The Balance of Guilt (34 page)

“Security services cover up their role in British terror bombing. Revealed – the story they didn’t want you to see.”

Dan nodded his approval. He wasn’t sure he could have written a better headline himself.

The emails were admirably brief, containing a short account of what the spies had done. The problem was, a reader could easily dismiss the allegations as lacking proof, the work of cranks and conspiracy addicts. And so came the Geeks masterstroke.

They had tackled the issue head on, by including a link to the website.
Click here for the pictures and evidence
, the email said.
And then forward this to everyone you know to help us expose the crimes being committed by the very people who are supposed to be protecting us.

And the masses did. In their millions.

But the Geeks hadn’t finished yet.

They set up a messaging program, to send texts to millions of mobile phones, each with a couple of lines about the scandal and also containing a link to the website.

And millions went to look. And more websites picked it up and even more people got to hear about it.

The authorities inevitably tried to shut down the sites. But there were too many, too widespread, and they were far too late. It was like trying to beat out the flames of a wildfire.

And so the story gained momentum. Until it reached the very ears Dan had hoped it would. Those of some inquisitive and troublesome MPs.

He thought he could see what happened. They had made inquiries of their contacts in the media and found that all the national papers, radio and TV stations knew about the story. All were intensely interested, but prohibited by law from reporting it.

Then came the inevitable question. Was it true?

Out went more feelers to other contacts, in the Home Office, the Security Services and the police. And the response came – off the record, naturally – that indeed it was true.

And so followed the diamond moment that the story became official, detailed in the newspapers strewn across Dan’s bed. Questions are asked in the House of Commons. And because of the ancient protection of parliamentary privilege, which shields MPs and those who report on their debates from any legal action, no matter what may be discussed, the media are free to begin their coverage.

A feeding frenzy begins. Which forces the Home Office to respond. Which eventually, and very reluctantly, they do.

And the scandal fires anew.

At Dan’s request, Claire turned on the television and found one of the news channels. And there the story was, the lead, covered extensively and building momentum all the time.

A political correspondent was giving details of the latest developments. The Home Office was blaming “rogue” elements within FX5. A full investigation was underway. The government would make a statement later. Two security service officers had been suspended.

The report did not name them. But Dan settled back happily on his pillows, content that he at least knew exactly who they were.

T
OMORROW, LIFE WOULD START
again, and, with luck, with some degree of normality, although Dan accepted that was a concept which always had, and probably always would, do its best to evade him.

He was going to be kept in hospital for another night, but come the morning Claire was picking him up. They would drive to the vet’s to collect Rutherford, then back to the flat. And if both canine and human convalescents were strong enough, they would go for a little walk around the park.

To Dan, it felt like his own personal holy grail at the end of a long and arduous quest.

He lay back on the pillows and let his mind wander through the day. It was coming up to seven o’clock, the sun setting in an autumnal blaze, lighting the room with its softening fire. He had finally managed to persuade Ali and Claire that he would be fine if left alone. If anyone really wanted to harm him they would surely have done so by now, he pleaded. Dan was tired and wanted to sleep, ready to go home tomorrow.

Not that he would be allowed to recuperate in peace. Amongst a succession of visitors in the day had come Lizzie. She didn’t stay long – had the programme to look after, naturally – but said she wanted to make sure he was “doing OK”.

Dan noted that part of the conversation lasted for about twenty seconds. The next five minutes were taken up with demands about what story she wanted from him tomorrow. It had taken the intervention of first Claire, then Ali, and lastly the doctor before she accepted he wouldn’t be going out on the road reporting for a few days. Finally, and reluctantly, she had said she would settle for his appearance live in the studio to talk about the raid on
Wessex Tonight
.

Yes, Dan thought he was up to that. She was about to leave, when he prompted, ‘I thought you were brave, trying to get the story out and standing up to them in that raid.’

The hint didn’t register. ‘Well, it was a disgrace, what they were up to. Damned Stalinist, if you ask me.’

Dan gently, but pointedly, prodded the bandage on his head. ‘Oh, and you did quite well too,’ she added, letting the door shut behind her.

A loud yawn crept from Dan’s mouth. He fumbled in the drawers by the bed and found the diary. Claire had brought it from the flat. She’d finally been allowed to know of its existence, but had sworn not to look inside. Dan was about to start work on this latest entry when he felt the soft pull of sleep, relaxing his body. Maybe he would leave it until tomorrow to write up the case.

Adam hadn’t come to visit, but sent his apologies via Claire.

‘There’s a big investigation going on into all that happened,’ she explained. ‘It’s very high level. He’s tucked up in that. You’ll both need to be questioned independently about what the spooks did. It can’t look like you’re colluding.’

Claire leaned further forwards, then added, ‘But between us, he says he thinks he knows and very good work.’

‘Knows what?’

