'Kholera' is an old-fashioned Russian swear word, literally meaning 'cholera' ('to the cholera with him'). 'Bozhe moi' means 'My God'.
Chapter Nine
When the phone began to vibrate, Lucas was gazing through a gap in the curtains at the shadowy tree branches tossing and bending helplessly to the tune of the gusting wind that had woken him. Ros, curled up in a tight ball like a hibernating hedgehog, was dead to the world; so far neither the wind nor the phone, which was squirming around as if indignant at being ignored, had penetrated her consciousness, and Lucas silently willed the confounded device to shut up before it did. When it finally ground itself into silence, he turned onto his side. His eyes were just closing when the vibrations began again.
Kholera! He propped himself up on his elbow, but this time Ros was already stirring. Her glass of water fell from the table with a tinkling thud before she rolled onto her back, eyes still closed, but with the busily buzzing phone in her grasp.
"Myers. Who?" Her eyes shot open, and she levered herself upright as she spoke. "Yeah … sorry. Five – five three six – E – er - EZG."
It was Lucas's turn to come fully awake with a start as his pulse rate bounded upwards. That was the code with which Ros identified herself on secure calls, which spelled trouble. He peered at his watch. It was just past twenty to six, which spelled even more. He was about to speak when Ros, stifling a gigantic yawn, pre-empted him.
"Yes, yes, it is. Good morning, Home Secretary."
Hell. Lucas pushed back the duvet, got up and pulled on the sweater he had discarded the night before. He threw Ros her bathrobe before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen and her coffee machine. They hadn't got home until close to midnight, and with Harry and Ruth due back from Paris at lunchtime, he knew that she was going to be edgy all morning. This was precisely the start to the day neither of them needed.
It took him one glance when Ros appeared to realise that her mood was almost as bad as the weather. She looked as if she should be going to bed, not getting up; her eyes were bloodshot, and lines of strain were pulling at her mouth. Without asking, he handed her a cup of black coffee and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
"COBRA at seven-thirty." Glass rattled as the wind drove rain against the already streaming windowpane, and Ros threw it a black look. Without the benefit of the central heating it was cold, and she shivered. "Looks like it could be spreading."
The words caused a chill to go through Lucas too, for reasons that had nothing to do with the temperature. Throughout the previous day, queues had persisted at dozens of branches of Harveys Bank, and so had sporadic outbreaks of violence. As Lucas had expected, the Crisis Crusade activists had politely but firmly dismissed the Chancellor's assurances of the bank's solvency. Equally predictably, bank officials had dug in their heels and despite government blandishments, declined to reverse their policy on fees and charges. The second day of protests had ended on a tense and bad-tempered stalemate shot through with the unspoken threat of further disorder, but at least there had been no sign of other banks being affected.
"Where?" he asked.
Ros swallowed the rest of her coffee and rattled off the names of three major banks as she refilled her mug. Lucas gave a low whistle.
"Christ. If it goes national, that'll stretch the police."
Ros grunted. "If they'll let themselves be stretched." She emptied the remaining contents of the percolator into his mug with a vigour that spattered the scalding liquid on his hand. Lucas winced, but bit back any comment. Ros stared out at the wild weather lashing the river into turbulence. A faint light was gleaming over it now, but it did little to lift the gloom. "What time are Podgy and Bliss due?"
"Twelve-something," Lucas answered. "But in this - " he shrugged.
"Well, I can't go," Ros said shortly. "You'll have to pick them up."
Lucas's heart sank. He had already spent much of the previous day tied up with the minutiae of Jocelyn Myers's transfer into the custody of Transatlantic Security, and although he felt it was far more urgent, had been forced to leave the digging into Crisis Crusade to the younger members of the team.
"Can't Chen or Khalida do it?" he protested.
"No, they bloody well can't!" Ros snapped irritably. "Harry'll want a comprehensive report. Details, not the Janet and John version from a junior officer."
