The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (17 page)

‘We’ll take the lift; it’s on the fourth floor,’ he declared walking to the main elevator bank.

‘I know. I do work here actually,’ Gerry replied acerbically. She marched to the lift and then had to give way to him because her temporary ID would not let her operate the call button.

‘Are you ready to enter the lions’ den?’ he asked as he knocked on the blue door. There was a clunk as the lock released.

Inside she found Richard Cornwall and his boss, Operations Director Donald Jarvis sitting at a small conference. In the corner of the room she saw Sir Hugh Fielding staring up at her. ‘The court of inquiry has assembled,’ she thought to herself.

‘Sit down please, Tate.’ Jarvis ordered.

The door closed and she was alone amongst them.

‘Now just tell us what happened, starting from when you left the office last week.’

They listened to her without interruption as Gerry described her journey to her mother’s home. She described meeting Jasper White on the drive back to London. She reported her meeting with Dean Furness at the café. She told them that she had left the office yesterday and then been with White until arriving back at her flat to find the police had taken it over. She finished her story at the point she had received Cornwall’s telephone call at 9am that morning. The three men exchanged glances and then Richard Cornwall spoke.

‘We have subsequently heard from the Americans. They say that one of their people Neil Samms warned you that Mr Furness, a renegade American agent was responsible for Philip Barrett’s death. Samms suggests that you shot Furness but he calls into question any plea that it was in self-defence.’

‘What plea?’ Gerry broke in angrily. ‘Why should I have to plead anything? Especially in front of this bloody kangaroo court!’

‘Furness was unarmed and your apartment contained a surprising, alarming was the word the police used, variety of weapons besides the gun used to kill him. Ballistics has confirmed that your gun was used to fire the fatal shot and your fingerprints were the only ones found on your gun. DNA testing has so far revealed no other intruders, but we have a witness that places you at the scene at the time of death.’

He paused. Flabbergasted, Gerry stared at him.

‘This is ridiculous. I wouldn’t shoot Furness on the say-so of one man, especially a creep like Neil Samms. That witness must have been mistaken.’

‘At first the Americans believe that you killed Furness under our express authority. We assured them that this wasn’t the case.’

‘But I didn’t shoot Furness,’ Gerry protested. ‘I was with Jasper White after I returned from the office! This is preposterous!’

‘Yes, Miss Tate, it is!’ Don Jarvis declared. ‘Because we have CCTV that shows you walking out of Richmond tube station on your own and then other pictures of you in Richmond High Street at the time you say you were with Jasper White. And in any event he has dropped his story. It seems that when the evidence was presented to him, he seemed rather angry, in fact words like “bitch” and “see her in hell” escaped his lips. Neither we nor the Americans place any credence in your story. Although you have carried out terminations on behalf of the British Government, that was on operations. Throughout your time in the service it has been emphasised that, shall we say, extra-curricular terminations will not be tolerated.’ He looked down at the report in front of him.

‘Until we have received a satisfactory explanation from you, or otherwise established the truth about what really happened to Furness, you are indefinitely suspended from operational duty. For now you will remain at liberty, but you will surrender your passport and file reports of your whereabouts as directed. If you fail to comply with this or any other restriction we may place upon you, you will be arrested for the murder of Dean Furness.’ He paused. ‘Is that clearly understood, Miss Tate?’ Gerry tried to swallow her anger, but her meek reply deserted her when she saw the look of smug satisfaction on Jarvis’s face.

‘You fucking bastard,’ she said quietly to Sir Hugh Fielding. ‘You set me up in front of this drumhead court martial, dump all this crap on me and expect me to be intimidated. You’re a bunch of absolute shits!’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Fielding with the equanimity of someone who had received many verbal assaults through a long career, ‘but I would nevertheless advise you not to pit yourself against the Service, which as you know full well, would win. Perhaps you are unaware that prison inmates are not allowed to keep their new born infants in prison with them for longer than eighteen months. After that they’re taken into care.’

Gerry stared at them aghast. She unwillingly conjured up a mental picture of someone carrying off her infant child while she held on to the bars of a prison cell shrieking in protest. Her furious resolve drained away and in a state of sudden emotional weakness she meekly replied ‘I see.’

Jarvis pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Vince, could you come in, please; you can escort Miss Tate from the building.’ He looked up at Gerry. ‘Give me your identity card.’

‘I…I left it behind. I came in on a temporary card.’

‘Hmm. Ok We’ll send someone round to collect it. Your firearms licence will be revoked. You will be given three months’ pay in lieu of notice.’

The three men stared at her. She heard the door open and then a hand on her shoulder. At the security desk she handed over her temporary pass and followed Vince outside into the bright sunshine.

‘Ok, I have to take you back to the hotel and you must hand over your ID card,’ he said.

