Next In Line

Chapter 26

No one recognized the officer seated next to the Hawk, but they were all aware of his reputation.

Assistant Commissioner Harry Holbrooke was the officer in charge of Counter Terrorism, and rarely seen in public. If you passed him in the street, you wouldn’t have given him a second look, and would not have considered it plausible that he was the man the IRA most feared.

He couldn’t have been more than five foot eight, weighing around 145 pounds, a featherweight when he entered the boxing ring, a heavyweight when it came to knock-outs.

‘I’d like to begin,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent that he made no attempt to soften for his southern colleagues, ‘by asking Superintendent Warwick to give us a detailed report of his meeting with Miles Faulkner, and his opinion of the source’s credibility.’

They all listened intently to William’s account of what had taken place when he and DS Pankhurst had visited the prisoner in Belmarsh. Rebecca read out the occasional verbatim contribution from her notebook. When William had finished, he waited to hear Holbrooke’s assessment.

‘Let me say from the outset,’ he began, ‘that your principal informant can hardly be described as A1. As a source — which is graded from A, always reliable, to E, untested — Faulkner’s a D at best, unreliable. For reputation — which is ranked from 1, known to be honest without reservation, to 5, suspected to be false — he scrapes in with a 4, cannot be trusted. So, your man is not only a D4 but currently serving a prison sentence for fraud and deception.

‘In normal circumstances,’ continued Holbrooke, ‘information provided by such a source would be handled by a junior officer in SO13, and would be highly unlikely to reach my desk. However, I concede this cannot be described as “normal circumstances”, and Faulkner has two things going for him. One, his undoubted intelligence, and two, what would be in it for him to invent such a cock and bull story? Let me now throw this open for discussion, commander,’ Holbrooke said, looking towards the other end of the table. ‘I’d like you to play devil’s advocate on this occasion while your team try to convince me that I should make this a priority, because at present it sounds like a waste of my time.’ The Hawk nodded. ‘Then let’s begin with you, Superintendent.’

‘I agree with your assessment of the source’s reputation,’ said William. ‘D4 at best. But I still believe we can’t afford to take the threat lightly.’

‘We’ve never had to deal with a suicide bomber in England,’ interjected the Hawk. ‘This would be a first.’

‘True,’ said Holbrooke, ‘but the French faced a similar problem at Orly airport a few years ago, and were caught napping. Never forget it’s our duty to try and be one step ahead of modern criminals, not playing catch-up all the time. Some of us can remember when the public were appalled if they saw a uniformed officer carrying a handgun, which they now take for granted. So, let’s assume the worst and go from there. What’s the security like at the Albert Hall?’

‘Bog standard,’ said Paul, ‘other than for the evening of the Festival of Remembrance in November, which the Queen and other members of the Royal Family always attend. But when it comes to the Proms, they barely check your ticket before you take your seat, they don’t search handbags, and the promenaders are a law unto themselves.’

‘Promenaders?’ queried Holbrooke.

‘During the Proms season,’ chipped in Rebecca, ‘the six hundred seats in the stalls are removed to accommodate eight hundred ticket holders, known as promenaders, who stand throughout the entire performance. The bookings manager describes them as eccentric at best and bonkers at worst. Jeans and scruffy T-shirts are the norm, and more than a few of them come with backpacks, and think nothing of eating a three-course meal while downing several cans of beer during the performance. Some of them have their established places directly in front of the stage, and woe betide anyone who dares to occupy someone else’s long-held territory. Even when the management decided to double the price of a ticket, in the hope of raising the tone, the same people turned up the following year, and carried out the same rituals. They’re fanatics. It seems that nothing will keep them away from their annual obsession.’

‘Until,’ said Holbrooke, ‘a suicide bomber who has something considerably more lethal than a sandwich in his backpack blows them to kingdom come, which will then define the Proms for the next hundred years. With that in mind, I’ve already put out an all-ports alert, and advised MI5 and MI6 to keep a particular lookout for any recent arrivals from Libya, and to keep an even closer eye on known sleeper cells. SO13 are reviewing anyone of Middle Eastern origin who’s on the security services watchlist, while GCHQ are also stepping up their surveillance. What more can you tell me about the Albert Hall? For starters, how many seats does it have?’

