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MARCIE GEARED DOWN into third and pulled out fast into the opposite lane, overtaking a Ford Ka and plonking her bumper on its headlights. An oncoming Mercedes flashed and sounded its horn.
“I always think if they’ve got time to do that, they’ve got time to slow down,” she said. She put her foot down and left the Ka behind. “The trouble is, there are far too many drama queens on the road.”
“I think we should - should drive to a police station,” Fleming said, clutching the armrest.
“Hang on, I’m going to pull out again.”
“You haven’t – room!”
The car on the other side veered onto the pavement. But there was clear space in front of them now. She went into fourth and crushed the pedal underfoot.
“How the hell are we going to find a police station?” she said. “Do you know where there are any in Bedford?”
“I’ve got SatNav.”
“Yes, I thought you might have.” She screeched round a corner onto the wrong side of the road then accelerated. “Look, Nick. We both know those people in the Range Rover are coming after us, right? And we both know what they did to Jonathan. We’ll be dead before we’ve opened the car doors. Besides, what’s the point in going to the police station if you can get the police station to come to you?”
“Watch out!”
She veered to avoid a bike. “Where are they?”
“Look, this isn’t a film. It may be all right for Jason Bourne to have a car chase in a built-up area, because there are never any children around when he’s in town. But this is real life. How are you going to feel if you mow down a school trip?”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t go up on the pavement again. I mean it.”
“We’re going to head for the motorway. Where are they?”
“They’re right behind us,” he said.
She looked in the mirror. “They won’t take no for an answer. What the hell did you do to them, Nick? You must have really pissed them off. What the bloody hell did you do?”
“I haven’t had time to find out yet. Took something. Papers.”
“Whoa, hold tight!”
They mounted a roundabout and became airborne, then crash-landed with a bang on the other side. She slalomed to avoid a traffic island then sped up.
“Look out for motorway signs,” she said.
“I can hear a siren.”
“Good.”
“M1, four miles. Pull down here.”
She braked, rived the steering wheel back into line and sped up again. A stench of burning rubber puffed from the air conditioning. A bullet smashed the rear windscreen and went through the roof just in front of them.
“Get your gun out,” she said. “Climb into the back. Two can play at that game.”
There were more sirens now. They were on a straight road and she was doing eighty and climbing. But the Range Rover was gaining. Fleming thrust back hard against his seat and snapped it from its fixings. He climbed into the back and fired. The Range Rover’s windscreen shattered.
“Hopefully the wind in their faces will be enough to stop them!” he shouted.
The Range Rover slowed for a few seconds. The passenger reached into the back and took out a pair of motorcycle helmets. They were still decelerating. He could see a pair of police cars, gaining on them. If they slowed any more, they’d be out.
But they’d seen the police too. They began to accelerate again.
“We’re coming onto the motorway!” Marcie yelled.
She swerved into a gap in the traffic, then built the engine to a roar. In less than a minute they were doing a hundred and fifty, zig-zagging between cars and lorries on both sides. Still the Range Rover was closing fast. She looked in the mirror. The passenger was aiming a rifle. But suddenly there was a pop from the back seat and she saw him fall back with a deep split in his helmet.
“It’s kill or be killed now!” Fleming shouted.
“They’re down to one! I bet he can’t drive and shoot at the same time!”
She was wrong. He undid his seat-belt, kept one hand on the steering wheel and reached across for the gun and fired. Their windscreen punctured with a clean hole but didn’t smash. She could hear a helicopter now.
“How about a burger?” she yelled.
She pulled onto a slip road and went through the red light at the top without stopping. Two cars coming from opposite directions braked hard, but neither Fleming nor Marcie saw whether they hit each other. The Range Rover followed as if they weren’t there. Suddenly, they were in a service station. They slowed a notch for the one way system and skidded onto the exit lane, past the petrol station and back onto the M1.
“Sorry!” she shouted. “I didn’t know it was a KFC!”
“Bloody hell, I told you not to go anywhere there might be children!”
“Oh, but when I was a girl I was expected to climb the old oak and these bloody kids can’t dodge a car?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Keep it steady, I need to get another shot.”
Above them, an electronic variable sign read, ‘Urgent Police Warning: All Vehicles Leave Motorway at Next Available Exit.’ Then the next: ‘All Vehicles Follow Diversions to A1’.
