First and Only (17 page)

Chapter 19

Richard Chatham had just arrived in the office when the
phone rang.

‘Hello Mr Chatham,’ said the
voice on the line with familiar courtesy. ‘Working the weekend again?’

‘Hello Psimon,’ said Chatham.
‘How was Florida?’

‘Sunny,’ replied Psimon. The
smile in his voice acknowledging Chatham’s awareness of his movements.

‘A welcome change from the grey
skies of Manchester I would have thought,’ said Chatham.

‘Quite so,’ replied Psimon.

‘A successful trip?’

‘I think so.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘You don’t know?’ asked Psimon
with mock surprise.

 ‘I didn’t think it necessary to
follow you abroad,’ said Chatham.

‘Oh?’

‘You initiated contact,’
explained Chatham. ‘Logic suggested that you were unlikely to disappear.’

‘Very trusting for someone in
your position,’ said Psimon.

Chatham gave a small laugh.

‘And if you did vanish…’ he
asked, ‘would we find you?’

‘No,’ said Psimon with simple
honesty.

‘As I thought,’ said Chatham.

There was a pause in the
conversation before Chatham spoke again.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ he
said with gentle sincerity.

‘Thank you,’ said Psimon and
Chatham could hear the emotion in his voice. But even with that aside there was
a difference in Psimon’s tone. He sounded flatter, more subdued than he had
during their previous conversations.

‘Is Mr Brennus still with you?’
asked Chatham.

‘He is.’

Chatham nodded. He had been more
than a little surprised to hear that Psimon had been travelling with a former
member of the SAS. A soldier, now retired but with a distinguished service
record. It cast Psimon in an altogether different light. It suggested that he
might be more than a maverick individual acting alone; he might be part of a
larger network. Chatham did not believe this to be the case but all possible
scenarios had to be considered.

‘And what about the immunity that
we discussed?’ asked Psimon. ‘Is it in place?’

‘I have prepared the necessary
paperwork,’ said Chatham looking at the black leather folder on his desk. ‘But
ratifying it is an altogether different matter. I don’t think you understand…’

‘Just make sure you have it with
you for the meeting,’ interrupted Psimon.

‘The meeting…’ echoed Chatham
warily.

‘Yes, Mr Chatham. I would like
you there in person. In fact,’ Psimon went on, ‘I insist on it.’

‘So, you’re coming in?’ asked
Chatham sitting up suddenly in his chair.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Psimon.
‘Let’s just say I’m setting the ground rules for reasonable dialogue.’

‘I don’t understand,’ protested
Chatham, the frustration of always feeling one step behind was beginning to get
to him.

‘You will, Mr Chatham,’ replied
Psimon. ‘I promise… you will.’

‘But when?’ pressed Chatham,
sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close.

‘Soon,’ said Psimon. ‘Very soon.’

Chatham sighed with frustration

‘For now,’ Psimon added in a
conciliatory tone, ‘I think you have another call coming through.’

Chatham glanced at the phone on
his desk. The incoming call light had just started to flash urgently.

‘Until our meeting then…’ said
Psimon. ‘Goodbye Mr Chatham.’

And the line went dead.

Chapter 20

Steve became aware of daylight and the smell of coffee.
He opened his eyes. A bright wedge of sunlight cut across the room, angling in
through the deep bay window. He straightened himself up in the chair, pushed
away the duvet and tucked in the extending leg support that had allowed him to
recline in reasonable comfort. In fact, he had slept pretty damned well and
pretty damned long, judging by the height of the sun.

‘Who are you phoning now?’ he
asked, trying to assuage the dryness in his mouth.

‘Just a friend.’

Psimon was sitting across the
room on the window seat that ran round the inside of the bay.

‘It’s Saturday morning…’ said
Steve, leaning forward and running his hands vigorously through his hair. 
‘Thought you might be calling in your apologies to the psychic’s coffee
morning.’

Psimon laughed.

‘Did that earlier,’ he said. ‘But
they said I needn’t have bothered. They already…’

‘Knew,’ finished Steve. ‘Yeh… it
was my joke.’ His fingers ceased their tousling and began to focus on his
temples, soothing a familiar and unwelcome ache.

