”

“Fine thanks. Listen, turns out I’ll be away this weekend — when do you fancy meeting at the club?”

“Well now, let me check my packed social calendar . . .” Karl paused for about three seconds. “Yep, this week’s good — pick a day.”

“How about tonight? — I know it’s short notice . . .”

Karl backtracked like a Lamborghini slammed into reverse. “The thing is, Tommo, there’s this senorita.”

“It wouldn’t be Teresa by any chance, would it?”

“A gentleman never tells. Why don’t we make it Thursday night?”

“Done.”

* * *

The office seemed deserted when Thomas arrived. The team would still be at Harwich. And Peterson, with any luck he’d be under a bus.

“Hi there,” Christine poked her head out of her door, “fancy a bite to eat?”

He blinked a couple of times; did a comedic search behind him.

“Come on, you must be hungry?”

“Sure, why not — I’ve just got to make a call.”

“Great! I’ll power down and get my bag.”

It had been a long time since they’d strolled along the Thames together. The water shimmered in the sunlight; slow lazy bow waves brushing the banks as the tourists motored up and down. Given the choice he would have lingered awhile to watch how the shadow lines sliced across the concrete. But it was Christine’s gig so he kept quiet and played follow my leader.

He remembered the bistro, a spit away from the Tate Modern. It had been the site of that first try-out lunch with Mummy and Daddy. No surprise then that Christine made small talk about her parents; people who wouldn’t make space in a lifeboat for him if the ship went down in flames — in shark-infested waters.

“Anyway, enough about me; how are your family, Thomas?”

The
coincidence
bell rang so loud in his head he could hardly hear himself think. He muddled through with a mixture of old news and half-truths, grateful when Christine claimed them a table.

“Here, this is good. A great view of the North Bank.”

They agreed to share a bottle of wine — her treat. He quickly got into the rhythm of their non-date. There was nothing at risk here since not only had she no interest in him romantically, he still had Bob Peterson marked down as her bedtime companion. On those terms, he could afford to relax and enjoy himself.

“I really do wish you’d think about the training, Thomas,” she had a certain way of saying his name that could still set his teeth on edge. The tone dragged him back in time, just before the ice age had set in. He avoided a skirmish by drawing on the healing power of wine. “I know Bob’s appointment was a shock . . . but that shouldn’t stand in the way of your future. Hmm?”

He smiled. As the early afternoon sunshine picked out her auburn highlights, it was easy to recall what he’d first seen in her, two years before. By dessert he’d noticed her legs again.
Best stop now, Thomas, before your tongue runs away with you.
Christine, oblivious to his gaze — or used to it — was enthusing about her parents’ stables, where she still kept a horse.

He replayed the first time he’d met her mother, when she’d inquired pointedly: “Do you ride at all?” And the killer line he’d never delivered: Only your daughter. Cue canned laughter. Not for nothing had Mrs Gerrard later described him as coarse, behind his back of course. Guilty as charged.

His mobile went off. He made that stock face that all people do, suggesting they’re irritated by a call even when they’re secretly delighted.

“Hi babe. I’ve hit a problem with that number. Sorry about last night . . .”

He cut across her. “Sorry, you’ve caught me at a bad time. Can I ring you later? Great — speak to you then.” Touché Miranda. He switched the phone off, pre-empting an abusive text.

Christine ran a fingertip around her wine glass. “Girlfriend trouble?” she lifted her head square to his.

He leaned out of the sun. “There is no girlfriend. How about you?” He said it casually and glanced to one side to give her space to respond.

“Me? No, no girlfriend either. My lesbian phase ended at boarding school.” She kicked him playfully under the table, tapping her handmade Italian shoes against his brogues. “This is fun, isn’t it? We should do this more often; we are friends after all.”

He adjusted his crotch under the tablecloth and then raised a glass. They clinked a toast, friends forever. Or for the time being, anyway.

* * *

He didn’t ring Miranda back until the evening. Either she couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up, so it was at least an hour before she returned the call. Another hour, in which he cooked or worked or went to the toilet, with the mobile at his side.

“Hey babe, how’s it going?”

He kept it low key. “Yeah, fine; sorry about this afternoon, I was involved in a work thing.”

“No problem,” she managed to make it sound just the opposite. “That number you gave me doesn’t exist. Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, Miranda.”

“I’ll read it back to you in case I got it wrong.”

He checked on his computer as she spoke. “No, that’s the one. Not to worry.” Except that now, he was really starting to worry.

“Listen, fancy coming over for Sunday lunch? Just me this time!”