“We might have a clear road ahead!” she shouted.
“They’ll be getting ready to throw a spike chain. Puncture our tyres!”
“It can’t come soon enough for me! When’s the next exit?”
“About two miles!”
She overtook a lorry and hung there next to it till she saw the Range Rover behind her. Then she sped forward and skidded two lanes to the left and braked, allowing the lorry to overtake. Then she overtook it again. Suddenly, they were behind the Range Rover.
She tried to imagine what would happen if she rammed it. Then she had a better idea. She decelerated and overtook the lorry on the inside again. She couldn’t see the Range Rover, so she guessed it must be where she’d left it, wondering what she was doing.
“Get back in the front seat!” she shouted to Fleming. “Quick!”
She pulled sharp to the right, crossing two lanes in front of the lorry and missing its bonnet by a hair’s breadth. Then she slammed her brakes on. The Range Rover smashed into the back of them. The driver left his seat and flew through his empty windscreen and over their roof. They bounced as they ran over his body. Behind them, the Range Rover ploughed the crash barrier, throwing up sparks, and then tumbled over and over.
“Good news!” she shouted. “There’s a Burger King coming up!”
“We’ve just bloody killed two men!”
She was braking now. “Don’t expect me to feel any remorse, Nick. These are the people that killed my brother and they’d have killed us too if I hadn’t had my wits about me.” She pulled to a halt in the hard shoulder. “Sorry about your car, by the way. I hope it’s insured.”
He laughed. “I’ll send off for a claim form when we get out of prison.”
Ruby Parker was on her way to the surface of Thames House by lift. On either side of her, Terence and Mahtab hugged clipboards.
“When did it happen?” Ruby Parker said.
“About an hour ago, ma’am,” Mahtab said. “Probably while you were on your way back from Cheltenham.”
“We’ve only just found out about it,” Terence said. “Apparently they tend not to broadcast these things live because they’re over so quickly and there’s a feeling they might inspire - ”
“Where are they being held?”
“Luton, at the moment.”
“Casualties?”
“Only two, from what I understand. Both drivers of the vehicle pursuing them. Both armed. So far the police are treating it as a gangland feud.”
“Have the police released their names to the media?”
“So far it’s just ‘a man and a woman in their twenties’.”
“Tell them not to. Get the Chief Constable of Bedfordshire on the line and the head of Counter Terrorism Command. Bloody hell, just as everything was starting to go right for a change. Are either of them hurt?”
“Not a scratch from what I’ve been told.”
“There’s no justice then. We’re going into that van compound tonight. I want to know what’s in there. Where’s Colonel Orlov?”
“He’s driving up there, ma’am. As ordered.”
“Ordered? By whom?”
“Er, we thought you.”
Fleming sat in a room with a rickety table and two plain clothes detectives, a Chief Inspector in uniform and a WPC taking notes. He had no anticipation of anything other than the hard slap of the book as they threw it at him, so he felt calmer than he had for a long time. His posture made no secret of this, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from drumming his fingers.
Clive and Ian didn’t like him – as a matter of policy, they despised coppers gone wrong - but they admired him, he could see that. Any law-abiding citizen who shot a gang member in the head with a short-range pistol couldn’t be all bad. The Chief Inspector was dying of asphyxiation caused by ever-increasing doses of incredulity.
“Even if we put aside the murder you just committed,” he said, “and chalk it up as manslaughter – say, that’s how the courts can finally be persuaded to see it – we’ve still got the fact that you hacked into the DVLA database and took information away for your own personal use, and impersonated an officer from the Department of Transport. I can’t believe you just did that on a whim. It’s all connected, isn’t it? Now obviously you’ve been a bloody fool. It goes without saying you’ve got no future in the force, but if you at least tell us what it is you were doing, we might be able to get you something in the way of mitigation.”
“The courts tend to be very unsympathetic towards bent coppers,” Clive said.
“Thank you, Clive,” Fleming replied. “I too have a rudimentary acquaintance with the de facto workings of the criminal justice system.”
“And of course when you get inside and they find you’re an ex-copper, they won’t show you any mercy.”
“They’ll bum you to bits,” Ian said. “So why not just cooperate?”