‘God, I could do with a coffee.’

Psimon nodded towards the corner
of Steve’s chair.

Steve glanced down to see a mug
of coffee sitting on the carpet beside him. He reached down. It was still hot.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

Steve took a long mouth-burning
gulp and let out a satisfied sigh. His mind suddenly flashed back to the
unsettling events of the previous night and a shudder ran through his body. But
things always look different in the morning. Few demons can tolerate the bright
reality of morning sunlight. He looked over at Psimon who had put away his mobile
phone and retrieved his own cup from the windowsill. Once again the bruising on
his face and hands had faded remarkably quickly and Psimon showed little sign
of the trauma that he had suffered. There was just an intangible fragility and
a certain nervousness that Steve would never have picked up on had he not lived
with Psimon for the last few days.

‘There is a spare bed,’ said
Psimon, looking at Steve’s sleep-rumpled clothes. He had been touched when he
saw that Steve had pulled the reclining armchair over to the door, where he
could sleep within sight of Psimon’s room just across the hall.

‘Didn’t want to sleep
too
well,’ said Steve rising from the chair.

He clasped his hands behind his
head and stretched his arms up high, his shoulders making unpleasant popping
sounds as he eased the stiffness from his body.

‘So what improbable delights do
you have planned for us today?’ he asked.

The sudden seriousness of
Psimon’s expression made Steve fear the worst, and yet…

‘I thought we might start with an
early lunch,’ Psimon said.

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Steve
warily. ‘Do I have time for a shower?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Good,’ said Steve. ‘I’m starting
to feel like a hobo in these clothes.’ Steve nudged the chair away from the
door. ‘I’ve got more clothes in the car,’ he said. ‘Is it all right if I…’

‘Of course,’ said Psimon.

‘I’ll only be a minute.’

‘I’m fine,’ insisted Psimon.

‘Just want to make sure you’re
not going to be strung up by some sadistic poltergeist while I’m gone.’

‘The latest victim is dead,’ said
Psimon, his tone in sober contrast to Steve’s attempt at gallows humour. ‘He
will be hunting again now…’

‘I’ll get my clothes,’ said Steve
awkwardly.

He went into the hall, turned
left towards the stairs, and nearly fell over three black plastic bin-bags,
each one stuffed full of paper. Steve could see bits of twisted masking tape
poking out of the tie-handle tops. He glanced back in the direction of the
spare room where he had discovered the bizarre planning wall. It would seem
that Psimon had had a busy morning.

A shower, a shave, another cup of
coffee and Steve felt pretty good. He picked up his jacket from the back of the
couch and checked his phone for messages, nothing from Christine. Steve’s good
mood evaporated.

‘So where’s the nearest café?’ he
asked.

‘I thought we’d head into town,’
replied Psimon. ‘There’s a place I know by the canal. And…’ he added, holding
out a fat brown envelope to Steve. ‘I thought you could deposit this on the
way.’

Steve frowned.

‘Job’s not over yet,’ he said.

‘Just want to make sure you get
paid,’ said Psimon. ‘I might be a little distracted later.’

Still Steve hesitated.

‘Your bank’s only half a mile
from the restaurant and they’re open Saturday mornings…’

Steve could see that this was
important to Psimon but it felt a bit too much like tying up loose ends to him;
setting one’s estate in order.

‘Lunch is on me then,’ said
Steve, taking the envelope and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Steve folded over his last piece
of pizza and mopped up the sweet chilli sauce from his plate.

‘That,’ he said with his mouth
still full, ‘was the best pizza I’ve ever had.’

Psimon smiled at Steve’s
indulgence. His own meal had been barely touched.

Both men reached for their water.

‘So, what’s so special about this
place?’ asked Steve as he sat back from the table.

Albert’s Shed was a popular
restaurant. It was converted from a large brick tool shed and took its name
from the old builder who used to keep his tools there. It sat at a junction on
the canal, part of the recent regeneration of the heart of Manchester.

