The Secret

TWENTY SEVEN

It was six-thirty p.m. when Steven got back to the Home Office, the last twenty minutes having been spent in London’s evening rush-hour traffic. He was pleased to find John Macmillan still there where he was deep in conversation with the two computer experts. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Macmillan when Steven knocked and entered. ‘Productive day?’

The expression on Macmillan’s face suggested he knew about the helicopter requisition. ‘Very,’ Steven replied confidently. ‘How about you folk?’

Macmillan now adopted an expression that suggested his ace had just been trumped by a partner in a card game. ‘We’re not quite there yet but we’ve been making good progress. Louis and Elspeth have identified correspondence between Dr Hausman and Fort Detrick and between Dr North and… the Prime Minister, no less.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said Steven. ‘Well done.’

The computer experts, Dr Elaine Fiddes and Dr Louis Henderson, smiled in the self-deprecating way that academics did when being interviewed by the media about their latest discovery. He half-expected one of them to say, ‘Of course, more work needs to be done.’

‘We’ve still got a bit to do,’ said Henderson.

‘Mmm,’ agreed Fiddes. ‘We’ve identified several messages with the criteria you specified and we’ve traced their paths but what we haven’t managed to do is to decipher the contents as yet but we definitely think it possible with suitable techniques. Another day perhaps.’

‘Maybe two,’ cautioned Henderson, making Steven wonder unkindly what their daily rate was.

‘They’ve uncovered more than one reference to something called, “the discovery”,’ Macmillan interjected.

‘Sounds promising,’ said Steven. ‘In fact, it sounds exactly what we’re looking for.’

Macmillan smiled. ‘These good people are now going to take a break before continuing into the evening. Jean has arranged for food to be brought in. Their families have been very understanding.’

‘We’re all very grateful to you,’ said Steven. ‘This really is important.’

Jean Roberts, who had also stayed behind to organise the ordering and delivery of take-away food for the experts, announced that the food had arrived. Macmillan thanked her and ushered Fiddes and Henderson out of his office and into Jean’s care with more thanks. He closed the door. ‘Now, about this helicopter charter business?’

Steven explained about the request from Scott Jamieson and all that had transpired from his flight to Yorkshire. ‘In effect, we have a successful completion to Scott’s investigation. We know exactly who’s been behind the ME attacks all along — although we’re not sure why — and MI5 remains in our debt as long as we care to keep our mouths shut about their involvement. I also suggested to Ricksen that Khan be blown away on sight.’

‘Not sure that’s a term HMG would be too keen on,’ said Macmillan.

‘Eliminated with extreme prejudice if you prefer, sir — with the appropriate paperwork in place, of course… duly signed by a Defence minister, the Bishop of London and Coco the Clown.’

‘Don’t push it, Dunbar. Do you realise how much a helicopter costs per hour?’

Steven smiled and so did Macmillan after a moment. ‘Bloody well done,’ he said. ‘Look I’m going to stay on here until the computer people call it a night so why don’t you go home? I’ll call if they come up with anything.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘That’s good of you.’

‘Not entirely altruistic,’ said Macmillan. ‘Lady Macmillan is having her pals round to play bridge this evening. I’m better off here. I might knock over the cauldron.’

Steven set off home to Marlborough Court. It had been a long day and the noise of helicopter rotor blades still seemed to be beating somewhere inside his head. His plan was to run a hot bath, take a drink through with him and settle back in the suds before calling Tally on the mobile. He’d have to keep his other mobile — the Sci-Med Blackberry — beside him in case of any developments at the Home Office but, with a bit of luck, he might have a decent soak and time to unwind after a day that had seen him sprint from the heart of London to the Yorkshire Moors and back again. The only thing militating against this at the moment was the fact that he was being followed.

It had started as a suspicion — a casual sideways glance when crossing a road had picked up a male figure about thirty metres behind, nothing that warranted a second thought until the same figure registered in the same position at the next crossing. This time it did merit a second thought and a third and a fourth. All thoughts of a relaxing evening vanished in an instant to be replaced by nerve tingling awareness.

He quickened his pace for the next two hundred metres and then, as he spotted a litter bin up ahead, he pulled out a tissue from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose. As he reached the bin, he paused and turned slightly to drop the tissue inside — just enough to confirm that his tail was still about thirty metres back. He had quickened his pace too.

Khan couldn’t afford to kill him: he needed him alive to have any hope of getting his hands on the key that meant so much. Apart from that, the streets were too busy to pull a gun out and hope to remain unnoticed. He too was inhibited: opening fire on a busy London street was not an option. He decided to force the issue. He changed his route and turned down a lane leading to the river. The lane was home to the premises of a van hire company whose vans he knew would be parked on both sides of the lane as their yard was too small to house their entire fleet — something that the neighbouring businesses continually complained about but tonight, this was exactly what Steven was counting on. Khan wouldn’t realise it but he was no longer the hunter; he’d just become the hunted.

