| |
The next day, Mordred arrived at Thames House at 8.55am as usual. He mounted the steps to reception, checked in and went straight to Basement One for his debriefing. He didn’t expect it to last long. Most of it had already been done in the helicopter en route from France. He wanted to get the loose ends out of the way, meet Phyllis in the canteen for breakfast – or even take her round the corner to the café, if she felt like it: get a bit of privacy – before revisiting the hell of filing junior agents’ reports.
He knocked on Ruby Parker’s door. She bade him enter, and he went in. For once, she was standing behind her desk, instead of seated. “Well done, John,” she said. “Everyone’s pleased to see you back. You did an excellent job.” They shook hands.
He wasn’t used to her praising him. A simple “thank you” was the appropriate response. He said it and sat down.
She read aloud the details of the statement he’d given her last night, and he confirmed it and added details where necessary. Standard procedure, and a little dull. But her fulsomeness at the start had made him uneasy.
They interrupted their discussion for the 10 o’clock news on Radio 4. Another senior Met officer had been arrested, bringing the total to ten. As part of the conspiracy, Planchart had offered them significant benefits in what they’d all mistakenly imagined was the future. At least two other arrests were expected in the next twenty-four hours.
“We found the ‘bomb’ you deduced,” Ruby Parker told him. “Once we knew where Godolphine had been, it didn’t take long. You were right: a flash, smoke and a loud bang – that would have been all. But enough to spark speculation and panic.”
“Any word of Durand?”
“None.”
“What about Crevier’s collaborators?”
“All disappeared into the woodwork. And Crevier won’t go to prison for long. He might not end up there at all. Good lawyers, influential friends at the highest levels of government, a kidnap-victim who can’t take the stand for security reasons; he holds a lot of cards.”
The de-brief took ninety minutes, much longer than he’d anticipated. At the end, Ruby Parker printed him a copy of his statement, then asked him to read and sign it. He knew not to treat it as a formality. He took ten minutes before passing it back.
“As I told you at the beginning,” she said, “you did a brilliant job.”
“Thank you,” he repeated. Here it came.
She sighed. “There is something else.”
He already knew what it was. Let her tell him, though; in this sort of scenario, it didn’t pay to go leaping in with educated guesses. He should look suitably surprised when she revealed it.
“Jean-Paul Crevier claims you warned him we were coming,” she said.
He nodded. Bang on.
“Why?” she asked.
A series of excuses flashed through his mind. Because I didn’t want anyone to get hurt; because I knew I could overpower him if he grabbed a gun; because I felt sorry for the other members of the family; because –
All false. “I don’t know,” he said. The only true thing.
“I appreciate you not making something up,” she said. “It’d have been easy to do. I talked this whole thing over at an early morning meeting with David Morris, the Head of Grey. We agree you should attend a ... counselling session.”
“You mean a radicalisation interview,” he said. “Only, a real one this time.”
She smiled. “I should emphasise that there’s not the slightest possibility of you losing your job. It’s a formality, a chance for you to come to terms with your experience at the Château de Les Sablonnières. You were there for a long time, John, in congenial company with intelligent people whose views must have struck you as not a million miles from your own, but which were, by any yardstick, radical.”
He nodded. This was only the morning after the whole forced vacation thing. And the truth was, he’d enjoyed himself there, albeit in a tense way. God help him, he actually missed the Creviers now. In some ways, theirs had been an ideal world: chaste, cultured, all material comforts, good conversation, every day sunny and verdant. Who could tell how much more he’d miss it tomorrow, in a week’s time, next year?
Maybe not at all, but it had to be looked at.
“You do realise why Planchart came back to his office last night?” he asked her.
She didn’t look pleased by his apparent diversion. “I assumed it was to erase his hard drive,” she replied patiently. “That’s the usual motive in these sorts of cases. And of course, to put his suicide as close to the physical centre of British government as possible. The final grand political gesture for his cause.”
“You sound uncertain. About the hard drive.”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to fit. As far as computer forensics can tell, he didn’t so much as delete a file.”
