Dead in the Water (39 page)

There’s a bit of a breeze, the air feels cooler and that nauseating smell of sewage is no longer catching in the back of his throat. He would like to walk home, or cycle – he really must get a new bike – but he has to collect the car and he’s hoping he’ll bump into someone he knows. Anything to distract.

He’s surprised to find Andrew Linden alone in his office, wrapping up the day’s work. They find a quiet
Tapas
bar.

“
Thank you so much for helping Rachel.”

“
One phone call to the Ambassador. He’s an old chum. Two minutes. That was all. Delighted to help out. Is she back?”

“
I assume so. I’ve not heard from her. I expect she’ll call any moment.” As he’s talking, Mark checks that his own mobile is switched on. “I’ve tried ringing. Nothing. You cannot imagine anyone more feisty or better organised. But she still has an uncanny knack of losing phones. Rachel and phones.”

“
To Rachel,” says Andrew, raising his glass.

“
To Rachel…” Then they talk about the cricket – England reached 148 before lunch without losing a wicket and then collapsed to 224 for 8 in a dreadful afternoon session before the tail enders staged an extraordinary recovery – they moan about the state of the Commons bar; and they share some gossip about Angela Walker’s husband, who Linden reckons has a serious gambling habit. It all helps to postpone having to collect the car.

Although he makes it his business to be well informed about most things, Mark’s interest in cricket is more tactful than passionate, and he’s more comfortable when they move on to discussing the terrorist’s deadline. But even this is light-hearted; and if Linden has any inside information, he keeps it to himself, as he offers an amusingly disparaging account of the moments leading up to the five o’ clock deadline and some of his colleagues’ anxiety about the nature of the attack.

“
Devon Fudge, of course, was nowhere to be seen.”

“
Sorry?”

“
Malcolm Westhead. Secretary of State for Dither and Dawdle. Believe he has an office on the floor up from you in Cowley Street.”

Mark laughs

“
Amazing how important West Country constituency surgeries become at times of crisis in the capital.”

With the facility that many accomplished politicians have of being able to appear good humoured through all predicaments, they drift easily between anecdote, gossip and more serious speculation about the nature of the threat: another bomb, a computer virus, or something totally unforeseen. “Personally,” says Linden, “I think we’ve got them on the run.”

“
You think the deadline was a bluff?”

“
Maybe not a bluff exactly. But if they still had the capability, there’d have been another atrocity by now. No doubt about it. But whatever else they are, these are not suicide bombers. And the net’s tightening.”

“
You believe that?”

“
The police have some excellent leads.”

Mark refrains from mentioning Mrs Williams. “Isn’t that for public consumption?”

“
You’re a cynic, Mark. What’s the time? Just gone eight. They gave us a deadline. Five o’ clock. It passed. They wanted us to think they could strike with impunity. They didn’t. They have failed because we haven’t done their work for them. The planes are still flying, the country’s still functioning. They’re fanatics, and they’ll be caught.” He leans back in his chair, triumphant.

“
And the stories that they might be
agents provocateurs
? You don’t –– ?”

Andrew laughs derisively. “There are a million and three conspiracy theories flying about, Mark. It hardly holds up, does it.”

“
Maybe not. But they’ve discredited the environmental movement; they’ve undermined government policy; and dozens of innocent people have been arrested.”

“
That’s what extremists do, Mark. In almost every case they set back the cause they’re trying to pursue. Look no further than Guy Fawkes. Nobody suggests he was an
agent provocateur
; but he fucked it up for Catholics in this country for the best part of two hundred years.” And then, as if apologising for the hint of earnestness that has begun to creep into his tone, he smiles broadly and asks, “Another glass of wine?”

“
I shouldn’t. I’m driving.”

“
Goodness me,” says Linden, with a smile of complicity, as if Mark had just confessed to a secret affair. “Well, the roads are a lot quieter.”

“
I had to bring in some files.”

Andrew tactfully changes the subject, sensing Mark’s discomfort around driving. He is far too good mannered to tease him any further. “Coffee then? They do very good coffee.”

“
That would be very civilized, wouldn’t it.” Mark, the chameleon, as Sara once teased him, slipping so easily into Andrew’s brand of lightly worn politeness.

There’s a slight pause, which gives Mark the opportunity he’s been waiting for. “That solar heating system you’re having put in ––”

“
Was.”

“
Sorry?”

“
Was having put in. The man’s been arrested. So back to square one. I don’t suppose you know anyone you can recommend?”

“
I was about to ask you the same,” says Mark. “My brother in law’s looking to have a system installed.”

“
Well, the estimate was very reasonable, and he seemed very thorough. Played up the rough-and-ready working class hero, but I suspect that was his way of trying to charm Isabelle. I have to confess I .. warmed to him. Found him quite fascinating. Just goes to show how wrong you can be about people.” Mark is taken aback. He’s not sure what he expected Andrew to say, but he didn’t anticipate this openness.

“
Arrested?” he asks, in what he hopes sounds like measured surprise.

“
The police called round on Saturday morning. Searched the house. Precautionary measures, so they said. Sniffer dogs. Nothing untoward in the circs. Didn’t find anything. Then Sunday morning we get another visit to say our plumber has been taken in on suspicion of terrorist activities. They wanted all the correspondence. Fingerprints. DNA samples. They’re very good, Mark. Minimum disruption. Most apologetic for the inconvenience.”

“
My God.”

“
Exactly. Gives you a bit of chill, doesn’t it.”

“
Why did they arrest him? Is he part of the ––”

“
Goodness knows. Far be it from us mere mortals. I don’t know the ins and outs. But from what I can gather, he’s still being questioned. Apparently his van’s ‘gone missing’. He claims it was stolen. But the police think that they were planning to use it in another outrage and the ‘theft’ was stage management. Might all come to nothing. Lets hope so. Mistaken identity. On the other hand … And you really can’t be too careful.”

