Alex Henley was unused to helicopters. He had been in three in his lifetime, all short distances. Each experience had been worse than the last but none had come close to tonight. It had required all of his concentration to keep his evening meal inside his stomach.
Dempsey had requisitioned an Army Air Corps Gazelle for the journey from London to Credenhill Barracks. It had been waiting for them at a helipad close to New Scotland Yard and they had been in the air within fifteen minutes of leaving Henley’s office. That was now fifty minutes and 130 miles ago and, as his feet touched the tarmac of Credenhill’s own landing pad, Henley said a silent prayer of thanks.
‘Remember to keep your head down,’ the pilot shouted over the din of the engines.
As Henley gratefully left the helicopter, he was greeted by a young man in military fatigues.
‘Please come with me, sir.’
The young man’s uniform was adorned with an officer’s insignia that Henley vaguely recognised, and his sand-coloured beret was gripped in the fist of his left hand. His right he placed in the centre of Henley’s back, guiding him away from the aircraft and towards a waiting jeep.
Henley glanced to his left and saw Dempsey striding towards the same vehicle. If Dempsey’s stomach had suffered as Henley’s had, he was hiding it well.
Dempsey reached the jeep first and climbed into the front passenger seat. A heavily built Fijian with a corporal’s double stripe on his arm was behind the wheel. With the front seats taken, Henley and the young officer had to climb across the vehicle’s open sides and into the rear.
‘Would you like to check in at your quarters first, sir?’
The question came from the driver as he fired up the Jeep’s engine. It was directed at Dempsey.
‘We won’t be staying.’ Dempsey’s reply was blunt. ‘Just take us to General West.’
‘Come in.’
A low voice rumbled through a fire door that was marked ‘Director Special Forces’. The officer from the helipad did not hesitate. He opened the door and stepped inside, where he stood to attention, his eyes unblinking. Henley was a little taken aback by the formality of the soldier’s actions, coupled with the notable lack of a salute. What surprised him far more was Dempsey, who strode into the office and did exactly the same thing. For the first time Henley was reminded that, beneath it all, this was the essence of the man. A DDS agent in name but a SAS officer to his core.
‘At ease, Major.’
Major General Arthur West spoke with a quiet, friendly tone as he rose from his chair. An effort to set a non-confrontational mood, Henley assumed. Dempsey responded by doing just as he had been told, adopting a less rigid stance. It was ‘at ease’, but hardly casual.
‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.’
West continued to speak directly to Dempsey as he moved around his desk. If he had noticed Henley he did not show it. As he approached he put out his open hand. Dempsey hesitated for just a moment before grasping it.
‘Yours is a name I’ve heard a lot since taking this command, Major. It’s a shame we have to come together in these circumstances.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Dempsey’s response was brisk and efficient. He was in no mood for pleasantries. Henley already knew that. And now West no doubt knew the same. But his higher rank gave him the right to ignore it.
‘I trust you’ll see no deterioration in the standards of what we do here, Major. Though I’ve implemented certain improvements, so I dare say things have moved on since you left us.’
‘I’m sure they have, sir. But we won’t be here long enough to take the tour.’
‘More’s the pity,’ said Henley, keen to cover for Dempsey’s briskness. ‘I’ve always been very interested in the training your men receive.’
West looked at Henley, as if noticing him for the first time. Henley offered his hand as he introduced himself.
‘Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley, Metropolitan Police.’
West took Henley’s outstretched hand within his own and shook. Their respective grips were far from equal.
‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Henley.’
West’s words said one thing but his tone said another. His failure to refer to Henley by his rank told the assistant commissioner all he needed to know. West turned his attention back to Dempsey.
‘Speaking of my improvements, how long ago was it that you left us, Major?’
‘Four years, sir.’ Dempsey’s impatience was becoming more obvious. ‘I’ve been seconded to the Department of Domestic Security since its inception.’
‘A shame for us.’ West seemed determined to keep Dempsey off-subject. ‘You’ve been a very difficult asset to replace. But our loss is the DDS’s gain.’
‘That’s flattering. But if we could move on to Sergeant Jones, General? We’re keen to begin his debriefing.’
West did not respond. For a few seconds he was silent. His eyes were fixed on Dempsey but his mind was elsewhere. Finally he let out a deep breath, looked from man to man and then turned his back on both. West walked around his desk to his chair, stopping for a moment to collect a decanter of mahogany liquor and three glasses from a table at the very rear of the room.
Taking his seat behind his desk, West half-filled all three glasses. With a weary flourish he indicated for Dempsey and Henley to take the two seats across from him. He pushed two of the glasses towards them before reaching out for his own. Within a moment its contents had been swallowed. West did not seem to be drinking for enjoyment. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet.
‘I’m afraid that Sergeant Jones remains unavailable for debriefing.’