“His purpose was to add files. His actual manifesto, as opposed to his pretend one. He wanted posterity to know who he really was. Or could have been.”
It seemed to take her a moment to digest this. “That would also explain the annotated copy of The Social Magus we found in his desk drawer,” she said, awkwardly, like a person only half-aware that she was stating the obvious. “I notice you subtly changed the subject.”
“I’m making the point that I can see that now, when no one else yet can. I can think myself into Planchart’s shoes, in other words. That may be dangerous, or it may not.” He smiled and added, “I admit, it merits an interview.”
A week later he sat in a Harley Street consulting room whose Victorian décor, including a desk and a chaise longue, made it a caricature of Viennese psychoanalysis at its most photogenic. A woman of about forty in a pastel blue jacket and grey trousers sat opposite him asking the usual questions about cases he’d been involved in, people he’d met, feelings he’d experienced and still possessed, possible perspectives on world affairs, vegetarianism, the various charities he supported. She made no attempt to catch him out and actually seemed quite chummy in places. Which didn’t stop him keeping his guard up. As he spoke, he realised he actually did sound quite radical. Not necessarily a bad thing.
After their interview was apparently over, she sat at her desk, writing, for about twenty minutes.
“What we’re going to do now is something a little like what’s called ‘the talking cure’,” she said at last. She chuckled. “Not that I’m implying you need to be cured of anything. ‘Free association’ might be a better term. I simply want you to speak for about sixty seconds on the question of what the word ‘radical’ means and how and whether it applies to you.”
If he’d been the touchy sort, he might have walked out. Talk about why someone sent you here and I’ll listen? On the face of it, how patronising.
But he was close to getting out of the door. In a week or so’s time, he’d be in Capri with his fabulous girlfriend, and this would be a memory.
“I suppose most people go through life not thinking,” he began. “They don’t see themselves as doing what they’re told, but that’s probably what they are doing. ‘Radical’ means you’re different to that, not just a little, but very. It needn’t imply you’re inclined to violence. Only that you’ve thought about where you’re heading - not just in this life but through all eternity, even if there isn’t a literal one. If you have principles and you stick to them then, sooner or later, you’ll be perceived by some as a threat. But it may not last. Just as others will move away from you occasionally, so, later, they’ll come back. And then they’ll move away again. Or not, depending on the wind-direction. Sometimes you’ll find yourself labelled as a radical, sometimes a middle-of-the-road traditionalist, sometimes nothing. It’s not about you and what you are. It’s about society. And we happen to be living in a very conformist age. In some ways, right now, it’s arguably a person’s duty to be a radical.”
She smiled and wrote something down. “Very good,” she said. “I think that will be all, Mr Mordred.”
She stood up and offered a handshake. Over her shoulder, on her desk, he saw her report. On the bottom, she’d written, No cause for concern.
He would celebrate by ringing Phyllis. They could meet for a cup of tea and a slice of Victoria Sponge. Nowhere too fancy, nothing too exotic. He’d had enough radicalism for one day.
If you have enjoyed this book, you can get the next in the series – Libya Story - here.
This is how it begins:
Libya Story
Chapter 1: A Mini Trilogy
Episode 1: Present day. Islington, London
John Mordred had been having the same dream for over a month now. It always began in the Station Hauptbahnhof in Berlin with him displaying Mabel’s picture to passers-by. “Have you seen this lady?” he asked. (The quaint way he used ‘lady’, as if it was the nineteenth century.) “Have you seen the lady in this photo?” The few people he managed to speak to – the majority were always unreachable - seemed to fly by in the opposite direction. No. No. No. Like ghosts on a mission. Down through Germany he went, then Austria, Hungary, Serbia, village after village, town after town, country after country, until he arrived in Turkey. As he traversed the Anatolian peninsula, the crowds became slower, denser, more indifferent. They were totally focussed on their goal now, heads down, ploughing grimly against him towards that incredibly distant railway station in Berlin. By the time he reached the frontier with Syria, no one was interested in his inane little enquiry any more, much less the photo. It was always at this point that he had the same terrible realisation. He’d gone the wrong way. He should be in Italy. And because of that, it was almost certainly too late.
