The Keepers of the Persian Gate (9 page)

“Go time. You got everything?” said Agent Angel.

“Yeah, think so,” said Jake.

“Yeah,” said Paddy.

“Ok, the beach is a hundred yards away. Best of luck. Go now!”

“Thanks, boys,” said Jake. Paddy and Jake made a break from the jeep. Within thirty seconds, they had immersed themselves in the water and were swimming out to sea. Meanwhile, the jeep drove off back to the road, switching its lights back on in the process.

“Keep moving, Paddy,” shouted Jake.

Paddy was lagging behind ever so slightly. It became quite obvious that Jake was at a significant advantage to Paddy in terms of his swimming abilities.

“Jake, I’m not a Navy SEAL, so wait up!” shouted Paddy.

“It’s not me you’ve got to worry about, Paddy!” said Jake.

“Come again?” replied Paddy.

“It’s the hammerhead sharks that fill this stretch of water that I’d be more concerned with if I’m honest!” shouted Jake.

“You better be joking, mate!” said Paddy.

“Nope! Deadly serious, keep moving,” replied Jake.

That was enough to spur Paddy on to swim a bit faster. After roughly twenty-five minutes of hard swimming, the pair had moved close to the coordinates that were provided to them. Jake had been stopping every two hundred or so yards to get a new bearing. Whist the tide was pushing them in the general direction of the coordinates, there was a bit of an eddy pushing them eastward. If they weren’t careful, they would reach the correct latitude, but the incorrect longitude.

“Okay, stop here,” said Jake. “We need to stay within twenty metres of this radius.”

The sea was very calm at this stage and voices could carry.

“Do we have anything other than the GPS to line up a transit?” asked Paddy.

“There are two lights over there on the shore. Do you see, they’re almost lined up. I guess if we keep them that way, that’ll do for keeping our position fixed,” replied Jake. “Right, tie this line to your rescue buoy and hold on tight. I’ll do the same. We’ll separate. A hundred feet apart he said, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I think so,” said Paddy.

Paddy and Jake swam the short distance apart. They bobbed up and down in the tide for several minutes. As they did, the men manoeuvred in every direction to maintain a constant position within the radius of the coordinates. It environment was quiet enough for their voices to carry.

“I do hope those sharks you were talking about don’t decide to turn up now!” shouted Paddy.

“Nah, I was just saying that to get you to hurry up. Wrong time of year!” Jake called back.

“Asshole,” replied Paddy.

“How are we for time?” asked Jake.

“About three minutes to go,” replied Paddy. “Do you have any idea what’s planned?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Jake.

“I remember when I was doing a sailing course several years ago, my RYA Yachtmaster’s Certificate, we were taken by a guy called Jeremy Lindsay. He was Special Boat Service, you know? Our British equivalent of you SEALs.”

“Of course, I know them well,” said Jake.

“Well, I remember him telling us that when the Argentinians invaded the Falklands, the SBS were on the ground long before the British response force arrived. Their mission was to carry out recon of the island before the bulk of the main force arrived. The only way for them to get back off the island was for them to row to a specific set of coordinates in dinghies several miles offshore. Then they separated just like we have, with a line tied between them,” explained Paddy.

“And what happened next?” asked Jake.

“Well, all of a sudden…”

“Wow, what’s that over there?” Jake interrupted.

There was a heavy disturbance in the water as something approached them from the north. It looked like a moving pole. As it drew closer, the object intersected the middle of the rope which connected Paddy to Jake and began towing them. The pair held on very tight. The mast must have been moving about fifteen knots.

After about ten minutes of being towed along on their bellies, the men saw the main body of the vessel begin to ascend out of the water and a coning tower came into view. Suddenly they felt a hard surface beneath their feet as the submarine slowed to a stop. They both fell forward on the surface like a fish out of water. Then they heard the sound of a hatch opening from the top of the coning tower and a torch shone down from that direction.

“I say, Captain Trimble, are you there?” shouted a man with a British accent.

Paddy shouted back. “Yes!”

“Do you have a Yank with you?” shouted the voice.

“I do indeed,” replied Paddy.

“Very good. I am Lieutenant Commander Williams. Welcome aboard the HMS Victorious!”