“
No. Of course.”

“
But it does leave a very unpleasant... you know … Mind you, in years to come we’ll no doubt dine out on the story.”

The coffee arrives, and is excellent, and with Mark not drinking any more, Andrew, ever the man of good grace, declines the glass of brandy he would otherwise find very tempting.

“
Though I do confess, my friend, that I am in no great hurry to head for home. Isabelle’s having a dinner party for her arty friends. All very prestigious, no doubt. And one must put in an appearance; but timing is everything. Don’t you think?”

69 Saint Pancras / West London

“
I thought you said you were going to go and stay with your dad tonight?” says Jeremy.

“
I told you he never gets home from work before eight. You want to get rid of me? Is that it?” They’re at a table in the hotel dining room. The time has gone fast. They have not made love, but to anybody watching, they would appear to be lovers, holding hands across the table, teasing each other, laughing at the softest trigger.

“
Have you ever been to the Lake District?” he asks.

“
It’s alright. I’ll go to my Dad’s.”

“
Have you?” She shakes her head.

“
When this is over, would you like to? I know a wonderful old hotel in the Langdale valley.”

“
You said you were going to take me to the Infinity Pool at some fancy hotel in Caracas.”

“
I didn’t know you then. I thought that might impress you. I think the Lake District is more your kind of thing really.”

She squeezes his hand. “That’s a lovely idea.” An easy silence. She glances down at his watch. It’s half eight. “I suppose you’re right. I ought to go to Dad’s.”

“
I’ll come with you.” There’s a hint of reproach in her expression, but she curbs herself. She has learnt to trust him enough to know that he’s no longer patronising her.

“
Twelve hours. That’s all. Twelve hours and we meet Sara Davis at the Beeb,” he says, looking slightly pained.

“
What’s the matter?”

She has to coax it out of him, but he’s reluctant to do the interview.

“
It’s just not me, Rachel.”

“
It doesn’t have to be YOU. It’s the story that matters.”

“
It’s your story,” he says.

“
Oh, for goodness sake, Jem, stop dissing yourself.
Our
story is much bigger than mine.”

“
Rachel ––”

“
No. Just don’t go there. Please. Just don’t. If you want me to come to the Lake District with you, just bloody be there tomorrow morning. Right?”

Someone has pinched Mark’s usual parking space, so he has to drive round to the other side of the square to find an empty residents’ spot. Ten o’ clock. He’s still regretting not pushing Linden about Allan Hunter – but then where would that have got him? He had his story; Mark could hardly have accused him of lying.

He takes his brief case from the boot, slams it shut, plips the locks. Then someone calls his name. “Mark.” A man’s voice. He doesn’t have time to wonder how it sounds familiar, as a man and smartly dressed woman appear from the shadows.

“
Dad.”

“
My God. Rachel.” Mark looks at her, as if the black trouser suit were the wildest Halloween costume. Jeremy offers his hand to shake; but Mark is already giving Rachel an enormous hug. “Thank God…. Come on in, both of you.”

Jeremy demurs: “I’m going to go back to the hotel. You two have a lot of catching up to do. See you tomorrow…” He doesn’t want to give Mark time for politeness. Rachel needs this. Jeremy turns and walks away. Rachel waves, but he’s not looking back.

“
I’ve been trying to ring you,” says Mark. “Your mobile’s been switched off.”

“
I’ll explain. Can we go in?”

Rachel’s vivacious chatter fills the walk from Mark’s car to the flat. She makes no mention of Venezuela until he has shut the door. Once inside, her tone changes. What he had thought of as bubbly homecoming excitement turns to nervous, driven urgency.

“
My phone’s been tapped, Dad. They knew where I was going to be. Somebody tried to kill me. And they stole the camera. I think we might even have been followed to London. I don’t know. Maybe just me being paranoid, but I don’t think so. Jeremy’s been great. We’ve got to get the BBC ––”

“
Stop, stop, stop. Slowly Rache…” and he’s waving his hands and putting his finger in front of his mouth to try to stop her. “Are you hungry?”

“
We ate at Jeremy’s hotel.”

“
Rachel. Please. I would like to buy you a meal.”

“
Dad, I’m OK.”

“
Lets go out. There are some really good restaurants around here. What do you fancy? There’s an excellent Lebanese about half a mile away. We’ll go there. Get a snack. Glass of wine. Do you good. The walk will get your appetite up.”

“
Thanks Dad, but I haven’t come here to eat. I came here to –”

“
You’re home. Lets celebrate.”

“
Dad, I got so much to tell you.”

“
Not now. Not now. Over dinner. I insist.”

There’s no point in arguing. Once he’s made up his mind, that’s it. Like father, like daughter. They end up, however, not at his favourite Lebanese restaurant, but a small café with five Formica tables in Connaught Street and no other customers. Rachel, who only had a main course at the hotel, announces that she would, after all, like a pizza. Mark has a starter and they share a carafe of wine

“
My flat’s bugged, Rache. That’s why we’re here.”

Rachel laughs.

“
What’s so funny?”

“
Nothing. Is that why you wanted to take me for a meal? To escape the buggers?” She laughs again; not Rachel’s familiar generous laughter, but nervy, hollow with a trace of dread about it. “Are we safe here?”

Mark thinks they are.

But the café closes at half ten, and the staff have already started dropping hints that they’d like to be getting home, sweeping up, putting chairs on tables. After paying up, they move to a nearby bar. And there, Rachel tells Mark about the massacre, about the downing of the helicopter gunship that she is certain was pursuing her and José; and about Ray Sanders.

“
He said he knew you, Dad. He said you’d asked him to find me, bring me back.”