‘How you managed to get the story out. And he thinks it was a stroke of genius that there can’t be any comeback because you were unconscious when it all happened. That’s some alibi.’

Dan smiled in a way he suspected would look smug. ‘What a suspicious detective’s mind he has.’

They’d gone on to talk about tomorrow and picking up Rutherford.

‘Why didn’t you just get him and look after him yourself, rather than leaving him at the vet’s?’ Dan asked. ‘I’m sure he’d have preferred that.’

‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d want me to. It felt a bit …’

‘A bit what?’

‘A bit presumptuous. A bit coupley.’ She hesitated. ‘And we’re not a couple, are we?’

Dan found himself staring down at the sheets. Suddenly their blue edging was the most fascinating sight in the world.

‘We’ll talk about all that when I’m feeling better,’ he mumbled.

Claire went off to get herself a coffee and make a few phone calls. It was just as well she did. Only a matter of seconds after she’d left there was a knock at the door and in teetered Sarah Jones.

She rushed over to the bed, flung her arms around Dan and deluged him with kisses.

‘Hello,’ he managed, through a brief hiatus in the attack.

‘I read about you in the papers. My poor soldier. Fighting those nasty spies. What a hero you are.’

More kisses. Lots more kisses. And a few additional ones as well. It was quite a barrage. Dan felt the lipstick adhering to his skin. Please, great God of Luck, give me a break and keep Claire busy with her calls for a few minutes. This wouldn’t be a straightforward sight to explain away.

She stood back to look at him and ruffled Dan’s hair. She was dressed in jeans so tight they could have been a second skin. The green top didn’t allow much more leeway.

Dan let his eyelids droop. ‘Thank you so much for coming in, you’ve made me feel a lot better,’ he said, not stopping to wonder how smoothly the lies were slipping out. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not up to talking much, but I had a nasty bang on the head. I feel really tired and the doctors have ordered me to rest.’

‘That’s all right, my little trooper. I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you. And that I’m looking forward to when you’re feeling stronger,’ she added meaningfully, running a hand over the sheets covering Dan’s groin.

He put on a weak smile. ‘Great. I just hope they let me out soon, then.’

‘Any idea when?’

‘They’re not sure. Perhaps a few days.’

Sarah pouted and flicked at her flaming hair. ‘Shame. The tiger’s ravenous.’ She took a quick look around and slid her hand over Dan’s body once more. ‘Are you sure you can’t find a little energy now? I’ve never done it in a hospital.’

‘I wish I could. But all I want to do is sleep.’

There was some understanding clucking, another assault of kisses and she left. Dan waited a handful of seconds, then got up and washed away the lipstick residue before Claire returned. With an afterthought he also opened a window to usher out the lingering scent of perfume.

The rest of the afternoon had passed easily. Ali Tanton visited, to tell them she had finally been allowed to see John. He was still very poorly from his injuries, but was expected to make a full recovery, apart from some scarring.

‘When the story was coming out about what the spies had done, they were still trying to hush it up,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t believe it. They tried to bribe me by offering us both a new life in some other country. They’re just incredible, these people.’

John would stand trial for murder and terrorism offences and Ali accepted that. But she was hopeful that a judge, hearing all the circumstances, would not impose too severe a sentence, leaving the young man with a hope of release and some life to look forward to.

She had also taken Dan into her confidence. ‘Can you do something for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Nigel asked me out for a drink. I said no – not because I don’t like him, but because there’s so much going on at the moment I can hardly think. Would you tell him that is the real reason and it’s not just some brush-off?’

Dan promised he would, but noticed a sense of sadness at her decision. In his mind Ali and Nigel would have made an excellent couple. They both deserved happiness.

The time was coming around to half past seven. Dan checked the TV guide, but there was nothing worth seeing, as was usually the case. Besides, he didn’t much care for television and rarely watched it. It was penance quite enough, working in the industry.

He took out a pen and debated what to write about the last few days. A title would be a good start. He jotted down a couple of possibilities and crossed them out again. None seemed to sum up the soul of the story.

He yawned. Maybe it was time for sleep. He could write up the case tomorrow.

The door clicked open and a man in a white coat backed in. Dan sighed and rolled his eyes. Yet another doctor, come to poke and prod him. He’d be more than glad to be out of here.

The man turned around. It was Oscar.

Dan sat up straight in the bed. He suddenly felt very much awake.

The spy held up his hands. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. Don’t panic, I haven’t come to kill you – even if I might like to.’

It wasn’t the most relaxing of reassurances. ‘Err, good,’ Dan said. ‘I’m pleased about that.’ He let his hand slip through the covers and felt for the panic button beside the bed.

Oscar stood by the door. He showed no sign of wanting to move any closer.

‘You can press that if you like, but then you won’t hear what I’ve got to tell you.’

A few seconds passed. They stared at each other. Dan placed his hand back on the bed.

‘OK. So – what is it that you want?’

‘Can I sit down?’