Chapter 5

Doughty Street

IT WAS AUGUST 2011, and London had been experiencing a significant heat wave since early July. Paddy, fresh back from his attachment to the International Criminal Court, had been working tirelessly alongside Marco Montpellier and numerous others on a two-month extradition hearing in Paris, culminating in the Mechanic’s extradition to the Hague.

Doughty Street was one of those places which could inspire anyone’s imagination. A tree lined street of Georgian townhouses located in the heart of Central London, in the nineteenth century it played host to Charles Dickens as he wrote Oliver Twist. Today, Number 48 was a museum celebrating Dickens’ life. The entire area, in fact, was abounded by further monuments to historical events. The famous Gray’s Inn, a former Inn of Court where Winston Churchill had first met Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1917, sat perpendicular to the bottom of the street. At the top end of the street was the Goodenough College, which had earned a reputation for providing accommodation for some of the world’s finest students: notable alumni included former Prime Ministers of South Africa and Bulgaria. Paddy had been hopeful that he might get on the waiting list for accommodation at Goodenough himself. It just so happened that the former Commandant at Sandhurst, Colonel Thomas Sinclair, was the new Director there.

Shortly after returning from Paris, Paddy had spoken to his Commanding Officer in Military Intelligence, informing him that he had decided to pursue the Army Legal Services full-time. However, in order to do so, he had to actually qualify as a lawyer. Up until now, he had been using a mixture of his own experience on the ground, as well as his legal academics, to perform the role of a specialist Army paralegal. However, that could only ever take him so far, and Paddy, already sitting on the commission of Captain in the British Army, needed to gain his professional qualifications in order to move any further through the ranks.

In typical Army Legal Services fashion, the Army farmed out Paddy’s training to an external firm. For barristers, it was well known that there were a few sets of chambers across the legal district in London which would automatically provide a pupillage for recruits of ALS. For solicitors, the scope was narrower. Paddy was posted to Dunlop & McLaine for his ‘Solicitor Apprenticeship’ or ‘Training Contract’.

Managing Partner William Dunlop, supposedly a descendant of a grand shipbuilding dynasty in Ireland and Scotland, was himself also a former officer of the British Army. His father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father before him had all pursued the same professional path. That path consisted of Army service until such time as they had seen active combat, followed by Army Legal Services, followed by professional independent practice at Dunlop & McLaine. It wasn’t an enormous firm by London standards: it had about ninety practising lawyers. However, it also had one of the most established client bases in London legal circles and it was almost unheard of for an existing client of Dunlop & McLaine to go to another firm. Clients had ranged significantly over the years, from captains of industry, to aristocracy and the Ministry of Defence.

As Paddy walked down Doughty Street, he approached a set of townhouses built in white limestone. Paddy recognised them from the brochure he had been sent by his new Commanding Officer at ALS. As he walked up the steps, he observed that the office seemed to take up three townhouses. The name Dunlop & McLaine adorned the top of the doorframe in letters embossed in gold and blue on the limestone wall.

There was a doorman dressed in full army uniform posted at the door. As Paddy approached the door, the doorman stepped in front of him and in the most marble mouthed voice imaginable, asked, “May I be of some assistance to you, young man?”

“Ah, yes, I’m here to meet Mr. Dunlop,” said Paddy.

“You must be Mr. Trimble, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, I’m Paddy.”

“Very nice to meet you, eh, Paddy. I am Major Howard, formerly of Her Majesty’s 3
rd
Gurkha Rifles. I am now Chief of Security with Dunlop & McLaine. Right this way…”

The Major led Paddy through a rather unassuming set of double wooden doors into a magnificent entrance hall and reception area. A marble spiral staircase circumnavigated the hallway, and an enormous sculpture of a wooden galleon sat atop a fountain in the middle of the hall. Paddy was ushered over to a grand seating area in a corner of the hall. Above the chairs, the walls were covered with pictures of Dunlops and McLaines alongside former Presidents, Prime Ministers, royalty and celebrities.

“I’m sure you are fully aware of the history and significance of the firm, Mr. Trimble. However, some facts you may not be aware of… The McLaines had this building built in 1849. The Dunlops joined the firm ten years after the McLaines established it. However, the two families had been in partnership for over a century in the shipping business in Ireland.