“Simply tell us what it was you were trying to do.”
The Chief Inspector put his knuckles on the desk. “Look, Fleming, as far as I can tell there are only two alternatives here. One: your recent activity’s in some way connected to your job, which is to bring criminals to book. We might call that the hyper-optimistic alternative, although in fairness, it may not be too generous because I’ve been looking at your record and everyone speaks very, very highly of you. But ... according to the second alternative, you’ve been led drastically astray by your girlfriend, a convicted criminal with violent tendencies, and you’ve ended up wallowing in sewage. Either way, the question is, what were you up to? Because the best you’re looking at here is a reduction in sentence and, without your full cooperation, even that small mercy’s going to elude you.”
Fleming leaned forward. “I’m absolutely prepared to tell you what I was doing, but first of all I’d like you to read it for yourself. I imagine you’ve probably got men inside my flat now, going through my things. I’d like you to contact whoever’s in charge and tell them there’s a notepad sticky-taped to the underside of the shelf in my wardrobe. Ask them to remove it and fax its contents over here, then I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“Wait here,” the Chief Inspector said.
He left. Fleming gave in to temptation and drummed his fingers. Ian and Clive eyeballed him but didn’t speak.
The Chief Inspector came back with a sigh. “There’s nothing there.”
“What? There must be! Whoever it is can’t have looked hard enough. Tell him to go back and try again.”
“They’ve had a very good look. And they’ve found nothing.”
Fleming scowled and put his fingers to his forehead.
“Things not looking so bright now, eh, son?” Ian said.
The Chief Inspector frowned. “On the plus side, I have been ordered to stop questioning you. You’re to go up to the canteen for a cup of tea and a Digestive and await further instructions. Clive and Ian will accompany you.”
“What?” Fleming said. “What do you mean, ‘further instructions’?”
“MI5. They’d completed a thorough search of your flat before we even knew you existed. Maybe they’ve got your precious notepad.”
“Not that it’s going to mean a damn thing,” Ian said.
“You’re still going down for a long, long time,” Clive said.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a nice cup of tea,” Fleming said. “Not too strong, Clive, that’s a good fellow. And Ian: two sugars, please.”
Four doors further along the corridor, Marcie was in an identical room with two WPCs. She had a cup of orange in front of her and she felt calmer than she knew she was entitled to. The policewomen both looked as if their uniforms were designed to pad them out. There was a tape recorder on the table.
“We know all about your criminal record,” the first said.
“We need you to make a statement now we’ve brought you a glass of orange,” the second said. “Where did these two men come from? Were they friends of yours?”
“You might as well tell us everything. We’ve got lots of witnesses. We’ve got it all on camera too.”
“I’d like my phone call, please,” Marcie said.
The first WPC sighed. “We don’t do that. You have the right to have someone notified of your arrest, but not to make a call.”
“Listen, if you let me use my mobile, I’ll talk. We’ll all get out of here much quicker. Just one little phone call, one minute. You don’t even have to leave the room.”
They looked at each other.
“I’ll have to ask,” the first said. She got up and left the room. Two minutes later she returned with a mobile phone in each hand. “These both yours?”
“I’ll take the one on the left,” Marcie said. “And thank you for being so understanding.”
Her heart went into her throat. She hoped he didn’t have it turned off. She scrolled down the names until she came to ‘B’, then pressed call.
It began to ring.
“Hello?” said a voice she recognised.
“Hello, Mr Bronstein. This is Marcie Brown, you may remember me. The fact is, I’ve just been arrested and I’m in Bedford police station. I happen to know that you’re in the CIA and you know a lot more about my brother’s death than anyone’s letting on, and if you don’t come down here and help me out – and my boyfriend – or at least arrange for that to be done, I’m going to tell everyone here the truth about who you are and what we both know happened that night. Is that understood?”
Twenty minutes earlier, Bronstein bought an Independent and took the motor launch back to Thames House. He arrived to find Ruby Parker on the fourth floor, looking out of the window and wringing her hands. This was one of the conference rooms overlooking the river. It doubled as her office when she felt claustrophobic.
“We’re going to raid Securitavan headquarters in Bedford,” she said. “Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Bedfordshire Special Branch and Metropolitan Counter Terrorism Command are backing us. You’re directing.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to strike while the iron’s hot? Like ... now?”