How comprehensive? Lucas wondered whether 'details' included Ros's rooftop phone call to her mother, which had been niggling at him ever since. She hadn't mentioned it, and the more time passed, the less Lucas felt that he could. Common sense told him that she would have a good reason for ringing; the constant urge to question that was inbred in every good intelligence officer wanted to know why she had deliberately avoided sharing that reason with him.
Come on, Lucas. If he could entertain suspicions against Ros Myers, of all people, then they should have kept him in Tring for the duration. With exquisitely poor timing the word Yalta popped out of his capacious memory banks. Immediately he thrust it back - Ukraine, Black Sea, Churchill, irrelevant - and drained his mug.
"OK. Well then, I'll drop you off and catch up with some stuff before I go." He rubbed his chilled hands together and said decisively: "Porridge."
"Time," Ros shot back, tapping her watch.
"Plenty." Two can play at that game. Neither of them had eaten more than a sandwich at their desks the previous day, and Ros had barely picked at their takeaway midnight supper. "You're already knackered. You need energy." Ros shook her head in exasperation, but just for a second a weary smile wiped the tension from her face.
"You do love a good fuss, Lucas." She stretched up and kissed him, but then her voice hardened. "Grid Mummy will be back by tonight, dispensing caring concern to all and sundry. You can stop now."
Ouch, Lucas thought. He made the porridge and was just scraping the last few pieces of oats and honey from his own bowl when she reappeared, fully dressed, with make-up concealing the tell-tale signs of exhaustion, wearing what Chen Liu described as her 'battle face'.
"Here." Lucas stirred a generous dollop of honey into her porridge. "I'll go and shower," he added. "Fifteen minutes."
He heard her call 'ten' as he went out, and ignored her. After eight years of being slapped and kicked out of bed, preceded by a sleepless night and often followed by a day of hard labour on an empty stomach, that was child's play. He put the radio app on his iPhone as he washed and shaved, listening with increasing anxiety to a succession of 'experts' discussing the spreading bank protests, their growing influence on business sentiment at home and abroad, and the wider implications for political stability. The latter alarmed him most, since that was a precious commodity, the value of which everyone underestimated until it was no longer there to be taken for granted. And once lost, as people like Khalida who had experienced its absence knew, it was a long, and frequently bloody task to re-establish it. He shuddered at the thought.
The storm had eased by the time they left the house, but it had scattered tokens of its ferocity all over the city in the shape of smashed roof tiles, fallen tree branches, and mini-fountains gurgling and spouting from over-worked drains. Ros scowled at the debris as if she held Crisis Crusade responsible for that, too. Lucas concentrated for a while on negotiating his way round the damage and the emergency crews trying to repair it but at last he ventured: "At least we've got something to tell them." Ros made a disparaging sound somewhere between a sigh and a raspberry. "You are going to tell them?"
"As much as I need to, yes." Ros very deliberately turned aside to look out of the window, and Lucas silently cursed her evasiveness. Callum's 'faces' had turned out to be the two positive identifications from CCTV film of the protest at Waterloo, on whom he now had a full dossier of information - a woman, Jean McKechnie, and Oliver Vine, a young man who had been active in the Occupy movement and whose face was therefore still in the more recent albums of MI-5's rogues' gallery. They had been caught on film talking to a man Callum thought was Thomas Laverne – ex-banker, ex fellow-prisoner of Jocelyn Myers, current implacable foe of the British government. The man had been turning away from the camera and his image was slightly blurred so it was hard to be certain, but Callum, who had as close to twenty-twenty vision as anyone in Thames House, was convinced. A telephone call made to Laverne's last address by Khalida, posing as an eager salesgirl from a Bombay call centre, confirmed that – as Sir Jocelyn had insinuated - Laverne was no longer resident there, but his ex-wife and three young children still were. Ros had put the house under 24-hour surveillance by snatching the services of a Watcher team from a furious Section A, who had wanted it to monitor a Chinese diplomat with a gluttonous appetite for the forbidden fruit of high-tech British research. Khalida, meanwhile, was discreetly checking out Laverne's parents, known friends, and former associates both in and outside the Scrubs. It wasn't the largely mythical instant solution so beloved of the political spin-doctors, but it would at least hold the relentless pressure for one in check.
