Heaven's Light (21 page)

‘Of course.’ Most of the counter-insurgency stuff in the original deal that the DTI had helped facilitate was coming from a company in Derby. Their quote had been substantially less keen than the rest but, quality-wise, their products were in a different league. Zhu’s judgement in this respect had attracted much comment within the ministry. Businessmen with an interest in excellence, rather than the bottom line, were an increasingly rare breed.

‘And you’ll know our client intends to place supplementary orders?’

‘So I hear.’

‘Good.’ Zhu’s hand hovered enquiringly over the sugar bowl. Ellis shook his head, curious to know where this conversation might lead. Discreet enquiries in Singapore had capitalized Zhu’s various stockholdings at a fraction over $857 million. By anyone’s standards, that made him a very rich man indeed. Hence, perhaps, his acquisition of a property like Bentwaters. If you were looking for a UK base, somewhere with a bit of privacy but a global reach, you could do worse than a £1.4 million mansion in the Surrey woods, stuffed full of computers.

Ellis accepted the tea, balancing the saucer on his attaché case. The hope in Whitehall was that Zhu would cap this first order with something truly substantial. Armoured vehicles, perhaps, or something in the guided missiles line.

‘Does your client have a time-frame for whatever he needs next?’ Ellis asked.

‘Yes. Very soon now I hope to have the documentation.’

‘And do you want us to arrange another meeting? At Victoria Street?’

‘That may well be necessary. Unless, of course, we meet here.’ Zhu beamed, already very much at home.

Ellis said something polite about the panelwork in the hall. He asked about the age of the property and Zhu said he didn’t know. Maybe the nineteen thirties. Maybe earlier. He was standing by the fire now, gazing down at the dog.

‘I’ve been in Portsmouth,’ he said at last. ‘You know Portsmouth?’ Ellis shook his head. Zhu’s file had recorded a number of recent visits to the south coast and full details of his purchase of a local hotel. Quite where this fitted into
his portfolio was a mystery, although he had hotel interests back in Singapore.

‘Nice place, Portsmouth,’ Ellis remarked.

‘Very pleasant. Good people.’ The dog began to stir and Zhu tickled its ear with a slippered foot. ‘Good prospects too. I like it there.’

He glanced up, a slightly contemplative smile on his face. Outside, in the hall, Ellis could hear a whispered conversation about cable ducting.

‘They have a dockyard,’ Zhu was musing, ‘down in Portsmouth.’

Ellis reached for his tea. ‘That’s right. Home of the Royal Navy. Always has been.’

‘So I understand.’ Zhu’s attention had returned to the dog. ‘How would I go about buying it?’

Owens waited until he’d crossed the road before he made the call. From the corner, beside the canal bridge, he could still see the entrance to the café and the men in profile drinking at the bar. Most were watching football on the television at the end. The couple beside Haagen were locked in a gentle embrace.

Owens checked his watch, wondering why Bairstow wouldn’t answer his phone. After half past seven he’d said he’d be at home, and it was already way past eight. At long last the call was answered.

‘Me,’ Owens said, turning his body towards the canal, dispensing with the code. ‘He’s in a bar in Amsterdam. It’s a pick-up, I swear it.’

‘Pick up what?’

‘Fuck knows. It’s in his holdall. And it cost him a fair bit. He paid in US dollars. At least two grand’s worth.’

‘What did it look like?’

‘It’s in packets.’

‘Big? Small?’

Owens frowned, picturing the way he stored his fishing bait. ‘Tobacco tins,’ he said. ‘Eight-ounce.’

‘Resin?’

‘Could be.’

‘Something heavier?’

‘Maybe.’ Owens glanced over his shoulder. Haagen was buying another drink. For someone holding, he was either brainless or the goodies had already left with someone else. Either way, Owens needed orders.

He bent over the phone again. ‘What do you want me to do?’

He heard a grunt at the other end. Lights from the street were dancing on the black waters of the canal. Bairstow was back on the phone. He wanted to know more about Haagen. Where had he been? Who had he met? Owens felt his patience beginning to wear thin. Put the big guys behind a desk, he thought, and they rapidly lose touch.

‘He’s been nowhere,’ he said. ‘He’s made a phone call, he’s walked from the station to the bar, and now he’s sitting on a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of something naughty.’ He stepped back to let a bicycle sweep past. ‘Shall I talk to the locals? Get him pulled in?’

