Fear of the Fathers (4 page)

Jennings knew better than to get involved and carried on with his meal.

“Well?” pressed Stella.

“I don't know,” said Jennings diplomatically. “I know you want to come back, but you have to respect his point of view. Give it another six months and try him again. If you're still interested you'll prove it's not a flash in the pan.”

“That's exactly what he said,” tutted Stella.

Jennings finished his food in silence, contemplating Stella's words. Much as the job got to him every now and then, he knew that she was probably right and that he would miss it. Deep down there was a part of him that craved the danger and excitement of days like these.

Stella cleared away the crockery and they adjourned to the living area. Cigarette in one hand, glass of wine in the other, she proceeded to regale Jennings with the events of her day. He feigned interest as he always did. “You should really learn to curb that temper of yours,” he said when she'd finished.

“Thanks for that,” snorted Stella. “A bit of support wouldn't go amiss.”

“Sorry, you're right. I'm not really thinking about what I'm saying. My mind's still elsewhere.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Stella guiltily. “The last thing you probably need is some neurotic woman burdening you with her problems.”

Jennings smiled at her. “I don't mind,” he said. “You're not neurotic, you're just going through a tough time. Everyone needs someone to talk to.”

Stella finished her glass of wine. “Do you fancy another drink?” she asked.

“I would, but I'd better be getting off. I've got to be in early tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Stella. “Meetings to attend and reports to write. Now that's something I don't miss.”

“Yeah, it's going to be a long day,” said Jennings.

It was nearing midnight and the backstreets of Peckham were all but deserted. Abdullah Abebi halted briefly and drew up his collar to keep out the cold. He gave a cursory backward glance and continued onwards, his footsteps echoing eerily in the emptiness, and the icy air reflecting his nebulous breath. The dusty languor of his hometown seemed a million miles away.

He was on his way back from the mosque. His meeting with the elders had gone smoothly, he thought. The atmosphere had been grave but not hostile. The discussions had been open and honest. Abdullah had expressed his concerns and they had expressed theirs. He had used his cover as an emissary to good effect. If they were hiding anything then they were hiding it well.

Abdullah stopped again and looked over his shoulder. The street behind him appeared to be devoid of life, but his instincts told him to be on guard. A fog was drawing in and visibility was low. In the prevailing conditions a man could easily be followed without his knowledge. Alert to the possibilities he stepped up his pace.

As he walked his sense of uncertainty grew. Shadows leapt out from behind every wall and gateway. Phantom footsteps dogged him with a sinister resonance. A brisk walk became a slow run. His heart drummed.

The unseen menace drew closer and closer until he could feel it almost clawing at his heels. Conquering his fear, he stopped dead, and span round in fighting stance. The street was empty. Abdullah caught his breath and then laughed at his paranoia. He continued on his way.

The actual attack happened quickly, about two hundred yards from his bedsit. A noise from behind preceding a sting in his side. He turned to face his assailant, but all he saw was a dark figure dissipating into the mist. For a moment he stood frozen, and then the pain hit him. He clutched his ribs and fell to the ground. Blood trickled between his fingers and pooled on the pavement.

Abdullah stared up to the heavens. A break in the fog allowed him a clear view of the stars. He smiled and took comfort in the knowledge that he would soon be joining them. But as he drifted into darkness a voice halted him. He had to stay alive; he had to warn them.

After a dull morning of meetings and debriefs Jennings found himself standing outside Jonathan Ayres' office. Anthony Bliss, the Prime Minister's private secretary, knocked on the door and led him through. Ayres got up from his desk and offered his hand. “Ah, Jennings, good to see you,” he said genuinely.

Anthony Bliss left and Jennings took a seat opposite the PM.

“Would you like a drink of anything?” Ayres asked. “Tea, coffee – something stronger?”

“Just coffee please sir. I'm still on duty.”

“I wouldn't worry about that,” said Ayres. “Nobody's going to know.”

“I appreciate that sir, but coffee will do just fine.”

Ayres poured two cups from the cafetiere and passed one to Jennings, then produced a half bottle of brandy from the desk drawer and laced his own drink. “Are you sure you don't want to make your coffee more interesting?” he asked.

“I'm sure,” said Jennings, tempted but wishing to keep a clear head.

Ayres sat down and took a sip of his coffee. “Well,” he said. “Yesterday was rather exciting wasn't it?”

“Exciting?” queried Jennings. “I suppose so sir. That's one way of looking at it.”

“Sorry Jennings, that was the wrong phrase to use. I appreciate that it was a difficult day for you.”

“No need to apologize to me sir, you were the one they were trying to kill.”

“Yes, of course,” said Ayres. “But you were the one who took the bullet. I'm extremely grateful you know. I'm going to be putting you forward for the George Cross.”

Jennings bowed his head and blushed inwardly. “I don't know what to say sir. It was just instinct really. It's what I'm trained to do.”

Ayres smiled. “It may well be, but to risk your life for another human being is the noblest gesture of all.”

“To be fair, I was wearing body armour sir.”

Ayres waved his hand dismissively. “That's as maybe. But that wasn't in your mind when you acted. You could have been shot in the head – body armour wouldn't have saved you from that. I admire your humility, but the fact is, as I said yesterday, you are a hero.”

“Thank you sir,” said Jennings accepting the compliment to end the conversation. The barrage of praise was making him uncomfortable.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Ayres asked.

Jennings said he didn't.

Ayres got out an ashtray and lit a cigarette. “What do you make of it all then Jennings?” he said. “Who do you think wants to kill me?”

“Could be anybody sir.”

“Am I that unpopular?” laughed Ayres.