"I'll tell them we're after Laverne," Ros added. "Get authorisation for phone taps if I can, too, for the family and those other two. That'll placate them."
In other words, Lucas thought uneasily, the bare minimum, and again, nothing about Crisis Crusade's possible infiltration of the security services. She had at least alerted Internal Security to a potential breach the previous day, which he did realise had cost her dear. Its chief was a long-serving officer, en poste at the time of her father's coup, and he had made his mistrust of Ros crystal clear to anyone who would listen ever since. He had taken full advantage of Harry's absence to upbraid her in his office at a volume that even the most tactful of her subordinates couldn't pretend not to have heard. In a way, Lucas could sympathise with her wanting to avoid a repeat performance in COBRA, and besides, he shared her opinion that politicians and sensitive information should, wherever possible, be kept well apart. After all, Harry had spent years keeping successive governments on a carefully calibrated information drip, but by and large, he had had their trust and respect. If Ros were caught deliberately misleading the Government … He jumped as she nudged him.
"I said, it won't matter how much we speed things up if they insist on 'holding the line' when it's attached to the bloody Titanic." She pointed, and Lucas groaned at the sight of lines beginning to form at two other banks; police were already erecting crash barriers outside, and he hoped he was only imagining the surly unwillingness with which they were doing so.
"Why the hell don't they just publicly order Fisher and his vultures to rescind the bloody decision? He was probably in the PM's Latin set at Eton; what's the Old Boy Network for? OK, so there'd be a few red faces in the City, but least it would take the wind out of Crisis Crusade's sails and give us some breathing space. And stop the demos."
"Opening the floodgates to more in the process?" Ros murmured.
Lucas was sorely tempted to point out that floodgates could only hold back so much water, and that the Government's stance was beginning to look like King Canute's arrogance at high tide. At the same time, he knew that her point was valid. Meeting Crisis Crusade's demands was perhaps the more politically popular, and therefore easier decision in the short run; on the other hand, a climb-down could give the impression that the government's already shaky authority was crumbling, which could be catastrophic in current circumstances.
"Let me out here." He pulled over halfway down Birdcage Walk, and Ros opened the door. "Tell Lizzie to keep the reports coming in from the outstations. Harry's bound to want to talk to Zagadka. Get in touch with Quinn and set it up for tomorrow. Then tell the others there'll be a full briefing at three."
Lucas just managed a 'yes', before she walked abruptly off into Horse Guards Road. She staggered slightly as a gust of wind buffeted her, but regained her balance almost immediately and strode on determinedly, head down. He hoped she would be able to maintain her equilibrium as well in the storm that was no doubt awaiting her in the Briefing Room. He glanced cautiously around – never embarrass the Service – before performing an illegal U-turn and heading in the direction of Thames House.
oOoOoOo
His visit to the Grid was encouraging and dispiriting in almost equal measure. He phoned Tom Quinn, his usual terse, competent self despite the hour, and arranged for Harry to interview Jocelyn Myers the following day. He was speed-reading through the last of Phelps's interviews from the Scrubs when the head of Section A, Hannah Wheeler, stormed in, demanding that the Watcher team on Laverne be released to her. Fortunately, Lucas had once had a mild, short-lived flirtation with her, and was eventually able to charm her into reluctant acceptance that his need was the greater. Callum, who had heard their raised voices from the tech suite, gave him a mocking grin once Wheeler was safely out of earshot.
"You old smoothie, you. Turned the tigress into a purring little kitten."
Lucas rolled his eyes. I get a lot of practice. "Anything useful from the Watchers?"
"Not yet. Mummy's preparing for the school run at the moment." Callum looked towards the TV screen and his tone altered. "You reckon they'll hold out? With it spreading like this?"
Lucas shrugged. "I'm off to the airport. Give me a quick update."
"Right." Callum perched on the edge of Ros's desk. "Both Jean McKechnie and Oliver Vine live in suburbia, near Walton on Thames. She's a retired schoolteacher, pillar of the church, member of Neighbourhood Watch and helps out at a food bank. Vine's been fairly quiet since Occupy's heyday, but he's behind on his mortgage payments and he's been campaigning about the local library being closed."