‘After that could you give me a lift home, please,’ she said, rather proud that her voice sounded steady.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go straight back to the office; you’ll have to get a taxi,’ he replied.

Gerry slowly walked up to her flat where a policeman stood watch. She automatically reached for her identity card but then let her hand drop as she remembered. ‘Is it ok if I go back inside my flat now?’ she asked.

‘Are you the owner, Geraldine Tate?’ The policeman eyed her suspiciously. ‘Have you got any id? We’ve had a couple of scribblers trying to get in.’ Gerry searched for her driving licence. The policeman took it nodded and handed it back. ‘I can take you in to pick up personal items, but I understand you’ll have to wait at least until tomorrow before the scene of crime people release it.’

Gerry followed the policeman inside. She could see an outline drawn on the carpet and a forensics officer was inspecting blood spattered on the adjacent wall but when she tried to go in to take a better look he grasped her elbow. ‘Not in there please.’

He watched her walk around her bedroom picking clothes out of drawers and cupboards and stuffing her two biggest suitcases. She pulled them off the bed and picked them up. ‘Ok I’m ready,’ she said.

‘Look love, you shouldn’t be carrying them, not in your condition.’ Gerry allowed him to take one from her and they carried them outside.

‘Ok thanks; if you can just look after them while I get my keys…oh hell, where’s my car?’

‘I believe it was taken by forensics,’ he said.

‘Oh shit!’ Gerry sat down on the door step and pulled her phone out to call a cab.

Forty minutes later she had checked out the hotel and another taxi drove her back to Philip’s flat. She thanked the driver who had also decided that someone in her condition should not be lugging big suitcases, and closed the front door. She stared out the window for a minute or two and then with her remaining resources she pulled off her clothes and fell into the bed. She hugged the pillow to her, caught a vague scent of Philip and lay in quiet misery until she fell asleep.

She was woken up by a hammering on the door and the insistent ringing of the bell. What was the time? 9:53pm according to the bedside clock. She rolled wearily out of bed, unhooked her dressing gown from the door and trod slowly downstairs. She looked through the security lens and saw four police officers, three male and one female. Two of the officers were wearing flak jackets and held firearms. She considered rushing upstairs, quickly dressing, fetching her weapons and breaking out through the back door but a glance out through the kitchen window showed a flashlight being waved around outside. She still fancied her chances against the posse outside the front door but perhaps someone would wind up dead and it might be her. She opened the front door.

‘Geraldine Tate?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are under arrest for the murder of Dean Furness. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

She was convicted of murder and given a life sentence. She was told to expect to serve a term of fifteen years before she might be eligible for parole.

Two months after her conviction her mother had suddenly died. A few weeks later she gave birth to a healthy baby girl and then after several days of extreme anguish she had given her up for adoption.

Long, long years passed by before events took a sudden and surprising turn.

‘Hey Tate, you’ve got a visitor.’

Gerry carefully lowered the bar and allowed the weights to settle back down and stared at them for a few seconds. Apart from a social worker a psychologist and a solicitor, she had received no visitors since her brother had come to see her when he had arranged their mother’s funeral. Without stating it in so many words he had managed to imply that the stress of her daughter’s trial and imprisonment had contributed a good deal to her heart attack. Gerry had given up the idea of asking him if he might adopt her baby and there had been no contact between the two siblings in the years since. ‘Who is it then?’ she asked.

‘I’m not your social secretary Tate.’

She picked up her towel and began to walk towards the door.

‘You’ve got time for a shower, then in fifteen minutes I’m to take you through to the Governor’s office.’

‘The Governor?’ Gerry echoed, intrigued.

‘Yes. Hurry up.’

After her shower the prison officer was waiting in the changing room.

‘Ok where’s your stuff? I have to check it.’

Gerry watched the prison officer go through her clothes, first by feel and then with a metal detector.

‘Ok now you please.’ She placed the metal detector by her crotch and then had her turn round. A few years ago a new guard had attempted to search her by hand with unnecessary vigour. She had dislocated and broken three fingers on the intrusive hand. The other guard present had begged her to stop, not daring to try and prevent the punishment meted out by prisoner Tate 1167832. She was too scared of her.

‘Do you think I might attack this visitor?’ Gerry asked, interested in the unusual precautions.

‘I don’t know. You’re to be taken to the governor’s office. That’s all I know.’

‘That’s certainly unusual,’ said Gerry. ‘Maybe she’s going to let me out of here.’

‘Well it certainly won’t be for good behaviour. I’ve got more chance of winning the lottery than you have of being given probation. Here, get dressed.’  

Gerry followed the prison officer through the security gates along a corridor to the governor’s interview room. The governor was sitting behind her desk and to one side stood a man slightly over six feet tall, physically strong; still good looking although his well-cut blond hair had a little grey in it. Her rapid calculation placed his age at fifty-three. She swallowed hard. ‘Richard Cornwall,’ she said, ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to get you released,’ he replied.