‘Nearly five and a half thousand,’ said Jackie, ‘spread over five levels.’

‘Entrances and exits?’

‘Twelve,’ said Paul. ‘But number one is only ever used if a member of the Royal Family is attending a performance.’

‘We’re going to need every one of those doors covered on the night,’ said Holbrooke, ‘and however much it annoys the promenaders, their backpacks will have to be searched before they enter the auditorium. I will also have over a hundred high-vis Counter Terrorism officers circulating the perimeter of the building from first light, and nearly as many in plainclothes. If anyone approaching the venue is wearing a backpack and looks even vaguely suspicious, they’ll be stopped and searched, and, if necessary, detained for questioning. They can complain later.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to cancel the concert?’ suggested Jackie.

‘That would only provide the terrorists with the oxygen of publicity, to quote Margaret Thatcher. And where would it end? Wimbledon, the Chelsea Flower Show, the FA Cup final? Never forget, we are like goalkeepers, we can make a hundred brilliant saves, but the only shot people remember is the one that gets past us. It’s our job to protect the public without them ever finding out what we’re up to.’

‘Is it possible that Faulkner’s setting us up, and this is no more than an elaborate revenge plot to keep us well occupied before his trial?’ asked the Hawk, playing devil’s advocate.

‘Possible, but unlikely,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘But if he is, I’ll lock him up in a place no one knows about, and throw away the key, because he’s taking up far too much of my valuable time and resources when I should be concentrating on the IRA.’

‘How do you make the decision—’ began Paul.

‘Over a hundred cases cross my desk every week,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Most can be dismissed out of hand, like the letter we received from a woman in Surbiton informing me that the Queen will be coming to tea on Friday, and asking when I would be sending in the sniffer dogs to check her house.’

‘How sad,’ said William. ‘How do you respond?’

‘That particular woman writes to me three or four times a year. Her husband, an ex-copper who won the Military Cross, was gassed in the Second World War, so she’s been a widow for fifty years. One of my retired officers who looks like the Duke of Edinburgh has tea with her once a year.’

They all burst out laughing.

‘But this case is no laughing matter, and we’ve only got a couple of weeks before the conductor lifts his baton. So we must do everything in our power to stop a potential catastrophe. Don’t for one moment imagine any of you will be getting much sleep for the next fourteen days. You can start by cancelling any social engagements you may have,’ said Holbrooke, looking around the table, ‘unless it’s to attend your own funeral.’

Mr Rosen was as good as his word, and when Christina stepped into the arrivals hall at Schiphol airport she immediately spotted a man holding up a card with ‘FAULKNER’ printed on it.

She sat in the back of a BMW going over her script one more time, not even noticing as she was driven across a wide canal with colourful barges passing below her. A few minutes later, the car drew up outside a magnificent seventeenth-century townhouse. The driver leapt out and opened the back door.

Christina stepped onto a cobbled street, to be greeted by an elderly gentleman wearing a herringbone tweed three-piece suit with a crimson silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was leaning heavily on an elegant briar walking stick with a silver handle. She was relieved she’d selected a conservative grey suit for the occasion, with a skirt that fell well below the knee.

‘Welcome to my home, Mrs Faulkner,’ said Rosen as he leant forward to kiss her hand. ‘I do hope you had an uneventful journey.’

‘I did, Mr Rosen,’ Christina replied. ‘And thank you for sending your driver.’

Her host walked so slowly that Christina had plenty of time to admire the fine antique furniture and a cabinet of Meissen porcelain that suggested faded, inherited wealth. Rosen stood aside to allow her to enter the drawing room, where a tray of coffee and a plate of stroopwafels had been laid out on a small oval table.

Rosen waited for her to sit down before he settled in a well-worn high-backed leather chair. He had placed her so the first thing she would see once she’d sat down was a small, exquisite portrait of Henry VIII hanging on the wall directly opposite her. Not to her taste, but she wasn’t in any doubt that Miles would covet it.

Christina half listened to the old man as he reminisced about visiting London just after the war, while a maid served them coffee. Sensing he might feel uneasy about discussing money with a stranger, she came to his rescue.

‘Mrs Warwick tells me you’re hoping to get twelve million for the painting,’ she said.

The old man looked slightly embarrassed, but eventually managed, ‘That was the figure my father suggested to me not long before he died.’