"Not exactly the stuff of revolution," Lucas grunted. "Do they know each other?"
"Possibly," Callum said cautiously. "We're checking."
Checking, checking, checking. It was the bane of every officer's life, but it had to be done. "Is that all?"
"No, I have some news also, Lucas." It was Khalida, dishevelled hair peeping from under a headscarf knocked awry by the wind. "I have been digging into Thomas Laverne's contacts, and there is a name that is interesting. A connection, I think."
"With what?" Lucas demanded.
"When he was in prison." Khalida wriggled her way out of her coat. "As well as helping with education it seems he also found faith, na?" She looked disapproving as Callum groaned audibly. "He spent much time with the prison chaplain, Father Patrick Alastair."
"So?" Chen Liu was coming in, closely followed by two watchful-looking men in suits whom Lucas didn't recognise. "He won't tell us anything about Laverne; the clergy's bloody attitude to secrecy makes us look like the Lambeth branch of Wikileaks."
Khalida flushed slightly, but stood her ground. "No, but you see, he is a very close friend of Father Martin Cowley. Who is the vicar of St Christopher's church in a place called Hersham -"
"Near Walton on Thames. Interesting!" Callum drawled, but his grin faded as the two men strode over to them, followed by a nervous-looking Chen stuttering protests.
" Guy Butcher, Internal Security." The taller of the two thrust an I.D. card at Lucas. "Where's your section chief?"
Lucas reciprocated. "At COBRA. I'm her SCO, but I'm about to leave - "
"Fine." Butcher sounded supremely unconcerned. "Then we'll start with your two work-stations - access to internal phone records, computers, daily logs, and full cooperation from every officer here."
Aware of the others looking at him in a nervousness that bordered on panic, Lucas kept his face clear. Even Harry deferred, albeit grudgingly, to Internal Security – their presence might be unwelcome, but their remit was broad and their authority unrestricted.
"Be my guest," he said breezily. He glanced at Callum, who had a couple of years seniority over the others. "Our technical specialist will provide whatever you need." Callum nodded grimly, and Lucas turned to Chen and Khalida as Butcher and his colleague headed for Ros's desk.
"Khalida, get whatever you can find on Patrick Alastair and Martin Cowley. Tread lightly. Chen, you and Lizzie - " he filed away the fact that Lizzie Sandell hadn't yet appeared – "keep monitoring the demos, and especially the police reaction. Liaise with the Chief Constables, as Ros said. Understood?" They nodded. "We'll be briefing Harry at three. He's bound to grill everyone, so make sure we're ready for him. Yeah?"
He reluctantly ceded his own desk. At least they can't demand access to Harry's office. Not without the presence of an officer senior in rank to him, anyway. Butcher was already booting up Ros's computer, arrogantly indifferent to the worried glances being shot his way. Lucas silently thanked God – anyone's - that Ros was currently ensconced in a reinforced bunker somewhere beneath Whitehall. Had she been here, she would have been doing the booting, and Guy Butcher would have been her football. In her absence,Lucas didn't want to give the man the opportunity to ask questions that he had no desire to answer, so he flashed Chen and Khalida a reassuring smile, nodded to Callum, who was fixing the Internal Security officers with a glare worthy of Ros herself, and headed briskly for the pods.
oOoOoOo
Although his escape meant he had left the Grid early, it turned out to be a blessing. Twice, police diverted him from his route because long queues at high street banks had spilled out into the road, blocking traffic. While weaving his way through a maze of back streets to avoid getting trapped on Chiswick High Street, he had heard angry shouting and breaking glass, then caught the unmistakable scent of tear gas seeping into the car. If this was being replicated nationwide, it didn't take much imagination to guess what Chen's report to the forthcoming meeting would sound like.
