The Keepers of the Persian Gate (25 page)

“The court will not attach very much weight to the confessions of a war criminal,” Colin pointed out.

“Sir, the very security of this trial hinges on this,” replied Paddy.

“I see, so you need me,” said Colin.

“If you are agreeable, we would ask you convince the judge to submit a request that the Mechanic is transferred to London before the commencement of the trial,” said Paddy.

Colin looked at his watch and then at his diary. “I’d need to visit the Judge tonight, in that case. However, I can’t offer any guarantees. He lives in an estate in Surrey, too. He’s going to be right pissed off if I turn up and wake him up. But, yes, I’ll give it a try.”

After bringing Tony Morley back into the room, both counsel discussed some of the matters this raised and then they went their separate ways. Paddy learned that the trial would be held at Woolwich Crown Court, beside Belmarsh prison. This was the perfect place for the trial. Besides the Old Bailey, it was probably the most secure court in the country. It was also attached to Belmarsh prison by an underground tunnel. Belmarsh was the most secure prison in the country and had housed some of Britain’s most notorious prisoners in recent years, including the London bus bomber Ramzi Mohammed, the Irish gangster John Gilligan and the Great Train Robber, Ronnie Biggs.

Additionally, there was a significant security blanket. Woolwich could be turned into a fortress at a moment’s notice. It had high perimeter walls which rose from the ground upon orders of the resident judge. There was bullet proof glass in all the windows and blast-proof doors into the court room. As if that wasn’t enough, the Royal Artillery Barracks was based a very short distance away with a battalion of active British soldiers who were regularly engaging in mock scenarios for a terrorist attack on London.

Morley had explained to Paddy and Jeff that the Judge in the case was Bernard Brennan, the Chief Resident Judge at Woolwich. Brennan had a formidable reputation. Not only was he himself former British army and had experience of active service in the Falklands, but in 2010, he actually jumped the bench when he noticed that a defendant was trying to escape the court room and personally tackled him to the ground. That defendant was sentenced to life in prison and later said that when Brennan tackled him to the ground, he broke his pelvis. Not bad for a man of 62.

The next step before the trial would be for Paddy to briefly meet with the ISC and update them on the situation. The meeting would take place in the early morning back at Hyde Park Barracks. In the interim, Jeff stressed that Paddy had to lay low. It wouldn’t take long for the rogue elements in MI5 to figure out that Paddy was back in London, so he suggested that Paddy go to an MI6 safe house in East London.

***

Meanwhile, back at Doughty Street, Adam Scott had returned to find no sign of Mark. He searched the entire building. After that he went about searching through the drawers and cupboards in Mark’s office to see if there was anything which could connect Mark with Jackson. The more he searched, the less likely it seemed he would find anything. Then he remembered that Mark’s secretary had once told him that Mark kept a safe behind the mantelpiece in his office. He felt his way around the mantelpiece and found a dummy stone. He fiddled with it a bit and it eventually came out. There underneath was a safe.

***

Back in East London, after Jeff had left Paddy off in the MI6 safe house in Whitechapel, Paddy heard his phone ringing and went to answer it. The screen showed Catherine’s number.

“Hello,” said Paddy.

There was just silence down the phone. Then there was a muffled voice. “Paddy. Mark’s home. He doesn’t know I’m in the house, but he’ll have seen that I was fiddling around with his papers. I didn’t have time to put them away,” said Catherine, very quietly.

“Where are you?” asked Paddy.

“I’m hiding in the closet under the stairs,” whispered Catherine.

“And where’s Mark?” asked Paddy.

“He’s upstairs, screaming and shouting, saying he’s going to kill whoever touched his papers. I’ve never seen him act like this. I’m afraid, Paddy,” replied Catherine.

Mark lived in a swanky Mews house off the back of Doughty Street. They were former coach houses which had been converted into private residences. The closet in which Catherine was hiding in was on the ground level and the front door led straight out onto the lane behind Doughty Street. If Catherine was able to get out onto the road she would be less than a hundred yards from Gray’s Inn Road, which was a main arterial route into the heart of the City of London.

“You need to get out of there now. Run out the front door and flag down the first taxi you find. When you do, tell the driver to take you to 338 Whitechapel Road. It’s beside a pub. I’ll meet you there. Do not stop running until you find a taxi. Understood?”

