King Solomon's Curse

  C stood at the window, looking out across the Thames. ‘Ah, Peter. There you are.’ He did not turn around.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Alderley, joining him. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ He continued to gaze at the river. ‘I want an explanation.’

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘Your contact with Eddie Chase and Nina Wilde last night. They called you.’

  ‘Yes sir, they did,’ said Alderley, knowing there was no point dissembling. C would have seen the telephone logs and quite probably listened to the call, GCHQ recording every phone conversation in the country as a matter of routine. ‘They said they wanted to meet me, but didn’t turn up.’

  ‘And are you in the habit of going out of your way to meet everyone who requests an audience?’

  ‘They’re . . . friends,’ he said, almost forcing out the word at the thought of describing Eddie as such. ‘I hadn’t seen them for a while.’

  ‘And were you aware that they are fugitives wanted on a matter of national security? That they instigated a gun battle at Heathrow and caused an enormous amount of property damage in their escape?’

  ‘They, ah, neglected to mention that, sir.’

  C finally faced him. The intelligence chief’s expression was anything but reassuring. ‘I understand that you called members of your department in the early hours of this morning and ordered them to prepare a briefing concerning the Democratic Republic of Congo. Why?’

  ‘A drill, sir. I wanted to test their readiness for an unexpected event.’

  ‘Hardly your usual procedure.’

  ‘The world’s changing, sir. We have to change with it.’

  C’s cold eyes bored into him. Alderley stood his ground, but could feel himself wilting – until to his relief the other man turned away as one of his desk phones rang. He crossed the room to pick it up. ‘Yes? I see. Send it to me. No, immediately. Alderley is in my office right now – I want him to hear it too.’

  He sat behind his desk, beckoning his subordinate over as if he were an unruly child. Trying to cover his trepidation, Alderley stood before him. ‘Hear what, sir?’

  ‘I had our analysts check the phone calls you made this morning. They also back-traced any other calls received by your people.’ He turned to his computer and clicked the mouse to bring up a file. ‘One came from a previously unused mobile number. I’d like you to hear it.’

  Alderley’s heart sank as he heard his own recorded voice. ‘Roy, it’s Peter Alderley again. Okay, listen. Don’t worry about the DR Congo briefing, I’ve got something more important for you to do. I’m going to send some people around to your flat with a laptop.’ His second call to Roy Boxley played through to its conclusion.

  C had not taken his eyes from him. ‘Explain,’ he said. ‘Were the people you referred to Wilde and Chase? What was on the laptop?’

  ‘I . . .’ Trapped, Alderley hesitated before replying. ‘Sir, I was given information by a source I trust,’ he said, deciding that if he was going down, he would do so fighting. ‘This information regarded illegal operations in DR Congo and a possible conspiracy within SIS itself. In the interests of national security, I decided to begin further investigation on my personal authority as the head of the Africa desk.’

  ‘I see. And do you have the names of these alleged conspirators?’

  ‘Yes – but I don’t think it would be appropriate at this time to release that information to anyone but the head of an independent investigative enquiry.’

  The two men stared at each other. C remained impassive for a long moment – then reached to his intercom. ‘Send security to my office immediately,’ he barked. ‘Peter Alderley is to be placed in custody. There is a man on his staff called Roy Boxley; have him brought up to me at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came his secretary’s alarmed reply.

  ‘So you’re just going to throw me in a cell?’ said Alderley angrily. ‘I know about Brice – that his resignation was faked so he could help break up the Congo deniably. And I also know he brought something back with him that can be used for a false-flag attack.’

  ‘I’d advise you to keep such conspiracy theories to yourself, Peter,’ said C icily. The door opened and a pair of large men in dark uniforms entered, batons and Tasers on their belts.

  ‘If Brice does what I think he’s about to, the damage to the country will be on your head. Sir,’ Alderley added in an acidic tone as the men flanked him.