‘Err, sure.’

Oscar pulled up a chair and rubbed at the scar on his neck. He kept doing it, more and more agitatedly, turning the skin raw. When he finally spoke, all he said was, ‘I’m not sure you deserve it, but I’ve come to tell you why.’

The spy sat beside Dan’s bed, hunched forwards on the chair and told his story. It was clear from the look on his face and the emotion in his words that for the first time everything he said was true.

‘I was in Israel, working with their security services when we got word of an imminent terrorist attack. The target was a school. We rushed out there, but it was too late. As we got to the place, there was an explosion. A suicide bomber had blown himself up amongst the kids, all milling about at the front. It was carnage.’

Oscar’s voice grew softer as he spoke. Dan had to lean forward to hear the last couple of sentences.

‘Have you ever seen the aftermath of a bombing?’ the spy asked suddenly.

‘No. Only in the Minster. And that was well after it actually happened.’

‘Yeah. When it’s all cleaned up. Sanitised. Well, I can tell you this – you don’t forget what a bomb does in a hurry. Especially not to kids.’

Dan kept quiet and let the spy continue. He still wasn’t convinced he was safe, but Oscar had made no move to threaten. There was something strange about the man. He was talking with a sense of detachment, as if he wasn’t fully comprehending the words, just letting them flow. He was relating something he had witnessed, been a part of, but had somehow divorced himself from, perhaps as a way of coping.

‘I’m not out of FX5 you know,’ he said.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Officially I’ve been suspended. I’ll get a disciplinary. There’ll be comments on my record, all that shit. I’ll be found a backroom job until all this blows over. But I’m a damn good operator. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. And we’ve done worse before and we’ll do even worse again, if it’s right.’

He paused and looked Dan in the eye. ‘And it was. Sometimes it’s not about fighting fire with fire, but fighting dirt with filth.’

Dan didn’t want to get involved in a debate. Winding up the spy struck him as an eminently bad idea.

‘You were talking about Israel,’ he prompted.

‘Yeah.’

Oscar went quiet and rubbed at the scar again. ‘Do you know how bombs kill?’

‘No.’

‘In a variety of ways is the answer. Sometimes the shock waves destroy your internal organs. The funny thing about that is it can look like there’s not even a scratch on your body. Or they can do it in the nasty way and blow you to pieces.’

A small trickle of spittle was forming at the corner of the man’s mouth and his voice was growing louder. Dan felt his hand moving back towards the panic button. He wondered just how stable Oscar was.

‘This bomb did it the nasty way. It blew the kids apart. Can you imagine it? There were severed heads, rolling around on the road. Some had their eyes open, some were still smiling from the games they’d been playing. There were limbs everywhere, just ripped from their little bodies. And all this was mixed in with the satchels and packed lunches and footballs and games they’d been carrying. School books and pencil cases in the middle of the corpses of young kids. And the smell – of charred and dismembered bodies.’

Oscar stared up at the ceiling. His face was flushed, red, the worm of the scar pronounced on his neck. Dan kept his fingers by the panic button. He reckoned he could hold the man off for maybe a minute or two if he tried anything, probably just enough time for help to arrive. The spy looked manic.

‘Then comes the silence,’ Oscar went on finally. ‘Did you know that? After a bombing there’s a silence. It’s one of the quirks of carnage. Just for a few seconds. People can’t believe what’s happened. They look around at the devastation and they can’t take it in. And they’re checking themselves too. To see if they’ve lost arms, or if they’ve been wounded by the shrapnel. If there’s blood pouring out of them. It takes a while, you know, to register the pain. And sometimes it takes a while to die as well. A few of the kids around me were finding that out.’

He slipped back into silence. Dan said nothing, just kept his eyes on the man, ready if he should attack. Footsteps passed by the door. Dan wondered briefly about trying to call out, but decided against it.

Despite the fear, he wanted to hear what Oscar had to say.

Damn his curiosity. How many times had it lured him into trouble.

‘Then came the gunfire,’ the spy continued. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough, the bomber’s got an accomplice. He’s going to finish off anyone he can find. Bullets are spraying around me. And so the screaming starts. My partner’s one of the first to fall. He takes a round right in the side of the head. And he drops. There’s none of this screaming and flailing around you see on the TV. No whispered last words. There’s just a spurt of blood and a dead man.’

Oscar rubbed hard at his scar. Dan realised he was about to find out how the spy had got it. He knew he was in danger, but he was fascinated, nonetheless.

‘I must have acted instinctively. I dropped too. I was behind this car. It was pitted with shrapnel and I could see the terrorist walking towards us. He was only young, just a kid really, not much older than John Tanton. He’s got an AK47 in his hand and he’s spraying bullets at anyone who moves. There are badly wounded kids and their parents, lying on the pavement, trying to get away, and he’s raking them with gunfire. More people are dying every minute. So I go for my gun.’