“I’ve done my level best. Unfortunately, it’s election day and there’s a nasty little rumour going around - started by us - that there may be assassinations in the offing. All police leave has been cancelled everywhere. The security forces are literally at full stretch.”
“What about the army?”
“I called the Home Office who called the Ministry of Defence. The Director of Special Forces doesn’t think it’s urgent enough, apparently.”
“Sheesh.”
“Major General Tim Reynolds. You met him at GCHQ. He’s never liked me, but I made the request through the proper channels and stamped it ‘urgent’ so if anything goes up there tonight, he’ll be the one picking shrapnel out of his face. I almost hope it does.”
“Maybe that’ll give us time to find out roughly what to expect, then. Have you spoken to Fleming?”
“We’re about to. I’ve sent a helicopter.”
“And Marcie?”
“I’ve sent Celia to get her. She has instructions to stall her, so they’re coming back separately. I don’t want Marcie anywhere near this, she’s too involved. She’s going to Afghanistan.”
“That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? Does she know?”
“It was her idea.”
“Why do you want me to lead the operation?” Bronstein said. “Orlov’s in charge.”
“Not any more.”
“Excuse me? What’s happened to him?”
“You saw how I reacted when he broke into Slope’s property in Oxfordshire, so you know how I feel about mavericks. I specifically warned him never to try anything similar again. He said he took my point.”
“I take it he’s changed his mind, then.”
“He’s on his way to Bedford. Without any authorisation whatsoever, without filling in any of the requisite forms, without consultation, or even the pretence of seeking permission.”
“Which of course means he could be about to get killed.”
“You just heard me, Lieutenant Bronstein. There’s no help to be had today or tonight. Besides, I’ve no mandate to risk the lives of my more conscientious operatives bailing out swashbucklers. Where would it stop?”
“Has it occurred to you that he might want out of MI7 even more than you presently want to see the back of him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look at this.” He passed her his copy of The Independent. “Vera Gruchov’s thrown in the towel. She can’t take the jibes about Tebloev any more. She wants to be above reproach.”
Ruby Parker scoffed. “She’s hardly cut out for politics then, poor petal. What’s this to do with Orlov?”
“Permission to speak frankly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Granted ...”
“I recall you saying that Orlov shouldn’t act recklessly. I also remember what you said when you welcomed us to MI7. I quote: ‘It’s your investigation. After you’ve left my office, you’ll run it yourselves. I expect to be kept informed, of course, and I’ll offer advice on request, but I won’t interfere’.”
She blinked slowly. “I did say that, yes.”
“On the other hand, you know how Britain works, you know how MI7 works, you know the acronyms and initialisms – GCHQ, SO15, SO13, JIC, DIS - you know who works here by name and rank and all the codes and protocols, White Maiden, Blue Maiden, Grey Maiden. You know the job intimately enough to inhabit it. There’s no way we can compete with that, and for the record, we wouldn’t have made a third the progress we have if you’d kept your word. But ... the last thing you had him do was interview a goddamn taxi driver.”
She sat down and looked at the table.
Bronstein sat next to her. “You saw how quiet he was in our last meeting. He hardly spoke two words. He wants to go home. On any terms.”
“You’re ... sure?”
“He hasn’t told me straight, but he’s no fool. Like you say, you made it clear to him what would happen if he took matters into his own hands again. He won’t be expecting you to overlook it if it all ends happily. You didn’t last time.”
She sighed. “I wanted so much to keep him here.”
“He won’t stay. He’s not a team player in the sense that you understand it.”
“What other sense is there?”
“Someone who forges ahead without waiting for the green light then wins a medal. They do it because they see things the team can’t. And thanks to what they achieve, there’s still something left to call a team.”
“I still don’t understand what this story about Vera Gruchov has to do with anything.”
“He’s the kind of guy who likes to support his friends. And when your friends are retreating, the best thing you can do is get back and man the barricades. I bet he worked out we wouldn’t be able to get any manpower tonight.”
“I’ve never been in this position before. It’s utterly unprecedented. I hope to God there isn’t a national emergency.”
“Can’t you call on one of the other Maidens? The Blue, say, or the Grey?”
“It doesn’t work like that. Even if it were permissible - which it isn’t – they only have their own remits, they don’t have their own private armies.”