‘Well, the food’s excellent,’
said Psimon. ‘And I like the view out of these big windows.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said
Steve.

He knew now that Psimon did
precious little without careful planning and, more often than not, an ulterior
motive.

‘Why this place in particular?’

‘Like I said,’ said Psimon. ‘It’s
good food, it’s close to your bank…’

‘And…’ pressed Steve.

‘And it’s handy for our meeting.’

‘What meeting?’ asked Steve. He
should have known that this pleasant lunch was too good to last.

‘Our meeting with the British and
American governments,’ said Psimon calmly.

Steve suddenly found himself
wishing that he had not eaten so much pizza.

‘They’re not coming,’ said Steve
for about the fifth time in two minutes.

They were outside the restaurant
now, loitering on the cobbled forecourt. Psimon sat on the edge of a raised
brick flowerbed while Steve paced back and forth in front of him, his eyes
scanning the small approach road for any sign of the country’s top brass.

Psimon watched him, wishing he
would just sit down and wait.

‘What do they want with you?’
asked Steve. ‘How do they know you’re here?’

He stopped suddenly and looked at
Psimon.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘That car
outside your flat.’ He raised an accusing finger. ‘They were casing your flat…
watching for your return. Did you know you were under surveillance?’

Steve had resumed his pacing but
Psimon was no longer watching. It was time for him to concentrate. He cast his
thoughts back over the last forty-eight hours to two encounters in airport
departure lounges and two men briefly met...

Commander Douglas Scott

and

Captain Philip Kern

He pictured their faces,
remembered how it felt to stand in their presence, and opened his mind…

*

Psimon could still see Steve, he
was still aware of his surroundings but his mind was focussed on a different
location, on two different locations to be precise… dark, confined, and filled
with strange noises like those one might hear in the womb. He could hear voices
around him; voices speaking in clear, efficient tones. He heard the answers
made, the orders given. 

He was there and present.

Psimon allowed his mind to
explore these alien environs, just enough to reassure himself that the details
he had worked so hard to procure were accurate and accessible. They were.
Complex systems, exactly as the blueprints had depicted but in the end they
were just switches and valves; electrical switches… mechanical valves;
sensitive dials, circled in red.

It was time to act.

No one would be killed; no one would
be hurt. There would be confusion; there would be fear. But no one would be
hurt.

It was time to act.

Psimon flicked the switches,
opened the valves and saw the dials swing into the red.

There was confusion. There was
fear.

And Psimon withdrew.

*

‘I said, they’re not coming,’
repeated Steve, bending forwards and raising his voice as if Psimon were hard
of hearing. ‘The UK Government is not interested in some spoon bender from
Altrincham. You’d be better off speaking to the producers of daytime telly. Least
that way you could make some decent money.’

Psimon looked up at Steve and the
expression in his eyes made the former SAS man feel sick.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What
have you done?’

‘What I had to,’ said Psimon.

Steve stepped back from Psimon as
if he did not recognise him. For the first time since meeting him he felt like
leaving. He felt like running. Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw them
coming. Three dark, unmarked cars, driving with unmistakable purpose.

Steve felt cornered, trapped.

As the cars surrounded the
restaurant’s forecourt Steve cast an accusing glance at Psimon who looked back
at him with an expression of guilt, sympathy and unflinching determination.

Several men stepped out of the
cars. They had a hard, no nonsense look about them.

‘
Special Branch,
’ thought
Steve. ‘
Christ, what kind of shit have I got myself into?
’

One of the henchmen approached
Psimon and Steve.

‘This way gentlemen,’ he said in
a tone that might have seemed polite had it not been so menacing.

Psimon got up from the wall and
walked towards the middle car. With a heavy sigh Steve started to follow him
but the henchman blocked his path.

‘The other car, Mr Brennus. If
you please,’ he said nodding towards the car at the rear of the convoy.

Steve groaned out another sigh.
He recognised the procedure. Divide and conquer, separate the subjects,
question them in isolation, play them off against each other, do not allow them
the opportunity to corroborate their stories.

