Thanks to those who read the last chapter and even more thanks to those who reviewed. As this chapter is a little angsty I think Nates Dates Ipad should be safe.
Southwark Bridge approx 12.45pm
Early afternoon in London. The pedestrians strolling across the broad expanse of the Southwark Bridge seemed oblivious to the beauty of the unseasonably bright day, its mild warmth a rare gift in an autumnal season that was rapidly sinking into winter. For the most part they were either glued to the all pervasive mobiles or plugged into Ipods as they wandered their way to the opposite bank. Absorbed in their personal technological cocoons no one spared a second glance for the well dressed man with the thinning hair and thickening waist walking steadily onwards to greet whatever doom awaited him on the other side. Being unrecognised was an increasingly rare experience for Harry, encumbered as he had been for years by a high profile post and latterly his knighthood, but as he trod with the stolid pace of a metronome to the half way point of the bridge he was profoundly grateful for the cloak of anonymity.
Pausing for a moment to check his watch Harry, realising that he was a little ahead of the designated time, immediately halted. Old tradecraft habits died hard. Never make yourself conspicuous through obvious loitering being one of the most vital of spook commandments, plus Chris Coaver could spare him a few minutes of leisure. As a condemned man Harry was surely entitled to a brief period of contemplation. He'd had little enough peace over the past couple of days and an opportunity to marshal his jostling confused thoughts was not unwelcome. Leaning against the parapet, he gazed downstream towards his customary haunts of Westminster and Whitehall, both concealed behind the several bends that characterised the meandering Thames. Resting his elbows on the guard rail he breathed in the familiar comforting smell of the river at ebb tide, the scent released by the slightly breeze roughened surface of the dark waters.
Taking advantage of this advisable pause to review the events that, for the second time within months, had seen him journeying towards an almost certain death at behest of an unbalanced avenger, his attention was distracted by the movement of a tourist cruiser making its way up river towards Greenwich. Indistinct snatches of a commentary extolling museum piece London just reaching his ears Harry watched as the wake of water rippled its way across the flowing river, breaking in small waves against the bridge supports and the tide exposed dirty shingle of the banksides. Scanning the riverbanks he noticed, as if for the first time, the familiar mish mash of varying building styles, each one representative of different eras and ideals. The modern square oversize legoland of brick built office blocks leading down towards the river's edge; the small damp dark sanded beaches interspersed with staithes and landing stages, a vision hailing back to a time when the Thames formed the city's main thoroughfare; the Vinter's place, a consciously porticoed imitation of the Greek style architecture favoured by the Georgians, placed flush to the shoreline. The signature jumble of an evolving breathing city, a place in which people worked, lived, loved. His city, the one he'd dedicated his life to protecting, sparkling in the sunlight reflected off some of the generously glazed windows belonging to the edifices fronting the waterside.
Casting his eyes upwards he saw, rearing over the buildings of the Northern bank, the impressive blue grey dome of St Paul's, once the dominant feature of the skyline, now bravely battling to retain its former prominence above the bristling proliferation of the high storied office blocks demanded by the world of finance. Under normal circumstances Harry had scant time for organised religion. A lifetime spent dealing with warring factions in Ireland, Islamic fanatics and, just for a change, the bomb all abortionists wing of his own nominal faith, had long since destroyed any personal tendencies towards religious conviction. Harry's heart beat to the entirely different, if equally self sacrificing, credo of 'Regnum Defende'. Now as he stood alone, staring his own mortality in the face, he found the sight of Wren's dome oddly comforting, its struggle to avoid being subsumed by the unstylish architectural representations of an obsessive Mammon affirming a principle that transcended the sheer money grubbing materialism of the age. Harry's own personal monument was infinitely less grandiose, consisting chiefly of the fact that the London he was gazing upon still stood proud, flourishing in all its grubby glory.
It was a frission of mild elation that dissolved in the brief second it took him to shift his eyes to the view straight ahead, where stretched the modern skeletal Millennium Bridge, originally a wobbling disaster, and now eccentrically taken to the heart of Londoners. Gleaming and metalled, like a knife it slashed across his thoughts, searing him with an agony that was almost physical. Only a few short years ago he'd walked there, guilty and frustrated as he attempted to placate an angry, bereft Ruth. Now she walked amongst the dead, and he confidently anticipated joining her in those shady realms within the hour, ever assuming the existence of an after life, a dubious proposition to Harry the rationalist. And did he want one anyway? As he recalled with painful mental clarity the outcomes of his numerous unsavoury deeds he decided that he'd suffered enough Hell in this life, he'd prefer not to extend the experience for eternity.
