Heaven's Door (10 page)

Mags laughed, throwing the magazine to one side. They resumed their previous close formation on the sofa and Mags restarted the movie.

“Oh, by the way,” said Tom, “you're off the hook. My ex-favourite interviewer called just now to apologise for last Thursday. It seems it wasn't you who phoned her to warn her not to come on to me, but somebody else. Her boss had instructed her to give me a going-over, but Sylvie reckons
he'd
been told himself by – she said – ‘a higher authority'. So, who do you think?”

“Andrew.” It wasn't even a question.

“Yes, I reckon so. God knows what he's playing at.” He twisted round to look at Mags. “And anyway, who cares? All I care about is this bloody film ending so we can get on with something else.”

“Shall I fast forward it?”

“Now you're talking.”

Three days later

Week 2; Tuesday, 31 March…

They were sitting on the two bedside chairs facing each other across a low table on which there were two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

“Tell you what,” said Tom. “You never did tell me the full story of how you died.”

“I thought old Barrington Henshaw told you.”

“He told me that you had to assume a new identity and so they faked your death, but you were going to fill in the details. Am I still not to be trusted with military secrets? Perhaps when I'm Minister for Defence…”

Jad laughed. When he first arrived, Tom had been shocked by his friend's appearance. He had lost a lot of weight in the few weeks since they had last met whilst he was still in Pentonville, but Jad seemed as bright and positive as ever.

“So what do you want to know?”

“Well, everything you can tell me, I guess.

“Okay. You know already that it happened when we were on a mission in the Kush – exact same place where I missed taking out el Taqha, in fact. There were only two of us in the group who knew the real objective of the mission – me and the patrol leader – Malc Randall. The hit was real; the guy was a senior mover and shaker with the insurgents, but in reality, we could have used a Predator UAV for that one. The Hellfires have an accuracy of plus or minus a couple of yards. What you
don't
get with an unmanned aerial vehicle, of course, is someone to tell you they've hit the right guy and that he's dead. So we used that as the reason for the ground hit.”

Jad was silent with his thoughts for a long time.

“So how did it work? Your faked death?” Tom prompted.

“Two explosive charges had been laid in this sort of basin-shaped area beyond a bend in the gully. They'd put a body of the same height and build as me, dressed identically, over the charges in a position so that it would be unrecognisable after the blast. I just had to be at the front of the group at the point when we reached the turning. I went ahead – round the bend and out of sight – to investigate a noise I said I'd heard. Malc held the group back to give me time to place some personal items on the body and set the timer on the detonator with a twenty second delay. Then I just jumped into a jeep, about fifty yards past the basin, and it drove me away.”

“Simple as that. So what went wrong? How did the corporal get hurt?”

Jad was silent again for a while.

“I guess we'll never know for certain why, but only one of the charges went off at first. Theory is they were wrongly wired – in series rather than in parallel. So setting the timer could have caused a second twenty-second count-down to the other charge. I don't understand really; it doesn't sound all that likely, but something went wrong, and from what Malc said later it was around twenty seconds between the explosions. By that time, Mike Hanson had gone charging in to the basin to see what had happened to me. I was sitting comfortably in the back of a jeep and he was getting blown to pieces.”

Jad's voice broke as he finished the story and he dropped his head into his hands.

“But it wasn't your fault, Jad, surely? If it was set up wrong …”

“No, no-one has ever even hinted that it might have been, but you know what it's like. He was a great kid – big, good looking, brilliant at his job …”

“Well, he's got a new job now, thanks to you. A new life.”

“You know what I keep thinking about, Tom? He always wanted to try out the second rifle. We each carried two – an Accuracy as the main weapon, and a Barrett M82 as back-up if we couldn't get close enough. Most powerful sniper rifle in the world; twice the range and a much heavier bullet than the Accuracy – capable of bringing down a helicopter with a single shot – or so it says on the tin. It became a sort of joke between us; he'd always act disappointed if we got into a good position – you know, comfortably within range.” He paused and shook his head. “And for whatever reason, I can't stop thinking about that. The fact that he'll
never
get to try it. Just so sad…”

“Not for the guys in the helicopter,” said Tom.

Jad smiled. “No, I guess not. You only see one side, don't you?”

“That's the side that was paying us, though, wasn't it?”