  The intelligence head’s response was a dismissive wave of one hand. ‘Take him away,’ he said, before responding to a buzz from his intercom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir, Roy Boxley didn’t turn up for work this morning,’ his secretary told him. ‘Should I try to reach him at home?’

  ‘No,’ C replied as Alderley was led away. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  Fifteen minutes later, a black Range Rover skidded to a halt on the double-yellow lines outside Roy Boxley’s home. The four men who jumped out were unconcerned about parking restrictions. As part of their duties, they were exempt from them . . . as well as many other laws of the land.

  They did not use the buzzer. The burliest of the group carried a solid metal battering ram, which he swung against the door hard enough to smash the jamb. The others rushed inside, guns drawn.

  They pounded up to the other floor. The three armed men took up positions on each side of flat twenty-four’s door as the fourth readied the battering ram – and burst it open. His companions rushed in, weapons ready to shoot anyone they found—

  Nobody was there. It took only seconds for the other rooms to be checked. ‘Clear!’ each intruder shouted in turn.

  ‘Control, there’s no one here,’ the leader reported into his headset. ‘I repeat, targets are not here.’

  Brice was still in the lock-up, patched into the operation’s communications through his phone. ‘What about the laptop?’ he demanded.

  ‘There are two desktop machines in one of the rooms,’ came the reply. ‘No sign of any laptops. But there’s a space where one might have been.’

  The MI6 officer held in an obscenity. ‘Withdraw and await further orders,’ he snapped. ‘Staite, Waterford: get on the CCTV network. If there’s a camera near Boxley’s flat, go back through the video and see when they left, then track them. You have authority to call on any and all extra resources you need.’ He glanced at the van; while he wanted to oversee the manhunt, he also knew he would soon have to leave to reach his target in time. ‘As soon as you find them, call me. But find them!’

  35

  Roy gave Eddie an irritated look over his laptop’s screen. ‘You know, glaring at me won’t make it work any faster.’

  He and his visitors had decamped from the flat some time earlier after receiving Alderley’s message, Roy bringing them to a trendy coffee shop not far from his home. ‘I’m a regular here,’ he had told them earlier as they settled into a softly lit corner at the rear. ‘They’ll leave us alone. Oh, and they do the best hazelnut macchiato in London. You should try it.’

  Nina had taken his advice, but was less than impressed. She’d held in her critiques so he could work, but it was now after eleven o’clock. They were running out of time. ‘How much longer will it take?’

  The damaged laptop’s hard drive was connected to Roy’s machine by a cable, the young man’s computer set to remain active even with the lid closed so the scrambled data could be copied and reassembled while on the move. ‘It’s over eighty per cent done,’ he told her. ‘So I’d say . . . half an hour before we can check the files.’

  ‘Can’t you only recover the video we’re after?’ Eddie demanded impatiently. ‘We don’t need anything else.’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way, chap. The computer needs to know which data belongs to which file first. Until the directory’s repaired, it doesn’t know its bits from its bollocks.’

/>   ‘But it can be repaired, yes?’ said Nina.

  Roy nodded. ‘Looks like there’ll be some missing blocks, but considering that someone put a bullet through it, recovering anything at all is a minor miracle. Luckily, you had me on the case.’

  ‘The faster, the better,’ said Eddie. He glanced towards the entrance as someone entered the shop, but it was a young woman with a baby. Unless the Increment had really changed their recruitment practices, she was not a threat. All the same, he rechecked that the emergency exit was clear, having chosen their seats for rapid access to it.

  ‘Can you view any of the directory yet?’ asked Nina. ‘If we can see the dates on the files, we’ll know which one we want – it should be the most recent.’

  ‘I can certainly try,’ said Roy. He opened a terminal window and entered commands. A list of files scrolled up. ‘We’ve got a bit of it.’ He turned the machine to face her. ‘Should get more as the directory’s filled in, but you might see what you’re after.’

  Nina read through it. Roy had listed the files by date, newest first, but the topmost were from the day before Brice’s confession. ‘Damn. It’s not there!’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry. The bigger the file, the more pieces there are to assemble, so videos will probably be the last to be recovered.’ He reached to turn the laptop back—

  Nina grabbed his hand. ‘Oh, shit,’ she gasped.