At the other end there was a minor explosion. It sounded like a sneeze and Owens was suddenly back in the world of soggy tissues and hourly doses of throat linctus. Then Bairstow was coherent again. On no account was Owens to think in terms of arrest. Haagen was to run and run. In the end Owens would lose him but that wouldn’t be an issue. The more they had on the boy the better it would be.

Owens was getting lost. ‘Better for who?’ he said. ‘Who are we talking about?’

There was a brief, mirthless bark of laughter. Then Bairstow was back on the line. ‘Don’t ask me, son,’ he snorted, ‘I’m only a fucking policeman.’

Chapter Eight

Two days later Louise Carlton drove out to the Heathrow Marriott hotel for breakfast. It was still early, barely seven, but the eastbound M4 was already at a virtual standstill, three lines of headlights crawling slowly through the thin drizzle. She left her Saab in the hotel car park and asked reception to check whether David Jephson had yet arrived. The F branch director was booked on the first BA flight out of Brussels. According to the directorate schedule faxed to her home last night, he should have landed twenty minutes ago.

The young American behind the reception desk had no news of Jephson. Louise thanked him and followed the stream of executives into the hotel restaurant. Breakfast was served from a buffet and she lingered beside the chafing dishes of scrambled eggs and newly grilled sausages, wondering how long she could hold out. The drive over from her house in Kew had been simplicity itself but getting up at five thirty had sharpened her appetite and, savouring the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, she realized just how hungry she’d become.

She was weighing the possibility of two separate breakfasts when she felt the lightest pressure on her elbow. As ever, Jephson was immaculate: the dark suit perfectly cut,
the black brogues newly polished, the crisp white shirt carrying the subtlest blue stripe. Louise submitted to a kiss on the cheek and then shepherded him towards the queue for cereals, marvelling at the man’s stamina. At noon, he was due to address a closed-door gathering of chief constables at the ACPO conference in Leeds. Just getting there by road would take at least three hours. Yet here he was, eyeing the kippers as if time was the least of his problems.

They carried their trays to a corner by the emergency exit. The nearest occupied table was comfortably out of earshot. Jephson slipped his mobile phone out of his pocket and turned it off before storing it in his briefcase. He was currently commuting to Brussels on a near-weekly basis, attending regular meetings of one of the Europol working groups. This was an arrangement that should, fingers crossed, give MI5 the key intelligence liaison role between UK law-enforcement agencies and sister organizations on the continent. In the brave new world of transnational policing, this was a very big prize indeed and, as a direct consequence, the bureaucratic in-fighting was ferocious. The Metropolitan Police were convinced that the responsibility was properly theirs, and Jephson’s elegant reports from Brussels, circulated around Whitehall, had become a legend at Thames House. They were, in the parlance, Five’s very own smart bomb, scoring direct hit after direct hit on the uniformed bodies over at New Scotland Yard. Whether or not MI5 would prevail was anyone’s guess, but Jephson had turned the exercise into a textbook campaign, winning the agency the kind of friends who might, in time, turn the tide of battle.

Now, loading his fried bread with grilled tomato, Jephson wanted to know about Haagen Schreck. The last of Louise’s encrypted reports had reached him eighteen
hours ago in Brussels. The youth had left Amsterdam aboard a KLM flight for Heathrow. Intelligence from Hampshire Special Branch suggested he was carrying a quantity of unspecified narcotics and a call to the Customs and Excise controller at Terminal Four had cleared his path through the green channel. A team of watchers from A branch had picked him up on the arrivals concourse and followed him into Central London. He’d visited two addresses in Shepherd’s Bush, both belonging to known drug dealers. Emerging from the second address, a three-storey terrace house off Goldhawk Road, he’d no longer been carrying his holdall.

Jephson reached for his coffee. ‘Where did it get to?’

‘We’re assuming he left it there.’

‘Anyone tempted to find out?’

‘Not so far, thank God.’

Jephson concealed a grin with his napkin. New Scotland Yard and Thames House were often looking for different yields from an operation. In an instance like this, with the net closing around an original MI5 target, it could often be difficult to dissuade the drugs squad sharp-end heavies from forcing the pace.

‘What did you tell them?’

‘We’re saying he should run.’

‘Rationale?’

‘Unspecified. If they really push it, I think we should take it to the top.’

The beginnings of a frown shadowed Jephson’s face. The top, in the first instance, meant the Home Secretary. Thereafter, at his discretion, referral could reach as far as Downing Street.