His eyes returned to rest once more upon the dome of St Paul's, for some reason it was mesmerising him today, as he recalled a sermon once heard during the enforced chapel attendance of his schooldays. He remembered the clergyman – no women in those days – expounding the theory that sins extending unto the third and fourth generation were not randomly inflicted Acts of God but a rather a direct consequence of every action one took. Individual deeds were like stones thrown in a pond, caused ripples to spread and spread, radiating ever outwards with results that could not be anticipated. Watching the Thames slither below his feet, its deep mysterious waters, concealing in its depths centuries worth of murky secrets, he concluded that the priest had been wrong. Harry's error riddled stone throwing in Berlin had activated not a ripple but a slowly building tidal wave, culminating in the tsunami that had fatally engulfed so many valued lives. Tariq dead; Jim dead; Ruth dead. The consequences for others were hardly less lethal. What was it Jane had said to him the other day? 'I don't know what happened in Berlin but I do know that you were never the same when you returned.' Wryly Harry admitted the truth of this. For everyone's safety he'd mentally imprisoned the guilt, walled it away in his mind where it had lurked, a festering secret leading to his unconscious rejection of Jane, thereby inadvertently pushing her into the arms of the slimy Robin. And what of Graham, Sasha, and Chris, all sons of master spies, a trio of modern day lost boys, stunted and emotionally damaged by the fallout, Graham through parental divorce and drugs, Sasha through maternal manipulation, destroyed by a situation he could hardly comprehend, and now the deluded Chris Coaver, whose drive to seek a not wholly inaccurate revenge had dragged Catherine towards death's threshold.
So many lies and deceptions forced upon him in the attempt to preserve the city, now sprawling before him, behind him, around him. But the irony! That he who'd spearheaded the countless operations that had saved multitudes of the faceless unknowns inhabiting the capital had failed entirely to save Ruth. No loss could ever be worse. Or so he'd believed until faced with the realistic prospect of losing Catherine. Staring that thought in its full grisly reality he now realised just how far he'd been saved from a complete breakdown by a subconscious clinging to the knowledge that he still had lives to care for and cherish, in particular those of his two children.
And where in this cycle of guilt and regret did Jane fit, the woman who'd walked away from him. For years the default position of their relationship had been one of mutual acrimony, strengthened on his part by the rare experience of being dumped. If he'd thought of her at all, -which was seldom given the deep wounds she'd inflicted upon his ego – it was solely as the mother of his children. Once the divorce scars had faded and the Elena debacle had faded into the far off unadmitted background of his life, he'd vowed never again to become closely involved with any woman. When the thirst for sex had become overwhelming he'd slaked it in a series one night stands and short term affairs. Casual encounters, impelled by physical need; utterly devoid of any messy emotional involvement. Then had come Ruth; so different from his normal run of utterly forgettable women. Suspicious of her at first - accurately assessing her status as a mole planted from GCHQ - she'd gradually undermined the defensive emotional walls encasing his heart. He'd been in love with her before he realised it, and with that had come the package of pain, parting, hope, rejection, renewal and death. In comparison to the emotions experienced during those years of chaste hopeless hopefulness with Ruth he knew his feelings for Jane were different – so what did he feel, and was whatever he felt, whatever that was, even vaguely reciprocated? Harry wasn't adept at fooling himself; he freely acknowledged that setting aside a quarter century of hurt and recrimination wasn't easy for either of them. Despite that, in those few short days since Jane had rocketed, almost literally, back into his life they'd achieved a level of communication that had transcended the truce he'd requested three nights ago, finally piercing the crust of their long held animosity. With Jane's reappearance had come a wholly unanticipated contact with his truculent son. Harry was now within an inch of achieving a degree of understanding with both of them, clearing away the distrust of years, only to discover that, with his usual bloody awful timing, the long desired outcome would elude him. The immediate future that beckoned for him resided not in a reconciliation with his estranged family, but inside a coffin.