He awoke with a start.
He rubbed his eyes and swung his feet over the side of the bed. A nice sunny Tuesday morning. Ten minutes till his alarm went off, but he wouldn’t need that any more, he was already full of adrenalin. He stood up and stretched.
Today was going to be different. Apart from anything else, today was resignation day. He picked up the single piece of junk mail from his front door, tossed it onto the sofa and went into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and combed his blond curly hair, stooping slightly, as usual, so he could see in the mirror. He ate two Weetabix in front of the television – Good Morning Britain was on, and the woman with the fez and the golden armlet had been longlisted for yet another literary prize – and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing worth remembering, really. All anonymous. And this was the last thing he’d ever do here: eat a bog-standard TV breakfast with a couple of newsreaders. Afterwards, when he was at a safe distance from Britain, he’d ring his mum. Ask her to put his things in storage for him, please. Or bin them. Mostly they weren’t worth keeping, not even for sentimental reasons.
Anyway, he was only thirty-one. Plenty of time to accrue new rubbish if he wanted it. Better rubbish, even. The best.
He positioned himself about a metre from the window where he couldn’t be seen and looked cautiously down into the street. Yes, there he was. About forty, Caucasian, big overcoat, slight paunch. Mitchell, he was called, apparently. One of twenty men and women who took turns to watch him or his flat. None of them was much good. He’d made the first nearly a fortnight ago. Six days later, he knew all their names.
And of course, that’s why it would be safest to escape when he got to work. It’d be what they were least expecting.
Which didn’t mean they weren’t expecting it at all, oh no. They’d budgeted for every possibility, even the unlikeliest.
He put the kettle on and had two strong cups of tea, then donned his best suit – go out in style, that was his motto – and a pair of brown brogues, and he was ready. Time to head for the proverbial office.
He thought he’d be able to walk straight outside without feeling anything, but a sticky web of memories caught him just as he was about to open the door. It wasn’t a big flat, so everything of note had happened just behind him, here in his living room. He took one last look: dim echoes of occasional visits by colleagues and family. Nothing outwardly interesting, but each one – because of what he did for a living, the fact that people didn’t usually get across his threshold without excellent reasons – imbued with a special, unique significance.
And Phyllis. Ah, dear, yes. His heart turned over slightly and he exhaled a sigh. She’d been here. More than anyone else. She’d be at work now. His workplace. Their shared workplace, till today.
He probably wouldn’t see her, though. She tended to avoid him now.
Good or bad? He didn’t know.
If things had been different, he’d have fought back. Told her he loved her and so on. Flowers, texts, entreaties, public self-debasements, the works. But that wasn’t possible any more. Not given Mabel.
He grabbed himself by the inner scruff of the neck, walked out onto the landing and locked the door behind him. Then downstairs and out of the building. He caught the usual bus to Lambeth Bridge, sat in his usual seat and used his phone to read his usual newspaper surrounded by the usual commuters in their usual clothes wearing their usual sour expressions. Somewhere rural, they’d probably have been his friends: after all, they’d been travelling to work together every day for the last four years. But this was London. No one did ‘nice to see you again’ here, not without cast-iron sureties. It usually ended in a stabbing, or that’s what they thought. For all he knew, they might even be right.
Two seats behind him, Cordelia, a young black woman in a suit, sat pretending to read a novel. Another of his dear shadows. Oh, how he’d miss them.
He - and she - got off at the river embankment and walked briskly along Millbank. When he entered Thames House by its large gothic front door, she kept going. Doubtless she’d find her way inside later, maybe even by a different entrance. Meanwhile, Colin, the receptionist, was dealing with what looked like a group of policemen in plain clothes.