“Contemporarily, there are a few facts which allow us to boast a bit. It is the only law firm to have been invited to meetings of the Bilderberg Group every year since its inception. There has also been a convention, in place since the late nineteenth century, that Dunlop & McLaine would provide all legal advice in relation to Privy Council matters. Therefore, effectively, we advise the Queen. Our clients guard their secrecy very closely indeed. Part of my job is to ensure that such secrecy is maintained by this firm at all costs. I trust you understand,” said Major Howard.

“Yes, thank you,” replied Paddy.

“Very good, Mr. Trimble. Well, I shall see you again on your way out,” replied Major Howard. At that he did a perfect about-turn and marched over to a small office beside the door.

A lady from reception walked over to Paddy. “Mr. Dunlop will be with you in a moment, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Paddy.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” asked the receptionist.

“No, I’m fine thank you,” replied Paddy. As he turned and sat down, he noticed a woman sitting at the other side of the waiting area, reading through papers. It was obvious she was a barrister. She had the look of a barrister, from the collar she was dangling around her finger tips to the typical travel trolley-come-briefcase which nearly every barrister in London sported. She looked to be in her late twenties, with mousy hair and killer legs, the shape of which was complemented by her silky tights. She dropped her pen, and bent over to the floor to reach down and pick it up. As she did, Paddy admired her cleavage from the opposite side of the waiting area. Suddenly, she looked up and locked eyes with him.

Desperately trying to hide the fact that he had been found out, Paddy picked a part of the floor to stare at. After a few moments his gaze returned, but she had resumed her reading, albeit with a slight smirk in her expression.

There was a sound of someone coming down the marble staircase. “Captain Trimble, I assume?” said a voice. Paddy looked over and instantly recognised the man as William Dunlop.

“Yes, it is, a pleasure to meet you…Captain? Dunlop…” replied Paddy.

“Actually, I made it to Major just before I got out! Something about the Falklands and a few medals apparently made them feel the need to promote me!” joked William Dunlop.

Paddy laughed. Dunlop was an older man, with long grey and sandy hair, and a very nice tan, not the sort you would expect to get from living in England 365 days of the year.

“So…Major…” said Paddy.

“No, please, call me Will.”

“Oh, ok, nice to meet you, Will,” said Paddy.

“And I shall call you Paddy if that’s ok,” said Will

“Of course, Will,” said Paddy.

“Well, Paddy, you must be excited to see around your new firm. I think there’s a lot to be discussed. So if you want to follow me upstairs, we’ll go to my office, talk a bit about the nature of the firm’s work, your role and various other things,” said Will.

Paddy tried to catch the eye of the lady barrister before he left, but she seemed to be engrossed in her papers. Nevertheless, as Paddy turned away, she did look up to check him out.

“That’s the Hibernia,” said Will, pointing to the ship on the fountain. It was a gift to Dunlop & McLaine by the Admiralty after the First World War for all the legal assistance which the firm had provided the allies during the negotiations at Versaille. The fountain and the ship used to belong to the Admiralty and the original Hibernia had a significant role in the Merchant Navy during the nineteenth century.

“My great-grandfather used to boast to Churchill that she was in fact built in Belfast by Ulstermen,” said Will.

“Well, as a proud Ulsterman myself, that’s good to know,” replied Paddy.

“I hadn’t realised you had Irish roots, you don’t have much of an accent?”

“Well, I was born and raised there. My mother came from a family of unionist farmers,” replied Paddy.

“Whereabouts?” queried Will.

“South Armagh, close to Newtownhamilton,” replied Paddy.

Will stopped in his tracks. “Wasn’t that just about the most dangerous place on earth for Protestants around that time?” he asked.

“It was indeed. Her mother and father, my grandparents, were both forced out of Armagh by the IRA. They lived out their days in Bangor, County Down,” replied Paddy.

“Ah yes, of course! Bangor! 14 miles down the road from Belfast, not too far from Palace Barracks. I remember having one or two big nights out there when I was posted in Northern Ireland. What was the name of the place…was it the Helmsman?” asked Will.