Tom looked at his watch and got quickly to his feet.

“Got to go, Jad. Really sorry to rush off, but I've got a beautiful woman waiting for me and a plane to catch.”

Jad got up as well. “Give Maggie my love, and come back soon, ol' pal o' mine.”

The two men embraced.

*

Paul eased the BMW through the special security check-point at Terminal 1 and up to the door leading into the lobby of the small VIP lounge. Tom was met by two aides from his extensive Civil Servants' empire, who escorted him inside. Matty Jaynes and Cheryl Webber looked as if they'd just stepped off the front cover of an up-market fashion magazine.

Matty strode forward. He was a couple of inches taller than Tom with classic features and a perfect build. His hair was quite long, almost jet black, and combed back in a modern style. His flashing smile revealed teeth that were gleaming white and impossibly even.

“Home Secretary,” he said, “I'm Matty; this is Cheryl. We're here to help you with everything through the next few days. Anything you or Maggie want …”

“Nice to meet you, Matty,” said Tom. “And you too, Cheryl,” his voice softer and more sensual.

He shook hands with both of them, gripping Matty's strongly in an impromptu display of alpha-male-ism, and then almost caressing Cheryl's. She was as perfect as her male companion, with a dark complexion and shining chestnut hair framing a beautiful, smiling face. She wore a short, pale blue dress, which was flared below the waste and swung enticingly around her legs when she moved on her four-inch heels.

“This way, Mr Brown,” she said with a dazzling smile, extending an arm to indicate the entrance to the inner sanctum of the VIP lounge with its lush carpet and velvet-effect wall covering.

Mags was seated in an enormous bucket-chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows which looked out onto the Cessna Citation executive jet just below them. Jenny was sitting in a similar chair close to her, running through the itinerary for the week. She rose to vacate the seat as Tom approached, but he waved her to sit down again, pulling over the leather tilt-and-swivel from the computer desk near the wall.

“Would you like a drink, Mr Brown?” Cheryl asked, the smile hardly moving as she spoke.

“Coffee would be great, White, no sugar, please, Cheryl. And do call me Tom.”

Mags gave a silent, knowing giggle. Cheryl brought over the coffee, almost curtsying as he flashed a thank-you smile, and then joined Matty on a sofa behind them.

“Are we all set, Jenny?” Tom asked.

“I've been through it all with Mrs Tomlinson-Brown.”

“Absolutely,” put in Mags. “Don't make Jenny go over it again; I'll cover everything with you on the way if necessary. You've been great, Jenny. We really appreciate all the arrangements you've made for us, and at such short notice.”

“Well, you'd already done all the hard work, finding the place and everything,” Jenny replied.

“God, listen to the pair of them,” Tom said to Matty and Cheryl, over his shoulder. “Talk about mutual admiration.”

They all laughed. A few minutes later the door opened and the Flight Officer entered. Tom rose to greet him. Captain Josh Wilcox was his regular assigned pilot on all his official flights and the two men had become close friends since Tom's Cabinet appointment. Josh was tall and slim, in his late thirties, with close-cropped greying hair. The short sleeves on his white pilot's shirt showed off tanned and muscular arms.

“Ready to board,” he said, shaking Tom's hand and kissing Mags and Jenny on both cheeks. He flashed a sparkling smile across at Cheryl and nodded neutrally to Matty.

They all stood up. Jenny passed a document case to Tom.

“Lunchtime mail, and a note from Georgia,” she said.

Mags gave her a hug and an affectionate peck on the cheek, saying “thank you” again, and then they left her and followed Captain Wilcox down the short flight of stairs to the tarmac and across the few yards to board the jet. Near the plane two stocky men – Tom's security escort – looked around with darting eyes and habitual anxiety, then followed the long shapely legs of Cheryl Webber up the five steps into the aircraft.

*

Two men sat side-by-side at one end of the large table in the small meeting room of the Lochshore Security Centre. Gordon Sutherland, Westminster Member of Parliament for Argyle and Bute, and Calum Nicholson were on a conference call, preparing for their following day's meeting with the Home Secretary. Also on the call, at different locations, were the other four people who would be attending the meeting

“Do you think we should just add it on?” asked Gordon. “I mean, the Home Secretary has had a copy of the agenda already.”