“Ok.” Said Catherine.

She kept the line open with Paddy as she ran out into the corridor. Paddy heard Mark shouting expletives in the background; Mark had clearly spotted her exit. It sounded as though he was bundling down the stairs after her. Then there was a loud bang which sounded like the front door slamming. He couldn’t hear Catherine anymore. Then he heard pronounced footsteps on the wooden floor and heavy breathing. Mark picked up the phone. “So Paddy. Is that the way it’s going to be?”

Paddy hesitated to answer. But then a red mist descended over him. He flicked through his phone and hit the record button.

“You’re damn right it is, Mark. I know everything. By the time this is all over you will be spending the rest of your life behind bars. The best thing you can do is hand yourself over to the police,” said Paddy.

Mark laughed down the phone. “Oh you are so naive, Mr. Trimble. So naive. Do you any idea what world of pain I can bring down upon you?”

“That sounded dangerously like a threat,” said Paddy.

“That’s because it was. Right now, your apartment in Doughty Street is filled with evidence that you collaborated with the CIA to kill Will. Oh yes, you didn’t think Vera was just a little gift from me to you, did you? It was her that gave your key to Machete to access your apartment,” said Mark.

“Well Machete’s dead now, Mark,” replied Paddy. “And I fear for you, unless you hand yourself into the authorities.”

“Clarkson and the Acropolis are more powerful than you realise. Already your friends in the CIA have been taken into custody upon their arrival at the American Embassy. MI5 is looking for you and believe me they will find you. No, Mr. Trimble, by the time this is all over, it will be you who is finished, believe me. I’m going to…” The line went dead.

Paddy called back, but there was no response. When he tried again, the phone just went straight to voicemail. The phone could have just ran out of battery but given the bizarre chain of events which had occurred in the past week, he suspected something more sinister.

***

After waiting impatiently for about half an hour, Paddy decided enough was enough. He thought he should go round to Mark’s house and try to find Catherine. He grabbed his coat, lifted a pistol which Jeff had supplied him, and walked down the stairs of the apartment building out onto the rainy street. However, as he prepared to hail a taxi, he saw a girl wandering uncertainly up the street. It was Catherine, soaking from the rain and barefoot. She had obviously ditched the heels to run.

As Paddy began to walk towards her, she burst into a run. She jumped onto him and hugged him tight, burying her head into his shoulder while her long locks of blonde hair engulfed his nose and mouth. She began to cry; Paddy comforted her and took her upstairs to the safe house. When they got inside, he fetched her a glass of water and a towel. She produced several printed pages of e-mails exchanged between Jackson and Mark regarding Clarkson Nuclear. Everything was spoken about in metaphor. There was nothing overtly incriminating, but the correspondence confirmed that Jackson and Mark had been communicating with each other. Indeed, it appeared they had been communicating with each other even after William Dunlop was killed. One of the e-mails from Mark to Jackson after Dunlop’s murder stated that the “the snake’s head has been severed. Only time will tell whether it will bite the rest of itself.” Paddy smirked as he read it.

“What does that mean, Paddy?” asked Catherine.

“It’s based an old Arabic legend about snakes,” replied Paddy. “That is, when a snake’s head is cut off, it will bite its own body. If it does, it will inject its poison, thereby poisoning its carcass. Any scavenger who ate the snake would therefore die. I think what it’s saying is that killing William Dunlop would have the effect of destroying all those who were loyal to him.”

Catherine was shaking. “I’m so frightened, Paddy. Can you hold me?” she asked timidly.

“Of course, come here,” Paddy sat beside Catherine and took her in his arms. She was light as a feather. Catherine pressed herself up against him and began to feather her hands down Paddy’s lower back. Paddy reciprocated by playing with her hair around her upper neck. Then she turned her head ever so slightly, putting her cheek against Paddy’s neck and breathing heavily into his collar bone. Paddy cautiously began to tilt his head closer to hers, and she reciprocated. Their cheeks began to rub together and he could feel her body pressing closer to his. She moved her head so that his lips brushed close to hers. They looked at each other for a moment. Then their lips touched and she launched herself on him.

“Should we doing this?” asked Paddy.

“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you, Paddy. But Mark was in the way. Take me to bed,” said Catherine.

