Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Four

In his Knightsbridge pied-a-terre, Sir Anthony Grainger stood at the window and looked out over the small park. The Ormolu mantel clock softly chimed 4am. He had not slept. He hadn’t eaten, and the pain in his head was getting worse. He went to the bathroom and took some Paracetamol from the cabinet. Returning to the drawing room he poured a small amount of scotch into a crystal tumbler, raised it to his lips, then stopped. No alcohol, need a clear head. Stay calm. Whatever needs to be done, he thought. He picked up a small bottle of sparkling water, cracked the cap, and then washed the pills down. He went to the window again and watched as a taxi dropped off a fare, a couple of houses down the street. He looked up to the big full moon, and said, ‘Please, God. Please protect my girls.’

The sleek black Jaguar pulled up to the curb at six-o’clock. The driver and Special Branch officer were both surprised to see Sir Anthony, uncharacteristically, waiting at the top of the steps. Both men quickly exited the vehicle and, as the driver held open the rear door, the protection officer trotted up the steps, and said, ‘Good morning, Sir Anthony,’

‘Morning.’

The officer frowned slightly at the unexpected curtness, then picked up the small holdall. ‘Everything alright, sir?’

No reply from Grainger, who walked swiftly down to the waiting car. The driver smiled and said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as Grainger climbed in.

The officer dropped the bag into the boot, then looked at the driver, who shrugged. It was clear the Secretary of State was not his usual friendly self today.

The Times newspaper, on the seat next to Grainger, had been left unopened and the crossword, which was usually completed before he arrived at his office, was not attempted. At that hour the drive, from Knightsbridge to London City Heliport, had been reasonably swift and the Jaguar pulled up to the VIP entrance a little after six-thirty.

A security guard came out of the booth and checked the driver’s I.D. Glancing in the back; he recognised Sir Anthony and quickly stepped back. He turned and nodded to his colleague and the heavy electronic gate hissed open. As the Jaguar passed through the guard gave a cursory salute, then watched as the big car drove away.

A couple of minutes later the vehicle pulled up to the rear of the terminal building. Another security guard stepped forward, as the driver quickly got out and flashed his I.D. The guard nodded and stepped back. Sir Anthony, his face solemn, climbed out, as his protection officer collected the bag from the boot.

Grainger held out his hand and said, ‘I’ll take it from here, Gary.’

‘Sir?’ said the officer.

‘I won’t need you anymore today. Thank you, Gary.’

‘With respect sir, that’s against protocol.’

‘I’ll be fine, Gary. I’m in the helicopter from here all the way to the naval base.’

‘But, sir…’

Grainger took his holdall, and with a stern look on his face said, ‘I shall see you back here in a couple of days.’

After watching their charge disappear into the terminal, the two Special Branch officers climbed back into the big Jag. ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ said Gary.

The First Class Lounge was quiet, with only a dozen or so people sitting around reading papers, or eating breakfast. A young female attendant recognised him and said, ‘Good morning, Sir Anthony. May I get you anything, sir?’

Grainger, who’d normally have been the epitome of charm, dismissed the girl with a simple, ‘No thank you.’

The girl smiled and walked away, as Grainger scanned the room. His attention landed on two men in the far corner, neither of whom were reading or eating. The older of the two stood and nodded slightly. Grainger joined the men and sat down. No handshakes were offered.

‘Sir Anthony, good morning. I’m Frank Baine.’ Grainger noted the hint of a German accent. ‘And this is my colleague, Ravinda Patel. He’s our resident… err, what’s the expression, computer geek.’

Grainger nodded, but said nothing. Baine was well-built and in his mid-fifties. Patel was younger, maybe 28 or 30, clearly Asian, with rimless glasses that perched on the end of his hawkish nose. Both wore expensive three piece suits. Hugo Boss, thought Grainger, but neither looked comfortable in them.

‘As you’ve been advised, we’ll be accompanying you on your trip, Sir Anthony,’ said Baine.

Grainger looked solemn. ‘Yes, I was told. How are my wife and daughter?’

Baine smiled and said softly, ‘They are both safe and in good health. Have no fear, sir.’

The young attendant came to the table. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. May I get you anything?’

The two men shook their heads. Grainger looked at the girl and said, ‘Just water, please.’

Over half an hour passed with no conversation, then at seven-fifteen, a smartly uniformed man came to the table. ‘Excuse me, Sir Anthony. Your aircraft is ready for boarding. If you’d come with me please.’

The three stood, each picked up their bags, and followed the attendant from the lounge and down to a waiting minibus. A few moments later they pulled up alongside a Naval Jet Ranger helicopter. With their bags stowed and his passengers strapped in, the pilot turned and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Weather is good all the way to Scotland, so we should have wheels down at the base, in one hour ‘n fifty minutes. Please relax and enjoy the flight.’

The engine whined into life and the aircraft shook slightly as the rotors increased speed. As the tail rose, the pilot twisted the throttle and the helicopter climbed into the clear morning sky.

Baine took out his smartphone and opened the Messenger application. Sir Anthony watched as the big man tapped away at the screen.

In the Welsh farmhouse, Rick Washington responded to the beep from his phone. He swiped the screen, then smiled as he read the message. CONTACT MADE. AIRBORNE.