He parked the car, wincing at the cost and the thought of what the reaction from the finance department (known throughout Thames House as 'Ebenezer' for its parsimony) would be to his expenses claim. He broke into a jog as he headed for Terminal 5. Ros detested it for its lack of the pillars, swarming crowds and shadowy corners that were so helpful in covert surveillance operations. Lucas, to her disgust, appreciated the soaring ceilings, light pouring in from all sides and the airy spaciousness of the place, but he did sometimes think they should rent out Boris Bikes to get passengers from A to B.
He was leaning against the barrier and checking his phone for messages from Ros – none - when Harry and Ruth emerged from Customs. Ruth's face lit up in a smile, and she waved happily, like an excited child recognizing a favourite relative. Harry smiled too; he looked as relaxed as Lucas had ever seen him, although he fit Callum's nickname even better now. Lucas gave Ruth a kiss on the cheek and exchanged her case for one of the takeaway coffees he had bought.
"You look as if you had a good time, Lady Pearce."
"Oh, don't!" Ruth screwed her face into a grimace, and punched him in the shoulder. Lucas grinned, and shook Harry's hand.
"Welcome home." He held out the coffee. "Not your Parisian café au lait, but probably better than BA."
"I wouldn't know," Harry said dryly. "We hit turbulence over the Channel, so I ended up wearing their version rather than drinking it." He took a gulp. "Where's Ros?"
Lucas looked at his watch. It had taken Harry precisely twenty-three seconds to ask the inevitable question. He swiftly explained about the COBRA meeting and the increasing disruption from the protests as they walked back to the car park. Harry's expression darkened with every step, and when they reached the car, he climbed into the passenger seat. Lucas saw a flicker of what he thought was disappointed resignation on Ruth's face, but she merely gave a little shrug and slid into the back.
"Has Internal Security started a sweep?" Harry demanded, as they reached the Great West Road.
"Yep. This morning." Lucas rapidly brought him up to date. Ruth leaned forward, listening intently.
"That'll unsettle people," she said.
They're already unsettled. Lucas murmured something that sounded vaguely acquiescent, and Harry shot him a sharp glance.
"Trouble at t' mill?"
Normally the exaggerated Yorkshire accent would have made Lucas laugh. Now he shrugged. "Sort of." Reluctantly, he reported the comments he had overheard on the Grid and the barely hidden resentment and dissatisfaction among his colleagues. Ruth blinked nervously, and Harry's frown deepened.
"Have you told Ros?"
"No, no, not yet. With everything else …" Lucas trailed off as his mobile rang. He put the loudspeaker on. "Callum?"
"Yeah, can you hear me?" When Lucas assured him that he could, he enquired: "No trouble with Pod - "
"None at all." Lucas interrupted, improvising frantically. "They were working fine when I left." In the mirror he glimpsed Ruth's eyes dancing with amusement before she lowered her gaze. "Ros back?"
"Not yet." The change in Callum's tone suggested that he realized that Lucas had saved him from Ros's favourite and most feared disciplinary measure – a week manning the phones on the Public Assistance Line. "News from the Watchers, though."
"Go on." Swiftly, Lucas told Harry about the surveillance on Laverne's house.
"Yummy Mummy took the kiddies to school, but she didn't go straight home. Stopped off for a cuppa. The Laughing Teapot." Callum snorted. "All chintz and chit-chat."
"And that's enough of yours!" Harry barked, as Lucas hastily corrected a startled swerve. "Get on with it!"
"Yessir." Suddenly, Callum was all business. "Place was empty; she had a lemon tea, used the Ladies and left. Half the Watchers went with her, half stayed on the café. Few minutes later another woman arrived. She just ordered a takeaway latte, but she did also use the loo. The Watchers reckon it was a drop of some kind. They're on Mrs Anonymous now; I should be getting pictures soon."
"Good work. We're on our way." Lucas ended the call and asked: "News?" When Harry nodded, he switched it on just in time to catch the pips at the top of the hour. The newscaster's voice vanished in a blizzard of static as the car entered a tunnel, then came back again.
'… will satisfy those demanding a reversal of bank policy remains to be seen. In the meantime, police in several cities have been struggling to control the swelling anger which is increasingly spilling over into violence.'
