Authors: Brian Woolland
Mark holds back the impulse to retaliate. Sara may have affected indifference to him on their arrival, but her tirade is as arousing as it is painful.
“
I just don’t think I’m the best person. Get Andrew Linden. Put him on the spot.”
“
And how do I ‘get’ Andrew Linden, Mark?”
“
I’ll talk to him myself.”
“
And that’ll persuade him will it?”
“
I’ll do what I can.”
Rachel’s looking uncomfortable. The animosity between him and Sara is far too personal.
“
The guy getting out of the helicopter,” he says, “the one you recognised, Rachel. Ray Sanders he called himself. Is that right? I don’t know why I couldn’t see it first. I’ve met him. He used to work for Exxon. He was Ramon Sanchez in those days.”
7
2
Soho
Redmond seems determined to keep drinking. The man has an amazing capacity for booze. If he repeats this on Friday night, the chances of meeting him at Lord’s for the start of play seem rather slim. Just as well he’s already given Jeremy the ticket.
At three in the morning, Redmond has finally had enough. They’ve got to the top of the stairs, into a dark corridor, when Redmond grabs hold of Jeremy’s shoulder.
“
Nature calls, my friend. You mind? Won’t be a moment. Where the fuck is it? The toilet. Where the fuck is the toilet?”
“
Bottom of the stairs I think. Shall I call a cab?” asks Jeremy.
“
Don’t worry about it,” says Redmond, taking his own mobile from his pocket and waving it in the air, as if this action alone could magic up a taxi for them.
“
I’ve a number here. I’ll do it. No worries.”
“
I’ll wait outside. I need some fresh air.”
When Redmond joins him on the pavement outside, he’s pocketing the mobile.
“
You called the taxi?”
“
I did indeed. I did indeed. Be here in five. Max.”
But standing outside the club, ten minutes pass, and there is no taxi.
“
Where are we?” asks Redmond. Bloody good question, thinks Jeremy.
“
Berwick Street.”
“
Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. No wonder there’s no taxi. I told them Frith Street.”
“
That was the jazz club.”
“
Ah no, but we’re not there are we.” Redmond finds this very funny. “Come on, follow me.” They’ve gone no more than twenty metres before he bursts out, “Oh fuck! Oh, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Bloody hell, Jeremy.”
“
What?”
“
I’ve left my coat. Just hold on here. And if you see a taxi, flag it. Any taxi. Any fucking taxi. And wait for me.” And Redmond scurries back towards the club. What coat? Did he have a coat? Must have done. He steps into the road, looking up and down for a taxi. No sign of one.
A smartly dressed young man is walking towards him, one hand holding a mobile phone to his ear, the other taking a cigarette from his mouth and throwing the butt end to the pavement. He could be an office worker on a fag break.
A car draws up beside him. For a moment he thinks it might be the taxi. He registers that it’s deep blue, but not what make it might be. There’s a woman driving. Her window winds down.
“
Excuse me,” she says. “I’m sorry to bother you but am I in Dean Street?”
“
It’s parallel with this. I think if you carry on and turn left on Shaftesbury Avenue…”
He never finishes giving his directions, barely registering the cloth held over his face before losing consciousness.
73 London
Mark gets up at the usual time, rings in to the office and leaves a message for Ba to pick up when she gets in: he’s going to be late. He wants to drive Rachel in to the BBC himself; he’ll work from home until she’s ready to go in. Rachel doesn’t want him fussing. But Mark is adamant. He wants to be sure that she’s safe and that nothing’s going to prevent the video getting aired.
He drops her at the reception gate to the Television Centre at about twenty past nine. She blows him a kiss as she’s cleared to go through, a lovely memory for him to take to work.
Rachel’s a bit disappointed that Jeremy’s wasn’t there to meet her at the gate, hoping that he’d arrived early and would already be talking to Sara.
“
Don’t worry about it,” says Sara. “The Underground can be terrible. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
Sara has an office of her own, which to Rachel seems cramped and surprisingly small. There’s a table in the middle, stacked with files and books; and just enough space for a laptop. While they’re waiting for Jeremy, she talks through the plans for dealing with what she’s already referring to as ‘the story’. A diagram, in red and black felt tips, has been drawn onto a whiteboard, which fills the only wall without shelves:
Friday 24/5
1.
SD to interview RB + JP. Extracts from RB video.
followed by
↓
2.
Round table discussion – rain forest massacre possible links to
Angels of Light
attacks in London. To be recorded 2000 for broadcast at 2245.
Chair KW
Participants: RB, JP, AM (Venezuelan Embassy staff)
JD – Shell, heavy oil extraction)
AN OTHER (British Government) AL?
Monday 27/5
3.
Screening further RB video extract. Enhanced image of RS – employment history. Etc. ( BBC SA correspondent on the case)
“
I’ve had a researcher on the story. She’s already confirmed what your dad said last night. Your man Sanders. Used to work for Exxon.” She shows Rachel a photograph downloaded from a web site. “RS. That is him, is it?”
“
Looks like him.”
“
Ramon Sanchez. A Cuban exile, living in Miami. We’ve got people trying to track him down, but we’re not saying why.”
“
What’s the ‘etcetera’?”
“
That’s what we’re trying to find out. What do you think?”
She’s impressed by the speed with which Sara has got things going. “I don’t want to meet Sanchez again. I don’t want to be in the same building.”