“Well, you're seeing him tonight, aren't you?” said Eleanor Morrison, his counterpart in the Scottish Parliament. “You can agree it with him then. In fact, let him suggest it. One thing is certain; we won't get through the meeting without discussing it.”

“Okay,” said Gordon. “I'll let him bring the subject up.”

*

The passenger cabin of the Citation Sovereign had eight seats, arranged in ‘club' formation so that its normal payload could be accommodated in two groups of four. A further seat at the front of the cabin, adjacent to the integral rosewood drinks cabinet, faced inwards with its back to the fuselage. Tom and Mags sat across from each other in two of the rear group of seats, with Cheryl, Matty and the two security guards in the front set.

Chuck and Simon were almost identical in size and shape, just under six feet tall with broad shoulders, barrel chests, and necks which were the full width of their heads. They were also dressed the same, in mid grey suits, white shirts and dark blue ties. Simon was in his early thirties – the younger by about ten years.

Once airborne, Mags moved forward to talk to them, leaving Tom to check the contents of the document case presented by Jenny. The three men almost banged their heads together in a race to stand and offer her a seat, Simon winning and moving to the spare seat at the front.

Tom didn't get as far as checking his mail. The message left him by Georgia, from Grace, stopped him in his tracks. Jenny's hand-written note said:

‘Georgia phoned to confirm that Ms Goody has approved your trip to Lochshore. However, Ms Goody asks that in future you request approval in advance.' Jenny had added, ‘Sorry – I didn't know we needed to do that.'

“You're not the only one,” said Tom, loudly enough for everyone to hear. They all turned to him. “Sorry,” he said, lightly, returning their questioning looks. “Just talking to myself. First stage of madness, so they tell me.”

Mags got up to join him again in the seat opposite.

“Anything wrong? You can tell me, I'm a doctor.”

He smiled at her.

“Yes, doc, I've got these shooting pains,” he whispered, rubbing his groin, the noise of the engines preserving the privacy of their conversation.

Mags smiled, opening her eyes wide, then becoming serious again.

“Really,” she asked, “is there anything wrong? I just get the feeling this is all going too well.”

“No, honestly. Just somebody chucking their weight about and getting ideas…”

“Above his station?” she prompted.

“
Her
station, actually,” he said.

“Who? Not the perfect Grace Goody, surely?”

“Er, no, not her,” he said.

“Of course, it couldn't be,” said Mags. “I mean, her station is as high as a human being can go. There isn't anything above it, is there?”

“Anyway, about these shooting pains,” said Tom, dropping his voice again.

“Shall I ask Cheryl if she's got a first aid certificate?” Mags whispered back. “Actually, she looks like she might be a trained masseuse.”

“I wish,” he said.

They both laughed.

“Listen,” said Tom. “Are you sure you'll be okay for the next couple of days?”

“Of course. You don't really think I'm likely to get accosted in broad daylight on the mean streets of Oban, do you?”

Tom smiled.

“No, but I don't like leaving you on your own.”

“I won't be on my own; I'll have the afore-mentioned lovely Cheryl for company. But you're right,” she added, frowning and seeming to reconsider. “Much better if I had Matty with me all the time.”

“Then it would be Matty I'd worry about being accosted,” he said.

They smiled at each other.

“I'll be fine. I've got my dark glasses and any number of credit cards. I'll easily blend in with the tourist set. Come to think of it, I'll be part of the tourist set, anyway. And
then
,” she leaned forward, tapping his knee, “just you and me and flickering candles and Talisker whisky and a peat fire, with, most probably, a soft sheepskin rug in front of it …”

“Is there no electricity in this place? I hope there's at least a generator for the tele, otherwise Chuck and Simon will be watching
us
all night.”

She stopped tapping and smacked him hard on the leg just as Josh joined them from the cockpit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are approximately forty-five minutes from touch-down and will be crossing the Scottish border in ten minutes. I suggest you celebrate this event in an appropriate way by helping yourselves from the selection of single malts in the drinks cabinet. I'd love to join you, but … I'm driving.”

Matty and Cheryl did the honours, administering refreshments all round and discovering that a half bottle of The Macallan contained exactly six measures, providing each recipient was prepared to go the few extra millilitres.