Paddy and Catherine continued to kiss before moving to a horizontal position on the couch. After a few minutes of heavy petting, he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the nearby bedroom.

***

Saturday 14 August, 2011

The next morning Paddy awoke while Catherine was still asleep. She lay there naked as the sun poured through the window. It was only about 0600 hours. He went out to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. As he did so, Paddy turned on BBC1 to listen to the six o’clock news. As he lifted his cup, he heard the main story:

“And now for this morning’s top story. Police are searching for Catherine Simpson, a barrister who is believed to be connected to the murder of Sir Mark Glover, Managing Partner of the law firm Dunlop & McLaine late last night.”

Catherine’s chambers profile photograph appeared on the television. Paddy dropped his cup of coffee and it smashed on the floor. The report continued.

“Sir Mark lived in Doughty Street Mews and had only recently assumed the post of Managing Partner following the suicide of the previous Managing Partner, William Dunlop. Miss Simpson was last seen getting into a taxi at the junction between High Holborn and Gray’s Inn Road. Police are appealing for information from anyone who knows where she went after that and are particularly interested to speak to the taxi driver who picked her up. It is believed she got into the taxi around 1.45am this morning.

“Various tributes have been paid to Sir Mark, who had served with distinction in the Special Air Service before pursuing a career in law. Chief amongst those was Sir David Wood, current Cabinet Secretary and close friend of Sir Mark, who said the following:

“‘Obviously I am limited by what I can say due to my position as Cabinet Secretary. Nevertheless, I feel obliged to depart from the usual etiquette and to say a British hero has been lost today, and a great personal friend. I will be recommending to the Prime Minister that Mark is posthumously given the Order of the Garter. Make no mistake about it, the killers of Sir Mark will be hunted down ruthlessly and brought to justice. That’s all I have to say at this point, thank you.’”

Paddy quickly rushed into the bedroom and shook Catherine awake. She stirred slowly.

“What’s up?” whispered Catherine.

“Come here,” said Paddy.

Paddy showed her the lead story on the television. She sat there in a state of shock.

“Were you involved?” asked Paddy.

Catherine looked at Paddy angrily. “I can’t believe you would even suggest that.”

“So who did it?” asked Paddy.

“I don’t know!” said Catherine bluntly.

“Well, one thing’s for sure. If we stay here, the police will come for you,” said Paddy.

Catherine had a quick shower and packed up her things. Paddy did the same and put on his suit so he could get to the meeting with the ISC. His plan was to get Catherine to Hyde Park Barracks. Failing assistance from the ISC, Maxi’s battalion would hopefully be able to protect her from a police investigation. As they walked down to street level, the very first thing they spotted was a police car. Fortunately, it continued on past them.

They moved down the road toward the subway at Whitechapel. Catherine’s picture was all over the television screens in the tube station, so she pulled a shawl out of her bag and wrapped it around her head, covering her face. They took the Hammersmith and City line to King’s Cross St. Pancras. On the journey Paddy eyes were everywhere, sizing up everyone he saw.

When they exited at King’s Cross, Paddy’s paranoia skyrocketed. Although it was early on a Saturday morning, the place was still one of the busiest train stations in London. When they went to make the change to the other line, Paddy noticed two armed policemen doing random checks ahead of them. Paddy quickly grabbed Catherine, intending to turn around, but they were spotted.

“Hey! Stop right there,” said one of the policemen.

“Keep walking, don’t stop,” ordered Paddy. “Get in a taxi to Hyde Park Barracks. Tell the soldiers at the gate who you are, that you’ve been sent by me, and that you need to speak to Colonel Maxwell immediately. Tell Maxi that I’ll be there soon.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Catherine.

“I’m going to deal with these guys,” said Paddy.

Catherine ran towards the exit. As one of the officers went to chase after her, Paddy pulled out his pistol and slapped the officer in the neck. The next police officer went to open fire on Paddy, but he was too close. Paddy charged him and grabbed the barrel of the officer’s gun in his hand, pushing the weapon towards the ground. Using his own momentum, he delivered a roundhouse kick to the officer’s head. With the two officers laid out on the ground, he sprinted down the steps, jumping the ticket machine and running to the Piccadilly line. Luckily, a train had just arrived and he jumped aboard. The doors closed just as one of the officers made it down the steps. Paddy mouthed the word “sorry” through the glass as the train departed the station.