Or not bothering? Lucas shot a sideways glance at Harry and decided to keep that little nugget for the briefing, when he would have Ros to share the taking of any flak.
'…Crisis Crusade neither advocates nor condones violence.' Now the voice was a woman's; she sounded anxious. 'We will achieve our aims democratically through the peaceful exerting of pressure. This violence is unacceptable; it tarnishes our cause, and we -"
Lucas's phone interrupted her. Irritably, he switched one device off and the other on.
"Lucas!" It was Chen. "Ros is still at COBRA, but they're saying Harvey's is going to make an official announcement within the hour."
"They're backing down?" Lucas noticed cars slowing ahead of him. Ruth was leaning forward to speak to Harry, and pointing out of the window she had opened.
"Maybe. No-one seems sure, it's just rumours." Chen gulped. "Doesn't seem to be having much effect though; things are getting pretty out of hand."
You're telling me. "All right." Lucas kept his voice calm and reassuring; the young Chinese sounded alarmed, almost panicky. "We'll be there soon." He cut the call. Now he could see a police cordon bisecting the road. Officers were instructing vehicles to turn around. Ruth coughed, and Harry rapped: "Close that!" to Lucas as the all too familiar stinging scent of tear gas drifted in.
Lucas obeyed, but then had to lower his own an inch as they reached the police barrier.
"What is it?" he asked, trying not to breathe too deeply.
"Road's closed, sir. Demonstrations." Beyond him, Lucas could see two vans decanting police in riot gear. "Best turn round; we'll just divert you up through Acton, won't add many minutes to your journey."
Shit. Like hell it won't. Chen's call had made Lucas anxious to get to the Grid quickly, especially with Ros still absent. Before he could speak, Harry leaned across him and showed his I.D. card.
"Harry Pearce, Counter-Terrorism, Thames House. Let us through."
The officer's face flushed an angry red at his tone. "Sir, my orders are -"
"I'm countermanding them. This is a matter of national security, let us through."
As the officer opened his mouth, Harry growled: "Now."
"On your own head." The sergeant shouted something to his colleagues, gave Lucas a surly jerk of his head and stepped aside. Lucas glanced back at Ruth, and hesitated.
"We need to get to the Grid. Just keep moving." Harry half-turned in his seat. "Ruth, get down. Go!"
They had advanced no more than twenty yards before Lucas knew they had both made a big mistake. Chiswick High Street was a seething mass of people, some of whom were masked. At least two banks were under siege from a hail of stones and bricks, and many people were scrambling to dodge the flying missiles. Unable to get up speed for fear of hitting someone, Lucas, his throat dry and his eyes stinging, edged through the swirling crowd until the car was brought to a near halt by the press of people. Lucas glanced at Harry, and when he nodded, swallowed, sounded the horn and inched forward again. A few people moved aside; many more did not, and he felt the shudder of someone kicking the side of the vehicle. Suddenly, as if on cue, a mass of angry individuals turned into into a single beast with many heads and one enraged mind. Hands reached out and began to push and rock the car. Ruth gave a squeak of fear as more blows struck the roof and sides.
"Harry!"
He glanced back. "Ruth, hold on. Keep down!" Lucas revved the engine warningly, but the only response was a resounding crack as a well-aimed stone scribbled a diagonal crack across the windscreen. He slammed the gears into reverse, but nothing happened save a screaming protest from the engine.
"Harry!" Ruth shrieked, as a barrage of missiles thudded and clanged against the back of the lurching vehicle.
Lucas floored the accelerator. There was a sickening impact as the vehicle collided with something but he kept it down as he fish-tailed back down the road, scattering bodies to both sides. A massive crash of splintering glass and the roar of shouting drowned out Ruth's screams as riot police charged past them. Lucas skidded to a halt, his eyes streaming from the tear gas now filling the car.
"Harry?" He lurched to his feet; Harry was already scrambling into the back. Holding his sleeve over his mouth, Lucas stumbled to the rear of the vehicle and peered in through the smashed window. Nausea swept up from his stomach at what he saw.
"Bozhe moi. Ruth!"
oOoOoOo
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