‘I don’t want to waste your time, Mr Rosen, but I must tell you that the Fitzmolean does not have twelve million pounds in its acquisition fund.’

The old man looked relieved, and even managed a weak smile.

‘However,’ Christina continued, ‘I do have ten million in cash lodged in a safe-deposit box with my bank in London. Should that be sufficient, I can assure you that the portrait will end up on the walls of the Fitzmolean.’ A sentence she’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning.

The old man took so long to respond that she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Finally he almost whispered, ‘I will have to consult my two sons, as they are the main beneficiaries of my will. I do hope you understand.’

‘Of course,’ said Christina.

‘I will write to you once I know their decision.’

‘Do take your time, Mr Rosen. I’m in no hurry.’

‘Will you stay for lunch, Mrs Faulkner? It would give me the opportunity to show you the rest of my grandfather’s collection.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Rosen, but I have to get back to London in time for the Last Night of the Proms.’

‘What a treat,’ he said. ‘Always such a traditional occasion for you British. I only wish I could join you.’ He paused, brushed a crumb from his waistcoat and asked, ‘Is there anything else you want to know about the portrait before you leave?’

‘I would like to see the handwritten note Holbein wrote to his doctor.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the old man. He raised himself slowly from his chair, walked unsteadily across to the picture and lifted it gently off the wall as if it were an old friend, before turning it over so Christina could study the letter attached to the back of the panel. After looking at it for some time, she was none the wiser.

‘Allow me to translate it for you,’ he said, ‘though in truth I’ve known it by heart since I was a child.’

‘Holbein died just a year later, at the age of forty-six,’ said the old man, ‘and, to this day, the painting has never left this house. Should you wish to authenticate the letter, there is a copy in the archives of the Kunstmuseum. They were also unable to match the asking price, as the gallery has just undergone an expensive refurbishment, which is why I offered the painting to the Fitzmolean.’

‘Where I assure you it will be given pride of place, should your sons agree to accept my offer,’ said Christina as the old man hung the picture back on the wall. He looked happy to see it returned to its rightful place.

Rosen led his guest slowly out of the room and back to the front door, where he remained standing on the top step until the car was out of sight. He then returned to his study and made a phone call to his elder son.

‘I’ve made what I consider to be a realistic valuation of the late Mrs Buchanan’s Scottish collection,’ said Beth, ‘and I can tell you she had a good eye.’

James didn’t interrupt.

‘And in answer to your question as to how much I expect they could fetch: around £1.2 to £1.4 million on the open market. However, it might take some time to dispose of all of them, remembering you don’t want any of the sales to become public.’

‘Then I’ll need someone to take them off my hands. So how would you feel if I offered you the collection for a million?’

‘That’s a fair price,’ said Beth. ‘How would you feel if I could only pay in cash?’

‘Fine by me,’ said James, ‘as long as I’m not breaking the law.’

‘I must warn you,’ butted in William, ‘the cash would be coming from a criminal.’

‘Christina is not a criminal,’ said Beth. ‘In fact, she’s my friend and partner, though I admit the money originally came from her husband, who’s currently in jail.’

‘Miles Faulkner?’ said James. ‘No, thank you. That would be jumping out of one fire and into another.’

‘Without an extinguisher,’ offered William.

‘You’re a lot of help,’ said Beth, punching him on the arm.

‘Just remember where trusting that woman has got you in the past.’

Beth remained silent for some time before she said, ‘I may have a solution that would solve both our problems.’

James looked hopeful.

‘I have a client in Edinburgh who for tax reasons might be willing to exchange a Warhol of Marilyn Monroe for your Scottish collection.’

‘But I don’t even like Warhol,’ protested James.

‘In which case you can put Marilyn up for auction in New York, where I’m confident she will fetch more than a million, and, even better, it could never be traced back to your grandfather.’

‘Then how will you make a profit?’ asked James.

‘I’m confident enough to take ten per cent of everything you make at auction over a million.’

‘Make it twenty per cent,’ said James.

‘That’s very generous of you,’ said William.

‘Not really. Because if I don’t make a million for the Warhol that Beth’s so confident about, twenty per cent of nothing is nothing. If she’s willing to take the risk, then so am I.’