How did Mordred know they were policemen? Experience, partly: you learned to recognise types in this job. But also because, when he thought about it, he knew why they were here. They were here for him. They were going to arrest him.
In the normal course of things, he was expected to check in. But Colin knew him by sight, and this was his last day. What could anyone do? The police certainly wouldn’t come after him, not on his way in. No, it was getting out again that would likely pose the problem.
He exchanged greetings with junior colleagues on his way to Ruby Parker’s office. Hello John, morning Steph; morning John, good to see you Guy; Hi John nice suit, hi Suki thank you; morning, morning; hello, morning, good morning.
And then he was there. He knocked. Ruby Parker called ‘enter’. He went inside.
A small black woman, probably in her mid- to late-fifties, probably in a skirt-suit although he couldn’t see her bottom half since she was sitting behind her desk and didn’t dignify his entry by standing. She looked as happy to see him as the people on the bus on the way in, but probably even less so on the inside. If she felt as she’d recently told him she did, she was doing an excellent job of hiding her antipathy.
“Good morning, John,” she said.
“Just came to tell you I’m on my way now,” he replied.
“You’re adamant?” Spoken as if even she didn’t know whether it was a question.
“Unless you’ve had a change of heart.”
“Absolutely not. What I meant was, you’re aware that this is almost certainly a one-way street?”
“We’ve had this discussion. What would you do in my position?”
She smiled thinly. “You’re right. We have had this discussion. Good bye then, John. I won’t wish you luck, for obvious reasons.”
He closed the door behind him. Now it was just a case of getting out of here. Past the Annabels and the Alecs, in the first instance. Then the police.
Easy peasy.
Episode 2: Six weeks before the present day. The Mediterranean Sea, 200 miles off the Libyan coast.
10pm and the Odyssey was bustling. In Room OR2 another surgical operation was nearing a successful conclusion and 23-year-old Mabel Mordred and her 30-year-old colleague and lover, Jean-Marc Bouchet, were ordered to take a quick tea-break in the ship’s mess. On a busy day, like today, everyone took it in turns to eat and grab an hour or two’s sleep. No one had yet turned in for bed – Médecins Sans Frontières personnel were used to long shifts - but food was easier to procure, and just as important for concentration.
Cheese and tomato rolls and coffee. The two ate and drank in silence for the first minute because they were very hungry. Mabel had a pale complexion, black hair tied up in a bun, large eyes and thin mouth. A year ago, she’d been halfway to a first class medical degree at Cambridge when somehow – a kind of mental collapse? she still didn’t know - the full horror of the Syrian refugee crisis seemed to reach out and demand her on-the-spot presence without delay: come exactly as you are, ask no questions, don’t even stop to gather your things. She dropped everything as if in response to a divine command, qualified precipitately as a nurse and joined MSF.
By contrast, Jean-Marc was the finished article: a graduate of the Université de Montpellier with four years’ surgical experience, an established ability to subordinate moral importunity to practical possibility, and the authority of a conventional career-path behind him. Tall, with short hair, small ears and perfect teeth, he ate leisurely as if making the most of his fare.
Nine hours earlier, the Odyssey had come across a Zodiac, a rubber dinghy with sixty people aboard. Ninety minutes’ later, it had been hailed by a German commercial vessel with three hundred and forty people to transfer. Since then, there had been one baby delivered, six broken limbs mended, a variety of minor surgeries, and all the routine treatment of dehydration, scabies, dysentery, fuel burns, excrement-caked flesh. The ship was an ex-merchant vessel, chartered from a firm in Bonn and with a crew of Croatians who tended to keep their distance from the refugees. Behind the mess was a small morgue and three operating rooms. The hospital was a portable cabin on deck. Right now, most of the migrants were down in the hold. The ship was on its way back to Messina.
After satisfying their initial hunger, the two medics talked about the problems and practicalities of the latest rescue for five minutes, then got up. Before they parted, Jean-Marc took Mabel’s arm.
“I’ve been thinking about Libya again,” he said brusquely. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Get Libya Story here.