Steven made to cross between two of the white vans, knowing that he would be out of sight until Khan picked him up again on the other side only he didn’t cross. He remained between the two vans and counted to five before returning to the same side where he ran back fifteen metres or so before moving between another two vans and standing still. Khan, not seeing him on the other side would return to this one. Steven crossed and ran back another few metres before doing the same again. He repeated this until he was sure he was behind Khan.

Steven sneaked a look from behind one of the vans and saw Khan standing in the middle of the lane, looking towards the end as if puzzled. He looked up at the buildings on either side as if wondering which one his quarry must have gone into but they were all in darkness. Steven read his mind: Khan would have to assume it was a lost cause and turn back.

Steven withdrew his pistol and waited between the two vans for Khan to pass by. As he did so, Steven levelled the Glock and said, ‘Psst.’

Khan froze in his tracks then turned slowly to have the street lights reveal that he wasn’t Khan at all. It was Bill Andrews.

Andrews took in the gun and said, ‘Steven, buddy, what the hell?’

‘Remove your weapon and place it slowly on the ground.’

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Do it.’

Andrews did what he was told, still protesting, ‘Steven, come on man, we’re on the same side.’

‘Now step back.’ Steven picked up the weapon and put it in his pocket. ‘Now start walking down the lane. I’ll be right behind you.’

When they reached the junction at the end, Steven ordered Andrews to cross the road and start descending the old stone steps he’d find on the other side. They led down to the Thames which, at half-tide, was lapping over the green slime on the bottom three or four steps.

Andrews could now see that there was no destination ahead other than the sluggish river and panic appeared in his voice — albeit controlled panic. ‘What the hell are you doing, man? What are we doing here?’

‘Justice for Simone,’ said Steven. ‘Time to pay for what you did to my friend.’

‘This is crazy,’ exclaimed Andrews. ‘I had nothing to do with that, Steven. As God is my witness I believed it was an accident until last week when I found out about Ranjit Khan. That’s why I was following you; I came to warn you about Khan.’

‘Sure you did. You pretended not to know Khan when I spoke to you in Paris when in fact you and he had been buddies for years. You even played houses when you were at Harvard together.’

‘Sure we did, but come on man, he was Pakistani Intelligence and I — as I suppose you now know — am CIA. We didn’t want to advertise any intelligence interests at the time.’

‘You told me he’d returned to Pakistan when in fact he flew to Paris where he killed Aline Lagarde.’

‘Christ, man, I thought he had returned to Pakistan. I genuinely thought that. I didn’t know the bastard had a different agenda. That’s what I came to warn you about.’

‘You and Khan killed Simone. You were working together.’

‘No,’ insisted Andrews, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. It was just like I told you; I lost my contact lens and made a stupid joke about it. The next thing I knew was that Simone was over the balcony.’

‘Khan put her over… while you created a diversion.’

‘Look, it didn’t occur to me at the time that Khan had anything to do with it: I didn’t think he had any reason to, but in the light of what I’ve learned recently… that might well be true. But I swear to God, I personally had nothing to do with it.’

The water level had risen so that the Thames was now lapping over Andrews’ shoes. He seemed not to notice as he looked pleadingly at Steven.

‘Remove one of your contact lenses,’ said Steven.

‘What?’

‘You heard. I don’t think you wear contact lenses. If you do, I just might believe you. If you don’t, it was a diversion in Prague and it’s kiss-your-arse-goodbye time.’

Andrews seemed to freeze completely for a few seconds: Steven suspected that he must be contemplating one last desperate move to save his skin. He moved the Glock slightly to emphasise that he was entirely focused on the matter in hand and could pull the trigger faster than Andrews could mount any last ditch attack. ‘I’m waiting.’

Andrews put his hands to his face and went through the motions of removing a contact lens. Steven remained suspicious, thinking that this was exactly what he’d do in Andrews’ position before going for a last minute lunge.

‘There you go,’ said Andrews, holding out his right hand, palm upwards.

It was too dark for Steven to see. ‘Turn around: put your hand behind your back and then open it.’

Andrews complied, the water now sloshing round his ankles.

Steven moved down two steps and pressed the barrel of his gun against the back of Andrews’ neck. ‘Don’t move a muscle,’ he warned. He looked down and saw the lens sitting in Andrews’ palm. He removed it with the tip of his index finger then replaced it. ‘You live to fight another day.’