Jephson picked warily at a disc of black pudding. ‘You’re
confident about this?’ he murmured. ‘If we have to show our hand?’

‘Absolutely. Schreck anchors a new NF network. That’s a matter of fact. He keeps it no secret. On the contrary, you can read it in his column every month if you can bother wading through the rest of the wretched paper.’

‘National Front News?’

‘Yes.’

‘But what’s new? What are we really saying?’

‘That remains to be seen. My guess is a link between Schreck’s lot and one of the bigger West London drug cartels.’

‘You think he’s got rid of the stuff from Amsterdam?’

‘I think he’s sold it on, yes.’

‘Drugs money funding the extreme right?’

‘Exactly.’

Jephson mopped up the last of his scrambled egg, visibly impressed. Keeping an eye on the nastier edges of the political fringe had always been accepted as a legitimate MI5 concern but recently Thames House had been eyeing a number of other areas of police work that might fall to some determined poaching. The biggest plum from this particular tree was so-called narcocrime, a phrase that covered everything from student cannabis busts to international money-laundering. Proving a link between drug money and the shock troops of the far right would be a very exciting development indeed, giving MI5 a bridgehead into the heartlands of traditional police work.

Jephson was coaxing a tablet of butter onto a triangle of toast.

‘Do you think you can do it?’

‘I think we’re very close, yes.’

‘And you think this Schreck’s the key?’

‘I think he’d make the point very nicely. We’ve no idea how much he might have made but on the usual tariff he’d have trebled his investment, at least.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Six thousand dollars, maybe more.’

Jephson was looking out of the window. Some of the more harassed executives were already on the forecourt waiting for the shuttle bus to the airport. Jephson lifted his cup, swallowing the last of the coffee.

‘Some of the Met people will be up in Leeds,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The boy Schreck. You used the word investment. What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know. Schreck went out to Shepperton yesterday, once he’d got his money.’

‘Shepperton?’ Jephson had spotted his driver. ‘Why?’

‘We’re not sure. He went to an old farm. It belongs to a stage designer who used to work at the film studios. Evidently he still picks up private commissions.’ Louise paused. ‘He has a converted barn on the property. He uses it as a workshop. I’m putting someone in tonight.’

Jephson pushed back his chair. ‘So what do I tell our friends in Leeds when they start whingeing about trespass again?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Louise smiled. ‘National security? Isn’t that the phrase?’

Jephson was on his feet now, reaching for his briefcase and overnight bag. He beamed down at her, apologizing for a hasty exit. Traffic on the motorways north was always a nightmare and the weather would make it worse. On the point of leaving, he was struck by a sudden thought. ‘You mentioned an event in the last briefing I read,’ he said. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Nothing confirmed.’

‘But anything I should know about? Given the company I’m keeping.’

Louise permitted herself a moment’s reflection. She’d taken home the logs on the NF phone taps. The codes they used were remarkably sophisticated but Louise was as certain as she could be that something was planned for the south coast. Probably Portsmouth. Probably tomorrow. Prudence argued for sharing this information but she had already decided that the longer-term advantage lay in holding off. Headlines about the menace of the National Front would be the neatest way of making MI5’s case and the last thing she wanted was something promising nipped in the bud.

Jephson had his raincoat folded over his arm. He was still waiting for an answer. ‘Well?’

Louise shook her head. ‘Nothing definite,’ she said. ‘Nothing worth your while.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’ Her eyes went to the Thames House driver, waiting in the car outside.

Jephson hung on for a second or two, unconvinced, then turned on his heel and left. Minutes later, returning to her table with a second plate of food, Louise heard the trill of her mobile phone. She retrieved it from the Harrods bag beside her chair. It was one of the team she’d tasked to watch Schreck’s flat in Southsea. He said he’d completed his enquiries at the travel agency where Schreck had picked up his ticket and the currency. According to the local manager at Thomas Cook, the covering cheque had been tendered by a Mrs Elizabeth Barnaby.

Louise wrote down the name then returned to the phone.

‘Anything else?’ she asked lightly.

‘Yes.’ The voice chuckled. ‘She’s married to a lawyer. Can you believe that?’