“No sir, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that it was difficult to narrow down. Nobody's claimed responsibility yet. Until then we have to look at all the possibilities.”

“I know that,” said Ayres. “But what's your opinion? What does your instinct say? Do you think it's Muslim fanatics?”

Jennings shook his head. “That's the obvious assumption to make, but I'm not so sure. I'm fairly certain the guy was a Sikh. You haven't done anything to annoy the Sikhs have you sir?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Anyway sir,” said Jennings. “Wouldn't it be better to ask Brennan about all this? He's probably got a lot more information than I have.”

“Yes, yes, of course he has. I've spoken to him already. But Brennan, for all his brilliance, is slow and methodical. You Jennings, on the other hand, appear to be blessed with fantastic intuition. What does your gut tell you?”

Jennings looked at the expectant Prime Minister, unsure of what to say.

“Well?” Ayres pressed.

Jennings shrugged. “It's not really telling me anything, sir. Except that I don't think there was a political agenda.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just because. I can't validate the statement with hard facts. I just got the feeling that, whatever was going on in the assassin's head, it was much deeper than just political idealism.”

Ayres raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting that political idealism is somewhat frivolous?”

“Not at all sir,” said Jennings, slightly embarrassed. “I only meant that his grievance didn't appear to be a secular one. To me, he seemed to be operating at a higher level – on a spiritual plane, if you like. I know it may sound stupid, but you did ask what I thought.”

“Absolutely,” said Ayres. “I'm glad you've been honest with me. And, for the record, I don't think it sounds stupid at all. If you think there's more to it than politics then I'm quite prepared to believe you, but that brings us back to religion.”

“I suppose so,” admitted Jennings. “But like I said: he was a Sikh. And unless you can think of a reason why they'd want you dead…”

Ayres shook his head. “I can't,” he said. “Of course, there may be some old grievance that I'm not aware of. But remember Jennings, the assassination attempt wasn't personal against me – it was aimed at the nation as a whole.”

Jennings took a sip of his coffee and looked across at the Prime Minister. He wondered if Ayres was right and that it was an attack on the British as a nation. Personally, he had his doubts: a bullet was a device of singular intent. It would have been more efficacious to use a bomb; but a bomb would have killed others and the assassin hadn't wanted to do that. After all, he'd had the chance to kill Stone, Appleby, Davis and himself. If it was a statement against the nation, he would have shot them without compunction. No, this guy wanted Ayres, and Ayres alone. But why?

“Are you alright Jennings?” Ayres asked. “You've gone a bit quiet.”

“Yes, I'm fine sir. I was just thinking, that's all.”

“What about?”

“Yesterday, sir. Nothing seems to add up.”

Ayres got out of his chair and paced behind the desk. “I agree with you Jennings,” he said. “The whole thing's entirely confusing. Between us and the Yanks we've got the best intelligence network in the world. It's got to the point where it's almost impossible for a terrorist to sneeze without our knowledge. And yet, a man breezes in to Cheltenham and takes a shot at me, and we don't have the first clue as to who the hell he is, or who or what he represents. It seems that we have a new enemy; an unseen enemy. I'll be honest with you Jennings – I don't feel safe at all.”

“I understand your concern sir,” sympathized Jennings. “But I wouldn't have thought that he'll try anything again soon. It's highly unlikely that anyone will – not with the step up in security.”

Ayres returned to his seat. “Yes, you're right, of course. I'm just a little jittery about the whole thing. It's very easy to get complacent when you're in a privileged position. You forget that not everybody's going to like you and your policies. ‘You can't please all of the people all of the time', as they say.”

“No, sir,” agreed Jennings.

“Anyway,” said Ayres. “This all leads to the reason I asked you to come over. In light of yesterday's events I've decided to have a slight change in my security arrangements.”

“Sir?”

“I've asked Brennan if I can have you permanently assigned to my little team, and he has agreed.”

Jennings contemplated the news. It was an honour to be asked, but at the same time he had reservations. Of late, he'd had quite an easy time of it work wise: small assignments here and there; mostly daytime, no weekends. Being part of the Prime Minister's personal team was going to throw his leisurely life out of kilter. With the current state of alarm he'd be lucky if he saw his own bed more than once a week.

“Well?” said Ayres. “Is there a problem?”

Jennings forced a smile. “No, sir, not at all. I was just thinking what a great honour it is.”

“Of course it's going to be a lot of work,” said Ayres, reading Jennings' mind. “You'll be on duty for long periods, and you'll have to stay here most of the time. But,” he smiled, “don't worry, you'll be well rewarded for your sacrifice.”

“Thank you sir,” said Jennings, resigned but unconvinced. He felt the thundering hooves of trouble galloping towards him at pace.

“Is he going to survive Doctor?” said a voice.

“I don't know,” replied the doctor. “He lost a lot of blood. The knife only just missed his heart. We'll have to see how he goes over the next few days.”

Abdullah kept his eyes closed. Opening them would be too much of an effort. He was comfortable and warm, and loathe to ruin the moment. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for he knew not how long. The last thing he had seen was the blue flash on top of the ambulance. At that point he had let go the fight and put his trust in the abilities of the paramedics: a trust, it turned out, that hadn't been misplaced.

Abdullah's mind floated back to the orphanage. A surge of joy flowed through his body as he remembered his youth. For most people the thought of such an institution conjured up images of misery and squalor, but not for Abdullah. His childhood had not been one of quiet desperation, it had been one of education and wonder and enlightenment. He wasn't pleased that his parents had been taken from him, but that unfortunate accident had opened up windows of opportunity that would otherwise have been closed to a boy of his underprivileged background.