With that grim realisation came another. Confronted by the prospect of endless years without Ruth, Harry hadn't really cared whether he lived or died. He'd not actively sought death but had taken no action to needlessly avoid it. On the contrary he'd been baulked on a couple of occasions from taking a leading role in a high risk operation by the officious Erin Watts, obediently following Towers solicitous orders to the letter. The sense that he was betraying everything he'd ever had with Ruth lingered, but now confronted with the actual prospect of non existence he was suddenly aware that his former indifference to living had been replaced by an acute desire to survive.
With a sigh Harry pushed himself away from the bridge parapet. The slight practically undetectable bulk in his trouser lining reminding him that, unlike the couple strolling past him arm in arm, he was not at leisure. The most he could hope for was to successfully salvage Catherine's life from the wreckage of his own, and that could only be accomplished by seeming to comply with Coaver's mocking demands. Not far now. Picking up his previous steady pace he completed his walk to the south side of the bridge from where he proceeded to make the final few strides required to reach the stepped porch entrance of the Health and Safety building.
Standing in front of the Coaver designated spot, a concrete rectangular would-be skyscraper with more floors than Harry could be bothered to count, he observed the surroundings carefully as it occurred to him that he was a standing duck from a number of angles. Warily, he declined to display obvious nerves, he cast his eyes around, noticing more than one convenient spot for a sniper to lurk. Was that Coaver's plan, to indulge in his taste for sick humour by killing Harry in front of the Health and Safety building? Possibly, but with the prevalence of CCTV the chances of escape were minimal; and so far Coaver had done his uttermost to stay under the radar. Still surveying the passersby for a sighting of the American pest he spied Batman on the opposite side of the street positioned next to a lamp post, his faced contorted into a menacing scowl at the tutting of a sourfaced woman as Cuddles, or was it Fluffy, proceeded to enthusiastically relieve themselves against it, producing enough pee in the process thereof to launch a Thames steamer. Harry didn't acknowledge his operative, given the activity the dogs were involved in he didn't really want to, but had no chance anyway as his near perfect timing was heralded by a distant clock – the Cathedral perhaps – chiming the hour. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket he dialled the now familiar number, eyes still darting to see if he could recognise Coaver Junr. He assumed that Batman, now being towed past by his canine masters, was doing likewise. Watching his mutt accompanied officer vanish into a side street Harry's main focus of concentration centred upon Coaver's smug tones oozing out of the phone.
"Good boy. I'll not talk for long as we'll be having an unfriendly chat shortly. Just walk along to Park Road, turn left and then turn again underneath the arches, only not to Paradise Road but to Clink Street, into the tunnel under the railway, straight ahead. Do note the museum name, so amusingly appropriate I'm sure you'll agree, along the street and then at the back, quick turn and you'll find a door. Go through it up the steps and guess who'll be there. Leave your phone on the bottom step. You'll not need it again, ever."
The speaker's emission of a malicious chuckle prior to the abrupt termination of the call produced in Harry the overwhelming urge, similar to the fury he'd not infrequently experienced during his conversations with Graham, to boot the little towrag's backside so hard he would achieve a liftoff that Cape Canaveral would envy. It did at least effect an improvement in Harry's opinion of his own son. In comparison with Coaver Graham's sneering seemed reasonable. At least the latter's anger was directly expressed, not snide, and crucially did not include the deliberate harming of others. That fact that Malcolm had seemingly been spot on location wise was vaguely cheering, as was the knowledge that Coaver was being taped. Harry's clothing may not be within the indicated tracking range but Malcolm would have hacked the mobile. Something the over confident Coaver had either failed to account for, or didn't really care about.
Making his way across the road, Harry followed the directions – superfluous given that his team had second guessed Coaver's approximate whereabouts - moving swiftly along the indicated route. As he left the bridge area behind the numbers of people accompanying him thinned out as they branched off towards their different destinations. Approaching the cool darkness of the short tunnel Harry was able to isolate a solitary figure skimming ahead of him, their outline silhouetted against the day light emanating from the high archway at the far end. Distance rendered the person Harry had spied indistinct but the purposeful movements and energy presupposed youth - Coaver! Possibly. Probably, if he had indeed been studying Harry from afar. Entering the sooty brick lined gloom Harry maintained his usual steady pace, pulling an involuntary grimace at the rich smell of dog shit, - Batman's pouches should feel at home here - as he picked his way through the usual detritus consisting largely of abandoned crisp packets and beer cans, interspersed with the odd dried autumn leaf that had drifted its windblown way from more sylvan surroundings. The overhead rattle of trains thundering their way into Central London drowning out the excited chatter of the tourists, whose idling pleasure seeking concerns were in stark contrast to Harry's mood as he neared his journey's end.