Sara shakes her head. “Even if he agrees to talk, there is no way we’re going to fly him to London. We’re proposing a satellite link to a studio in Florida. The plan is to record the interview with you and Jeremy Peters at around one thirty. Sorry to get you in so early. We needed to look at the video material first and work on from there. I’ve had an engineer make another copy of the digi-card you gave me last night and it’s already been transferred to disc. They’ve enhanced the quality. They’re editing it at the moment. You can come and watch what they’re doing if you like; but it’s very boring.”
“
Alright if I make a phone call?”
“
You want to use the office phone?”
She rings the hotel, asks to speak to Jeremy Peters. There’s no answer from his room. Does she want to leave a message?
Get your arse over here. Don’t you go chickening out on me, bastard.
But no, she’ll leave it, try again later. Sara better be right about the problem on the tube.
From Shepherds Bush, Mark drives over to Westminster and for the second time in two days, the second time since he was given the permit over a year ago, he parks his car beneath the Houses of Parliament. The short walk to his office is pleasant enough – he’s pleased to see Parliament Square busy again; the bombs and the floods already drifting into that collection of past horrors which people dredge up as anecdotes – but it gives him time to think about Stephen. Using his mobile, he tries Joanna to see if she’s heard anything. That’s not going to communicate anything to the bloody
Angels
of fucking
Light
. He’s worried about his son. That’s perfectly normal. He’s allowed to be worried, he’s allowed to ring his wife. The spooks would want him to do that. But she’s not answering – either the landline or the mobile.
The unexpectedly upbeat mood at Cowley Street gives him a temporary tonic. There’s a rumour doing the rounds that an attempted virus attack, activated last night at the five o’ clock deadline, has been thwarted. He goes straight to his computer and opens a couple of news sites; but there’s no mention of a virus. Half an hour later his body is telling him that something’s not right. He looks at the clock. No coffee. Except on the days when he has to attend the PM’s 7.30 meeting, Ba always brings him a ‘first-thing’ coffee about fifteen minutes after he’s opened his computer.
Barbara is very apologetic. She’s been crying. He wants to give her a hug, to suggest they go for a walk along the Embankment. He’d ask her to coffee, but he’s already a couple of hours behind schedule; and he has to get himself up to speed for this afternoon’s summit preparation meeting. It may be informal, a meeting of Angela Walker’s famous five, the like minds – oh how she loves that phrase – but meetings with a very small group of back-up staff can sometimes be the most demanding.
He’ll make time for Ba early next week. He’ll take her to lunch. They can have a good heart to heart then. Right now he has to work on the position paper to leave with Herself at the end of this afternoon’s meeting.
He knows how much Barbara has had on her plate with her son being at home, and he knows about her worries about her Mum; but she really should have been filtering some of these calls. A little gentle nudge can do no harm, and how better than to take her a coffee?
“
Barbara,” I thought you might be ready for a cup.”
“
Thank you,” she says, without looking away from the screen. She sniffles. She’s been crying, and is avoiding eye contact.
“
Is everything OK, Ba?”
“
My mum died last night,” she says, without looking up.
“
Oh, Barbara, I am so sorry.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry. You really shouldn’t be here today.”
“
I can’t take time off today, Mark.”
“
After the weekend, then you must. Promise me.”
She turns to him and forces a smile. “Yes, maybe I will.”
“
How’s Jamie?”
“
He’s upset. He was very close to Granny. He’s staying with my brother. He’ll be alright.”
“
That must be reassuring. He likes his uncle, doesn’t he.”
She nods. “I want to take him down to see her body. Does that sound awful?”
“
That sounds very wise to me. And you need time as well, Ba.”
“
Give him a chance to come to terms with things before the funeral proper. We’d been planning to go down and stay with her this weekend. Then the floods came; and she was trapped in the house while the waters rose. Did you see the pictures on the news? They didn’t show her house but someone told me the water came up to within a foot of the ceilings on the ground floor. She was trapped for nearly six hours. All through the night. No light. No phones. She never got the hang of using a mobile. She was 82, Mark. She’d lived in that house for forty years. They rescued her eventually, but she must have picked up an infection.”
“
Oh, Ba. That is so awful. I am so sorry.”
He puts his hand on her shoulder and she touches it in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Mark.”
“
Ba, has there been a package for me this morning? I’m expecting something Special Delivery.”
“
No. I’ll check with security if you like. They’ve been intercepting packages since we moved to Critical Threat ––”
“
Could you get it to me straightaway when it does arrive.”
By mid morning, rumours about the computer virus have been confirmed and the media embargo has been lifted. Most well resourced workplaces have received e-mails for distribution to all employees warning them of the
Angelica
virus; and giving instructions for removing it from affected machines. News bulletins claim that the security services had inside intelligence warning of the virus; and that had it not been identified and quarantined it would have wreaked havoc amongst the financial organisations which were its main targets. But along with this official and triumphant confirmation of the foiled viral attack, there are unconfirmed stories that a second, more specifically targeted and significantly more dangerous invader has also been thwarted. This was intended to get into the software programmes of the aviation industry – obliterating ticketing and reservation systems, and making air traffic control unworkable. But Mark is sceptical. Had the ‘terrorists’ wanted these viruses to succeed, they’d have made damn sure that they did. But if the whole virus attack is a diversion, a deliberate attempt to encourage complacency, then what the hell is round the corner?