Hayden Barnaby awoke to the opening headlines on the morning news. Normally he was at the health club by eight but today, exhausted by the aftermath of his trip with Zhu, he’d overslept. He rolled over, reaching for his wife, but found the bed empty. Liz was standing at the door in her new dressing gown. He’d bought two at Changi airport. Liz had the red one and it fitted her beautifully.

‘You should have stayed there,’ she said, holding out a cup of tea. ‘Singapore. It’s all over the news. Some trader or other. A Brit.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘No one seems to know. He’s gone missing.’

Barnaby struggled half upright in the bed, grateful for the tea. The newscaster was talking about a young merchant banker. He’d fled Singapore, leaving a large hole in the company’s trading account. Liz was perched on the side of the bed, opening an envelope.

‘What’s that?’

‘A letter. Charlie wants me to sort out the gas people before he moves down.’

‘Has he got a date?’

‘Apparently not. Typical, isn’t it?’

Barnaby laughed. He was running his fingertips up and down Liz’s back. He could feel the contours of her body through the thin silk. She began to shiver, reached back and caught his hand.

‘Cold?’

‘No.’

‘Like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘The dressing gown?’

‘That, too.’

Liz glanced over her shoulder. Aroused, her face acquired a fuller, softer look. She had another envelope on her lap. She opened it, pulling out a card. It came from Zhu, an exquisite nineteenth-century engraving of the view east over Southsea Common. Inside, Zhu had penned a personal invitation for Liz to join him for the opening of the newly restored Imperial. ‘It will be a pleasure to repay you for your patience and your many kindnesses,’ he’d written.

‘But you’re invited already.’ Barnaby looked mystified. ‘Why this?’

‘He’s being a gentleman. It’s nice.’ She read the card again. ‘It means he knows how much you’ve put into it. The time it’s taken. He’s saying sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Sorry for taking you away.’ She folded the card and put it back in the envelope. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Barnaby didn’t reply. He finished the tea and got out of bed. A thin rain was drifting in from the sea, a gauzy curtain that softened everything it touched. Barnaby could just make out the big wheel in the fun-fair, barely a quarter of a mile away. He yawned, stretching his arms wide, running through the checklists in his head.

As agreed, Zhu had flown in a catering team from Singapore for the reception. Once the celebrations were over, the hotel would open for normal business and one or two of the Singapore people would be staying on to help form a core group around Zhu’s new manager. He, too, was Singaporean, a young Chinese with impeccable English and limitless self-confidence. He’d been working at one of the
prestige hotels in Brighton and, with Zhu’s money, had been able to attract some first-class people for the rest of the management posts. In this, as in everything else he touched, Zhu seemed to have a faultless gift for converting an idea, or a vision, into something that had all the makings of a solid commercial success. Over the past six months, Barnaby had watched this process at work. It had never ceased to amaze him. It was, he thought, so utterly different from the way in which the English might tackle something similar. Instead of caution, boldness. In place of buckpassing and indecision, a wholehearted preparedness to take the lead.

‘Hayden?’

Barnaby glanced round, still preoccupied with everything he had to chase before tomorrow. The unacknowledged invitations on the guest list. A follow-up call to the local TV station. The full page ad in the
Sentinel.
Liz was lying on the bed, her back propped up on the pillows. The dressing gown lay open and she was naked underneath. She smiled at him, her hand opening the drawer on the bedside cabinet. She produced a tiny bottle of coconut oil and unscrewed the top. She dribbled a little into the palm of her hand and then began to rub it softly between her breasts. Barnaby watched her, feeling himself stir. In recent months, Liz had lost well over a stone. Not drinking quite so much had done wonders for their sex life, as Barnaby was the first to admit.

The bottle of oil was back on the bedside cabinet. Liz’s fingers were between her thighs. She closed her eyes and told him to go downstairs. He’d find the fruit bowl on the breakfast bar and the yoghurt in the fridge. Aroused now, Barnaby fetched them. As well as bananas, there were mangoes and tangerines. He lifted a mango to his nose. He
loved the smell. He put the bowl on the bed. Liz’s hand found a banana. He peeled it slowly and coated it thickly in yoghurt, straddling her chest while she enfolded her breasts around him. She had big breasts, beautifully shaped, and he began to move, back and forth, very slowly, touching her on the lips with each upward stroke, drawing her tongue from her mouth. After a while, the yoghurt a little warmer, he reached back and her hand met his, taking the banana, guiding it inside herself, then letting him take over. She was moist already and he slid it in and out, an inch, no more, matching her rhythm to his own.