  Eddie quickly stood, hand moving towards his hidden gun. ‘What is it?’

  She jabbed a finger at the menu bar – and one particular icon. ‘You’re on frickin’ wi-fi!’

  ‘Well, yah,’ said Roy. ‘I told you, I’m a regular – it finds it automatically.’

  ‘Yeah – which means MI6 can find you! You work for an intelligence agency, so they’ll have a list of all your computers to make sure you’re not emailing the Kremlin!’

  He blinked. ‘Oh. Oh! I didn’t even – sorry, it didn’t even occur to me about the wi-fi. It’s just, you know . . . there.’

  ‘Some bloody spy you’d make,’ Eddie growled. ‘Come on, we’ve got to move.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We can’t risk staying here,’ Nina told him, rising.

  ‘And turn off your sodding wi-fi!’ Eddie chided. Roy hastily did so. ‘It’s like a bloody tracking device. Where else can we go?’

  ‘If we only have to wait a half-hour for the files to be recovered,’ said Nina, ‘then we should head for the American embassy. And don’t start,’ she told Eddie. ‘What other choice do we have now?’

  Roy picked up his laptop, holding it carefully so as not to dislodge the cable. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

  Eddie opened the emergency exit. The three piled through, ignoring the shout from a barista. They emerged in a dingy alley. ‘I still think giving the video to the Yanks is a bad idea,’ he said, ‘but you’re right, we’re out of options. The embassy’s in Mayfair – we can get there on the Tube—’

  ‘No, no!’ Roy cut in as they hurried along the alley. ‘That’s the old embassy. The new one opened a couple of years ago. It doesn’t have a Tube station yet, though – and you won’t want to use the one nearest to it.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Nina.

  ‘It’s at Vauxhall – right by SIS headquarters.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, somewhere to avoid,’ she quickly agreed. ‘So what’s the best way there?’

  They emerged on a main road and looked around. ‘Taxi,’ said Eddie, before seeing an alternative. ‘Or . . . bus?’

  ‘You want to get away from government goons chasing us by bus?’

  ‘Well, first thing is that they won’t be expecting us to do it. And second, there’s one right there.’ He pointed at an approaching red double-decker. ‘Won’t get us all the way, but at least we’ll be across the river.’

  Nina was dubious, but the trudging pace of the traffic suggested that a cab would be little faster. They jogged across the road to meet it. ‘Okay, so we just jump on like in the movies, right?’

  ‘Not any more,’ Roy said. ‘They banned that when they fired all the conductors to save money. But there’s a stop down here.’

  They hustled to it, joining the short queue. Eddie looked back. No sign of any speeding cars packed with large men, but after the wi-fi debacle he was sure they would be on the way.

  The bus, a new-model Routemaster modelled on the iconic London vehicle, arrived. They boarded, Eddie and Nina paying with the cards lent to them by Alderley. Roy started for the rear, but Eddie called him back, finding seats as close to the driver as possible. ‘Just in case he gets any radio messages about us,’ he explained quietly.

  ‘You think he might?’ Nina asked as the bus set off, heading south.

  ‘There’s CCTV everywhere. They might have seen us get on.’ He turned to watch as a black Range Rover, flashing blue strobe lights concealed behind its radiator grille, muscled along the other side of the road to head for the coffee shop. ‘We got out just in time.’

  ‘Were they after us?’ Roy asked.

  Eddie nodded. ‘You heard of the Increment?’

  ‘Yah, of course, although they’re called “E” Squadron now – wait,’ he added in alarm, ‘they’ve sent them after us?’

  ‘Who did you expect? Austin Powers?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ The young man’s demeanour had until now been that of someone embarking upon a slightly transgressive adventure, but now the gravity of the situation struck home. ‘That’s, ah . . . rather serious.’

  ‘No shit,’ muttered Nina. She indicated his laptop. ‘How much longer?’