Emerging into the enclosed, almost claustrophobic street, last seen on Malcolm's lpad, the section immediately beyond the archway was slightly broader, accommodating the dark open maw that formed the doorway to the Museum that had so excited Coaver's spirit of sarcasm. The street, high, and shaded by the large dominating multistoried buildings seemed to be populated exclusively by rowdy trippers jostling their way towards the museum entrance. Harry gave its name board, decorated with flaring red painted letters 'The Clink Museum' a contemptuous glance. The chosen colours, presumably designed to give a teasing hint of the gruesome treats on offer within, verified in visual form through a creaking iron cage swinging above the street inhabited by a tarred manikin pastiche of an executed human being. The paying visitors might find the prospect of the vicarious thrills available inside titillating, for Harry, whose life story could have sparked a whole genre of gore coated snuff movies, it was all in a day's work, not a subject to be celebrated in a Hammer horror take on Disneyland. As he approached the cramped walkway beyond the tourist honeypot Harry briefly pondered upon the sanity of drivers, whose currently invisible presence was indicated by the existence of the double yellow lines painted alongside the narrow strip of paving. Tacking his way around a group fussing over the price of a family ticket he continued stolidly up the street, delaying only to read the stone tablet engraved with an overview of the Clink Prison's history. If the information that its final incarnation had been situated in a nearby locale called 'Deadman's Place' was intended by Chris Coaver to convey an ominous warning the joke had missed its mark as spectacularly as a lumberjack wandering into a convention of tree huggers. Harry, who required no further hints that his old friend's son was potentially as lethal as Sasha Gavrik, would willingly dispense with the tiresome juvenile humour, redolent of entertaining the boys of the sixth form. Its irritating use did have one plus point. It gave Harry a glimmer of hope with the implication that Coaver was afflicted with a self congratulatory cockiness. Misplaced conceit had been the downfall of many a personal adversary, and that, regretfully, was what his old friend's son had become.
Consideration of Coaver's state of mind occupied Harry's thoughts as he paced to the rear of this uninspiring spot. Pausing to check his position any doubts that he'd reached the correct destination were assuaged by the racket of a road drill. Calling upon the reserves of his unsung acting ability – sufficient to earn him an instant scholarship into any drama school - Harry turned a casual glance towards the source of the noise assaulting his eardrums. Not a flicker of recognition passed his features as he took in the sight of Jason, barely recognisable in overalls and wearing ear muffs, whose inexpert wielding of a drill was inflicting expensive damage to the tarmac. The sight suggesting a minor upside to dying - the sorting out of the subsequent repair budget would become Erin's headache. From the small workman's tent, a hobbit hole of white plastic stretched over a thin metal frame positioned a few yards further away, another familiar face emerged. Dimitri clasping a mug of tea: a multitasked message in liquid form. To any casual bystander an indication that the notoriously lengthy workman's tea break was about to commence; to Harry a signal that Malcolm's material was transmitting effectively. Even more importantly it conveyed to the absent, but possibly watching Coaver, an explanation for the forthcoming sounds of silence, nullifying any suspicion of trickery on Harry's part. A half open door in a dreary neglected looking building directly to Harry's left matched exactly the instructions given by the pestilent youth. As he mentally girded himself to depart from the daylight, Harry reflected that given the current circumstances the last time he'd faced death seemed, in retrospect, to have been a much more ceremonious occasion. Had he been executed then at least he'd have died overlooking London, exhaling fresh air in his final breath, not shot in a squalid sparsely furnished office overlooking a dull unimportant street.
Accustomed to playing a loan hand the knowledge that his team was nearby offered some comfort, despite which Harry knew he was on his own until circumstances dictated the safe use of intervention. Weaponless, wired with an untried technology, he was entirely dependent upon his tongue and his wits to escape unscathed. Used as he was to this situation Harry was struggling to maintain a cool head, one false move, one unwise phrase and his daughter would be dead. Taking a deep breath he pushed the door wide open, stooped down to leave his mobile as per instructions, and began to climb up the dingy staircase to greet his fate.
The Clink Museum really does exist . The events mentioned in this chapter are obviously imaginary and no defamation is intended. Any resemblance to events in the vicinity is coincidental and unlikely (I hope).
Thanks for reading and if you have a moment please review.