She stood still, then sat down on the chair in front of the desk and breathed deeply for a few seconds. ‘Has someone admitted I was set up? Have you got someone else for Furness’s murder?’

‘Gerry, we have something for you to do for us, and if you co-operate then we’ll make sure you get a chance of parole in another year or so.’

‘What?’ she blurted out after a few more seconds of amazed silence. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Why the fuck do you think I would want to work for you bastards again?’ she replied, trying without success to keep the furious tremor out of her voice.

‘As I said, so you can get out of here.’

‘But I like it here. Ask the governor; ask any of the staff or prisoners. That’s why my applications for parole get refused.’

‘I want you to come up to the office to discuss matters. We’ll tell you what we want you to do and perhaps you could give it some thought.’

‘No bloody way,’ Gerry declared. ‘You can bugger off. The only way I’d do anything for you is if my sentence was set aside and I was released immediately, then I might consider it. But I’m not going to do any more assassinations for you.’

Cornwall exchanged a glance with the governor who looked askance at this statement. ‘You didn’t hear that did you?’ The governor slowly shook her head, looking slightly pale. He looked back at Gerry. ‘Ok - agreed,’ he said with a quick nod of his head

‘What?’

Cornwall picked up a suitcase that stood against the wall. ‘These are some of your clothes and personal effects which I had picked up from your flat. There’s a new set of toiletry items. I’ve had your place cleaned and it’s all in order. You seem to be pretty much the same shape so the clothes should fit you. The governor and I have some paperwork to complete so can we leave in about forty minutes?’

Gerry stared at him in open mouthed silence.

‘I’ll take you to the official visitor’s apartment,’ said the governor. ‘You can use the facilities there. I don’t want you talking to any of the staff or inmates.’

Gerry followed her in silence along a corridor, through another gate. ‘I can’t believe I’m getting out of here!’ she blurted out as the governor showed her the bathroom.

‘Neither can I, Tate. I’m sure you don’t deserve it. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

Gerry ran herself a hot bath and dumped in a generous quantity of foam. She lowered herself in and laughed out loud, then burst into tears, rubbed her eyes making them sting from soap and then smiled in delight.

‘Perhaps you can tell me what’s been going on at the office for the last few years,’ Gerry asked as they set off together in Cornwall’s chauffeured car. ‘Who’s retired; who’s been promoted, who’s been kicked out, besides me.’

‘Well Don Jarvis retired last year, through ill health.’

‘That bastard!’ Gerry exclaimed. ‘Something life-threatening, I hope.’

‘Er…heart, I think.’

‘So who’s Director of Operations, now?’

‘I am actually. Of course there’ve been many changes over the last few years. We now have…’ He realised that Gerry was staring out of the window at the countryside flashing past and no longer listening to him and he continued his surreptitious examination of her. Despite having seen recent photographs he had somehow expected her to look no different from the young woman who had been expelled from the service and imprisoned. Now her face was showing the signs of approaching middle age. Her hair was tied back severely in a ponytail. She wore no make-up but her face was still attractive, the cheeks thinner with a few lines that seemed to emphasise her determined character. There was the same tall frame that now seemed even more muscular. He noticed that her fingernails looked badly bitten. After a few minutes she looked round at him.

‘Sorry, you were in the middle of telling me.’

‘Sir Hugh Fielding has left us, and is now in charge of overall security strategy for the government, although of course he maintains close links with us lot left behind hewing at the coal face. We’re much like any other Government department these days. Part time contracts; working from home; flexible hours.’ He smiled. ‘I regret to say that Arabic language skills are still rather thin on the ground. All the clever linguists at university seem to want to learn Spanish and Chinese these days, and then they get well-paid jobs in the city.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve sprung me from jail because you need a translator,’ said Gerry. ‘And if you think I’m going to carry out some suicidal mission for you as a price of freedom you can forget it!’

‘No it’s nothing like that,’ Cornwall assured her. ‘As you are no doubt aware, shortly after his inauguration, President Obama announced that the prison camp at Guantanamo Bay will be closed. He gave his people a year to move the detainees out and then close the facility. The timetable has slipped a few years, shall we say, but some of the people are our own citizens, and have already returned home, with a couple more to follow. Others will return to their own countries, and some will be going to third countries because their own governments have threatened them with, how shall I put it, further sanctions?  Some of these people are suitably chastened and will return to a peaceful life; others are diehard terrorists and will no doubt attempt to return to their former wicked ways. Many will fall in between, and could go either way depending on the reception they receive when they return, or who their friends and associates are. They hope to prosecute some of the worst cases and send them to conventional prisons on the US mainland. They don’t have evidence against many of them though, which of course is why they’re still in Cuba, and the detention centre is still open some years later.’