  Roy opened the machine. ‘The directory’s almost ninety per cent done. So fifteen, twenty minutes?’

  ‘Keep it going, then,’ she told him, looking back after the Range Rover.

  Staite and Waterford had been joined in the control centre by two more young and keen operators. ‘According to building records, the coffee house has a fire exit into a back street,’ one reported.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Staite asked the ground team through her headset.

  ‘Affirmative,’ came the reply.

  ‘Got them on cam,’ reported Waterford. A screen showed a live CCTV image from the main street, the Range Rover nearing a junction. It made a hard stop at the corner, two men jumping from its rear and running out of frame as the SUV set off again.

  ‘Can we see the shop?’ asked Staite.

  He checked a grid of smaller images on another display. ‘Not directly. There’s a camera outside a bank that might have an angle, though. Hold on . . .’ His fingers rattled across a keyboard.

  ‘We’re here,’ the team leader warned. ‘Team Two, ETA?’

  ‘Ten seconds. Just reached the alley,’ a man replied.

  ‘Got it,’ announced Waterford. The view on the main screen changed. The camera was mounted high above the bank’s frontage, covering its entrance and ATM, but the coffee shop was visible in the corner of the frame. The Range Rover stopped on the pavement. Its two occupants leapt out and ran to the shop, drawing their weapons.

  ‘Team Two in position,’ said the second man.

  Staite did not hesitate. ‘Move in.’

  The pair on screen burst through the shop’s door. ‘Special Branch!’ the leader bellowed, the police undercover unit acting as the cover for MI6’s even more secretive operatives. ‘Nobody move!’ Cries of panic came from the shop’s customers, a baby screaming. ‘Two men and a woman! They were here – where are they?’

  ‘They – they went out through the fire exit,’ someone fearfully replied.

  ‘Team Two, did you get that?’ said Staite.

  ‘Yeah,’ came the response. ‘Door’s barred from inside, nobody’s here.’

  ‘Team One, search the interior in case they’re lying,’ she ordered. ‘We’ll try to pick them up on CCTV.’

  A phone rang, Waterford
answering. ‘Oh, you’re kidding,’ he said, aggrieved, after listening to the caller. ‘It’s GCHQ. Boxley logged off the coffee shop’s wi-fi over three minutes ago.’

  ‘Good of them to let us know!’ Staite said in exasperation. ‘Okay, that gives us a new time window. Poll the CCTV on the surrounding streets and wind back four minutes to see if we can spot them. And tell those nerds at the Doughnut’ – the nickname for GCHQ’s circular headquarters – ‘that this is a real-time operation, not something to catch up with on iPlayer!’

  A report soon came in from the Removal Men that the targets were indeed no longer in the building. ‘We’ll update you as soon as we locate them,’ Staite told him, joining her companions to scrutinise recent footage from the dozen or so cameras covering the area. Minutes passed, Londoners stuttering along the streets in digitised fast-forward. Then—

  ‘There!’ cried one of the new operators. He zoomed in on three figures scurrying across a road. ‘That’s them, isn’t it?’

  Staite’s gaze flicked to another screen showing pictures of the fugitives, now joined by SIS’s own identity photos of Roy Boxley. ‘Yeah. And they’re carrying a laptop! Where are they?’

  ‘North End Road, not far from the coffee shop.’ He zoomed out and rewound the footage. ‘They came out of the alley behind it.’

  ‘We don’t need to know where they were,’ Staite chided. ‘We need to know where they are.’

  The young man hastily fast-forwarded. The trio popped across the main road and skip-framed down it until they passed out of sight. Waterford noted the time code, then brought up a contemporaneous image from a different camera. After a moment, their targets reappeared. Everyone watched as they continued down the street – then stopped. ‘Looks like they’re getting on a bus.’

  That was confirmed when a double-decker pulled up. The three targets boarded. ‘We’ve got them,’ Staite said into her headset. ‘They’re on a number 397 bus, heading south down North End Road.’