Ruing the fact of ever having met
Psimon Steve made his way to the rear car. Another henchman held the door open
for him and Steve glanced up towards the middle car where Psimon was being
similarly apprehended. Steve saw Psimon nod his thanks to the henchman but
before he disappeared inside the car he cast a look back at Steve.

Steve gave a soft snort of
surprise and found his despairing mood somewhat lifted. There was a fire
burning in Psimon’s stone grey eyes, and something close to a smile on his
face, and Steve found himself feeling suddenly sorry for the people taking them
into custody, the people who would soon be interrogating Psimon.

‘
They haven’t a clue of what
they’re up against,
’ he thought. ‘
Not a fucking clue
.’

Chapter 21

Richard Chatham had only
been to Manchester twice before, both times as a visiting student from King’s
College Cambridge. The city had changed a good deal since then. It was busier
for a start. It had taken them almost as long to get from the airport to the
city centre as it had for them to fly from London.

Chatham was still reeling from
the speed with which the morning’s events had unfolded. After speaking to
Psimon he had put down one phone only to pick up another immediately
afterwards.

‘I think you have another call
coming through…’ Psimon had said.

Chatham knew it would not be good
news even before he recognised the voice of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

‘Chatham?’ the Chancellor had
demanded. ‘Richard Chatham?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Chatham had replied.
‘What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know someone by the name
of Psimon?’

Chatham had closed his eyes, let
out a long heavy sigh, and his feet had barely touched the ground since.

Now he looked out of the tinted
window as the car drove past the neo-classical façade of Bootle Street Police
Station; a large three-storey, redbrick building in the heart of Manchester.
The car turned onto Bootle Street where a high archway allowed cars through to
the internal courtyard at the centre of the building.

Chatham felt an oppressive sense
of finality as the car passed under the imposing arch and he wondered just how
many criminals had been driven in the same way, seeing their liberty come to an
end as the building closed around them.

Beside him in the back of the car
the Chancellor of the Exchequer was speaking quietly into his mobile phone.
Indeed he had hardly been off it since he had picked Chatham up from his office
earlier that morning… the Prime Minister, who was on a state visit to the US,
the Governor of the Bank of England, the Attorney General, to get provisional
authorisation for Mr Brennus’ Immunity. Then it was the Foreign Secretary and
the Chief of the Defence Staff, Admiral Joseph Grant, who was currently hosting
his American counterpart, Vice Admiral Edwin T. Fallon.

 ‘We’ve just arrived,’ said the
Chancellor, speaking once more to the Foreign Secretary. ‘Yes, they’re already
in custody,’ he added after a pause.

Chatham glanced across
discreetly, trying to keep the regret and contempt from his face. It seemed
that in the space of just a few hours Psimon had gone from intriguing goldmine
of useful information to public enemy number one and threat to the world’s
economy.

‘That’s right,’ the Chancellor
went on. ‘It’s not just the markets. There are defence implications too. The PM
wants the military involved.’

The Chancellor paused, listening…

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just the
Americans for now. Fallon will be speaking for the White House. Admiral Grant
is bringing him down from Glasgow. It seems the FBI had already flagged this
guy as a possible risk to national security.’

A frown of disapproval creased
Chatham’s brow. They knew next to nothing about Psimon and yet they were
already prepared to cast him in the worst possible light.

The car came to a halt and
Chatham took hold of his briefcase as a police officer came to escort them into
the building where they were met by Chief Constable David McCormack, the
commanding officer of Greater Manchester Police.

‘Chancellor,’ the Chief Constable
said by way of a greeting. ‘Mr Chatham.’

‘Where is he?’ asked the
Chancellor as the Chief Constable led them through to an empty office.

Chatham noticed the eyes of the
people watching them as they passed. It was clearly no secret that something
unusual was going on.

‘We’ve got him in one of our
secure interview rooms,’ said the Chief Constable closing the door.

‘And his accomplice?’

‘Likewise,’ said the Chief
Constable.

‘
Accomplice… oh please!
’
thought Chatham with distaste.