‘Well why don’t they just concoct the evidence?’ Gerry asked. ‘It worked on me.’

Cornwall pulled a folder from his briefcase. She read the operation name “Sandstar” on the cover before he opened it up and took out a photograph. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

She stared at it for a moment. ‘That’s Ali Hamsin, translator for the Iraqi interior ministry, father of Rashid Hamsin who I abducted on your orders back in February 2003. I first met Ali Hamsin in January 2003. In your elevated position as director you probably now know I set up a meeting between Hakim Mansour, Sir Hugh Fielding and General Robert Bruckner at Frankfurt airport.’ She paused. ‘The late Dean Furness was present. I bet Fielding and Bruckner are probably both doing very nicely thank you, but I believe Mansour is dead and Furness was killed by person or persons unknown in the Richmond flat belonging to Geraldine Tate who was fitted up for his murder probably by…’

‘Ok Gerry, that’s enough,’ Cornwall snapped, taking back the photo. ‘Notwithstanding your resentment, airing your grievances to me every two minutes is not going to help us is it?’

‘Is it?’ he repeated.

‘Ok!’ said Gerry. She slumped back into the corner of the seat and folded her arms and pouted like a school girl. Then after a moment she began to bite her fingernails and Cornwall noticed that she was trembling slightly. He called to mind the psychologist’s report and tried to engage with her again.

‘I’m sorry Gerry, that was unfair of me. You’ve just been released and now being here with me reminds you of the past. It’s only natural that you are going to be highly sensitive on these matters and I shouldn’t try and make you supress your legitimate emotional reaction.’

She took her fingers away from her mouth, stared at him for a moment and then gave a burst of laughter which he was sure was genuine. ‘Richard, what was my degree in?’ she asked.

‘Er…psychology.’

‘Ok, so you promise not to try that crap out on me and I’ll promise not to air my grievances as you put it. Now tell me about Ali Hamsin.’

‘Very well. Ali Hamsin is one of the detainees in Guantanamo Bay. He is not classified as dangerous or a potential threat but the Americans are loath to release him until he has reassured them on certain pieces of information. They have told him that until this information is forthcoming he will remain incarcerated.’

‘But now after Obama’s executive order, they don’t have a choice.’

‘Exactly. But for the last three years Hamsin has insisted that he will give them the information they want but only under certain conditions.’

‘Oh yes? And are these conditions particularly onerous?’ Gerry asked.

Cornwall stared at her. ‘His first condition is that he talks to you.’

‘Well that certainly is unexpected,’ Gerry replied. ‘I had no idea he was still alive or that he was in Guantanamo Bay. But why would he want to talk to me? Apart from the obvious fact that he sees me as much more honest and open, even likeable than the rest of you shits.’

‘Leaving that aside, why he wants to see you has been exercising the minds of the best and brightest in Langley and Vauxhall Cross for some time.’

‘And what was their conclusion?’ she asked.

‘To send you over there,’ said Cornwall.’

Gerry Tate stared around her flat for the first time since she had packed up her suitcases all those years ago. The first thing she noted was the smell of a new carpet and freshly decorated walls in the sitting room and she wondered if Dean Furness’s bloodstains had been slowly rusting in there for years until Cornwall’s people had come round to clean up.

She wandered around inspecting her personal possessions for an hour. It was Friday evening and she was free until Monday morning. She wondered if she should go to Philip’s house and look around, but perhaps that would awaken too many memories. She thought about phoning her brother in Seattle and telling him that she was free but decided that they shared too much mutual resentment. She had turned away from her other friends when she was imprisoned. Four of them had tried to visit her on several occasions in the first two years of her sentence, but she had refused to see them.

‘What do people do when first released from prison?’ she wondered out loud. ‘Contact friends and relatives, decide to go straight or immediately resume a life of crime, go out on the town, get pissed and try and get laid.’ Then she suddenly wondered if the place was bugged. She found an old scanner and switched it on but the battery was dead. Then she decided that technological advances would probably have rendered this detector ineffective. ‘If anyone’s listening, I’m intending to go straight and I don’t want to try and get laid,’ she announced to the empty room. ‘Not tonight anyway,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe I’ll go out and get drunk though.’

She picked up her keys and left the house and walked to the main road and into the pub. Her first impression was that the place had gone downhill in the intervening years but she ordered a dry white wine. She took a few sips and looked around the room. The clientele seemed to be on the one hand young guys and girls chatting and laughing in happy flirtatious groups and on the other older people, couples mostly in their fifties or beyond perhaps. Where were the men and women of her own age? They were at home looking after their children cooking their meals, putting them to bed, helping them with their homework. Somewhere out there was a young school girl to whom she had given birth, and who she thought about every day. Did she look more like Phil or more like her? Was she happy with her adoptive parents?