Henley’s eyes darted from West to Dempsey. He had been prepared for what West had said. They both had, but they needed their theory confirmed.
‘Could you please explain that, General?’ Henley asked. ‘Why is he unavailable?’
‘Because he has still not returned to barracks.’ West seemed to struggle with the admission. ‘And he still can’t be contacted.’
‘Seems less than usual, doesn’t it, sir?’ This time it was Dempsey who poked West with his question.
‘You know it’s bloody unusual, Major!’ West was angry. He probably had been for hours. And now he was no longer hiding it. ‘If Sergeant Jones had followed regimental protocol he would have stayed in London for police debriefing. And he would most certainly have then travelled directly back to barracks, which would mean him reaching here at least three hours ago. The fact he has done neither and has failed to call in to explain his delay means he is no longer obeying protocol. Which leaves only one conclusion.’
West fell silent. Henley could see that he was struggling with the idea that one of his men could have become a traitor.
‘You’re saying your man’s turned over?’
West’s eyes locked onto Henley.
‘Yes, Mr Henley. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘You’re not even considering another explanation?’
‘This is not civilian life, Mr Henley. My men get on with the job and they follow orders to the letter. Sergeant Jones has not done that, and there is only one possible explanation for that fact.’
‘Actually, sir, it might not be that simple.’
Dempsey’s words cut through the exchange. Both West and Henley fell silent. Henley knew what was coming. West, however, was in the dark.
Dempsey lifted the manila folder that he had brought from London.
‘This is the file you sent me earlier this evening,’ he explained. ‘I’ve read through it four times, sir. Looking for some hint of anything in Jones’s history. But there’s nothing, and for good reason. Sergeant Jones is no traitor, sir, because Sergeant Jones did not step foot in Trafalgar Square today.’
‘What?’ West made no attempt to hide his confusion. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Major?’
Dempsey turned the file so that the text was facing the major general and passed it across the table. West glanced at the front sheet as Dempsey continued.
‘Do you see any problem with that page, sir?’
West did not answer immediately. He took a few more moments to study every inch of the page. Finally he looked up and shook his head.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘And my patience is wearing thin. So are you going to enlighten me?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that picture, sir? You’re sure?’
‘I’ve just said that. Now are we going to move on?’
‘Not yet, sir. Because if that picture is Sergeant Jones as you say, then Sergeant Jones is not the man who joined Mr Henley’s team today.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true, General,’ Henley offered. ‘I spent time with the man purporting to be Sergeant Jones in London, and there is no way that the man I met is the man in this file photo.’
West’s eyes widened, his initial confusion visibly shifting to incredulity.
Henley could see the realisation sinking in. Could see the pieces falling into place as West sat back in his chair and looked up at the tiled ceiling.
It was almost a minute before the major general spoke again.
‘So Sergeant Jones was seconded to Mr Henley’s team, practically at the last moment,’ he said, as much to himself as to his guests. ‘Yet someone was already in place to step into his shoes, to impersonate him and for some reason to kill one of your agents? Thereby allowing the shooting to take place?’
‘In a nutshell, sir.’
‘Major, you must realise the connotations of what you’re suggesting?’
‘I do. It means that the police officer replaced – a Sergeant Dutton – was somehow made unavailable for service. Dutton may be involved or he may not; we’ll look into that. But whatever the answer, there must be conspirators higher up. Whoever did this knew Sergeant Jones’s identity. They knew early enough to fake his credentials, which they did well enough to fool every security agency we have. They also wanted someone in place – best placed – to make that shot. Sir, we can’t say for sure if the shooter was aiming for Sam Regis but, when you look at it, what other explanation is there?’
West did not respond. He just stared into space as Dempsey’s theory played out in his mind.
Henley knew from his own experience what he was witnessing. West was trying – struggling – to undermine a theory that could only damage. He was trying in some way to discredit it. Exactly as Henley would do if he were in West’s place. Dempsey had to be wrong. The shooter had to be Steven Jones. Because West’s bureaucratic, regimented mind – a mind shared by Henley and by anyone promoted to their elevated positions – could handle a rogue soldier. But a conspiracy that reached high enough to manipulate the world’s best security services? One that could put a gunman in place – on the government’s own team of sharpshooters, no less – to ensure an assassination? That was a different story altogether. The immediate future would be easier if Dempsey was wide of the mark.
‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand.’ Henley’s voice broke the silence. ‘If this is all true – and it does sound likely – then where is the real Sergeant Jones?’
Dempsey and West’s eyes met. Each had spent a lifetime in a more dangerous world than Henley. They knew the lengths to which men would go to ensure success. The price some paid for the ambition of others.
A silent nod from West elected Dempsey to answer.
‘Steven Jones is dead, Alex. He was dead from the moment he was put on your team.’