“Pity.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “Should we go and help him, do you think?”
“You and me?”
She shrugged. “Everyone else is on duty.”
“I’ll tell you what. I want you to get on to the Russian embassy and negotiate concessions for Orlov’s return. Strictly hypothetical. Don’t concede an inch. I’ll wait for Fleming and we’ll put our heads together over what we’ve got. We’ll keep the helicopter here and our phones on, and if we so much as hear a squeak from Bedford, we’ll pounce.”
“It’s a long time since I was in the field.”
“Don’t build your hopes up. Orlov’s a Russian, he’ll blend in. Me? I don’t speak the language, yet I might just pass if I keep schtum. But a middle-aged black woman with a penchant for skirt-suits? That may be stretching things a bit.”
“We’ll see. When Fleming arrives, he’ll come straight to me. He’ll need briefing and inducting. If he agrees to join us, which he will, his working day starts now and for as long as you need him. Where will you be?”
His phone started to ring. He looked at it. “That’s odd ... it’s from – Jonathan?”
Ruby Parker smiled. “So she found his phone, eh? I was half expecting this. Put it on speakerphone, let’s see how she plays it.”
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello, Mr Bronstein. This is Marcie Brown, you may remember me. The fact is, I’ve just been arrested and I’m in Bedford police station. I happen to know that you’re in the CIA and you know a lot more about my brother’s death than anyone’s letting on, and if you don’t come down here and help me out – and my boyfriend – or at least arrange for that to be done, I’m going to tell everyone here the truth about who you are and what we both know happened that night. Is that understood?”
Bronstein grinned. “We’re on our way, baby.” He pressed ‘end call’ and turned to Ruby Parker. “You’ve got to admit, she’s got balls.”
“Well, well, well, the little minx. I’d better let Celia know.”
“I’m not in the CIA, though. Where the hell did she get that idea?”
Marcie put the phone down on the table. That was it, then. A cute little quip from Mr Bronstein and the ropes were cut. What the hell had she been expecting? Yes, she could tell everyone all about him and what really happened to Jonathan, but no one would even care. She was a criminal, for God’s sake. She was in here because she’d broken the law. All anyone here was interested in was where did these two men come from and were they friends of yours. She might as well get the statement over and done with. God, she hoped they hadn’t told her parents yet.
The door opened and a uniformed policeman put his head in and swept his eyes from one WPC to the other. “Could I have a word, please? Outside?”
The first WPC swept up the mobile phones.
The man grinned. “It’s okay, neither of you is in trouble.”
They went outside and Marcie heard them walk away. She wondered how long it would be till she could slit her wrists, have done with it. Her whole life had been one long failure and she’d sown disaster wherever she went. She’d always hoped that as she got older, things would get better. They hadn’t. They’d got worse. Wherever Nick was now, he was almost certainly wishing he’d never met her.
Maybe if she killed herself, she could be with Jonathan again. She was crying uncontrollably now, leaning forward in her chair as the tears splashed everywhere like some kind of Chinese water torture.
“Please don’t be upset, my dear,” someone said.
She looked up.
Miss Demure?
It was. In a cream blouse and a beige skirt and new shoes. What the hell - ?
She wiped her eyes. Bloody hell. “Did – did Daddy send you?”
Miss Demure smiled. “Sir Anthony has us to thank for the death of his only son. We’d rather not add the incarceration of his daughter and the probable loss of his parliamentary seat to our list of credits. He knows nothing about this, nor is he ever likely to.”
“What? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“The truth is, Marcie, I haven’t been entirely above board with you. Ever. I’m not a gymnastics teacher, I’m a senior training officer for MI6. Your brother recommended you to us and we’ve been very impressed with you. We persuaded the police to desist from their enquiries on the grounds that when we get you into a mess, we get you out. Usually. Anyway, we got you into this one, make no mistake. Shall we go?”
Marcie stood up. She felt light headed. “What - what about Nick?”
“I understand you’ve been on the phone to Lieutenant Bronstein. He says he admires your chutzpah, although we all know no one would believe you or care if you were to carry out your threat. Your boyfriend’s on the way to London. We’re very interested in both of you. Now come along, I’m sure you’ve got lots of questions.”
