raise hand to say hello to man following, then make call. I guess he tell boss, OK, they get here.’
‘Are they armed?’ Tyzack asked.
‘Man following Selsey, he carrying gun for sure. Other two, I could not see. But if they trying to protect him, why not carry gun?’
‘Why not, indeed. Thank you, my dear. I really don’t know what I would do without you, even though you really are quite remarkably unattractive.’
Raifa spat on the ground, loud enough for Tyzack to hear the hawk. ‘Hey, fuck you too!’ she said, and then hung up.
In his Transit van, now circling London on the M25, Tyzack laughed. There were very few people in the world he would ever allow to be so rude to him. But there was something so relentlessly unpleasant about Raifa Ademovic that he found himself admiring her more than any other woman he knew. There was none of that cringing desire to please that oozed from so many females, not the remotest attempt at seduction, just an unbending hostility. That, thought Damon Tyzack, is my kind of woman.
81
‘Thank you, Assistant Commissioner,’ said Dame Agatha, who was both the host and chairperson of the meeting called to discuss the appropriate response to Tyzack and the potential threat he posed to the President’s life. ‘I think we can all agree that every possible precaution is being taken. Rear-Admiral Johnstone?’
Manners stepped back from the screen and his place was taken by a short, stocky man in naval uniform, his rank denoted by the thick golden band around the wrist of his dark blue uniform jacket, topped by a thinner, looped band. He stood with his feet apart, as if Dame Agatha’s office on the top floor of Thames House, an office building on the north bank of the river Thames, might at any moment be hit by a rogue wave or sudden squall.
‘I’ll be dealing with the joint Navy-RAF response to this new threat of air attack,’ he said in a calm, reassuring Scots accent. ‘Essentially, we will be stepping up the level of protection that was already in place. Eurofighter Typhoon jets from 3 (Fighter) Squadron, based at Coningsby in Lincolnshire, are ready at all times to scramble within three minutes as part of their Quick Reaction Alert capability. The original plan was thus to keep them on the ground, awaiting the order to scramble. Three Typhoons will now be patrolling the airspace above and around Bristol before, during and immediately after the President’s speech.’
A soft smile crossed his ruddy, square-jawed face. ‘We have assured the Americans that the Typhoons will be close enough to protect Mr Roberts, but not so close as to drown out his voice.’
As a gentle murmur of amusement rippled around the room, Johnstone continued, ‘We will be telling the media about the RAF presence over Bristol. We think it will make for a good wee story. It will also distract them from the Navy’s contribution. I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the Type 45 destroyer. This is the first of them, HMS Daring. She’s a very rare lassie. We originally ordered twelve Type 45s. That order was cut to six, for financial reasons. And now, in the current climate, we’ll be lucky to see three. But she’s a very splendid lassie, too, for all that.’
A picture appeared of a long, low hull topped by a series of huge triangular towers.
‘Looks like a bloody great grey Toblerone,’ mused Grantham.
‘Aye, she’s not the prettiest of craft,’ Johnstone admitted. ‘But she’s clever enough. Her radar can track more than a thousand targets at once and her missile systems are so accurate and so fast that they can detect and destroy a projectile the size of a cricket ball travelling at three times the speed of sound.’
Carver gave a low whistle. ‘So they could detect a man in freefall, then?’ he asked.
‘Och aye, no trouble.’
‘Ouch!’ Carver winced, thinking of that night above Currituck Sound.
‘Do you think Tyzack might attempt some kind of parachute jump?’ asked Manners.
‘Something like that. But it seems he’d be ill advised.’
‘Aye,’ said Johnstone with gentle relish. ‘That he would. And if he tries he’ll get a very nasty surprise.’
‘Which leaves us with Mr Tyzack himself,’ said Dame Agatha. ‘Jack, perhaps you would bring us up to date on efforts to find him?’
Carver could see Manners frown. Grantham was an MI6 man. Domestic security was not his business. That was strictly an MI5/police affair.
Grantham saw his reaction. ‘I appreciate my involvement here is unusual,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been tracking Tyzack’s movements for some time, although, while we were doing so, we were not aware of his identity.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Manners, sensing that Grantham was trying to avoid going into details, and determined not to let him off the hook.
‘Tyzack carried out a series of assassinations, the most recent of them in Oslo, the night before last. On each occasion he did so in such a way as to frame Carver for the killings. He was able to do this because he had subverted one of my officers, whom he used to pass on misleading information, designed to focus our attention, and that of local police forces, on Carver. The officer in question has, however, been apprehended and has spent the day in interrogation. Ironically, he is unaware of Tyzack’s identity. He was recruited through an intermediary and although he spoke to Tyzack, never met him.’
‘So what have you done with your officer?’ asked Dame Agatha, nothing in her voice betraying her involvement in Selsey’s capture.
‘He’s been sent home,’ said Grantham.
‘What?’ Manners gasped incredulously. ‘You just let him go?’
‘No,’ said Grantham. ‘We used him as a staked goat to catch a tiger. It’s just possible Tyzack may try to contact him. We will be monitoring all communications, and have officers outside and inside the house. If Tyzack calls, we will pin down his location. And if he goes near the property, then we aim to get him in person.’
There was a clock on the wall of the office. It gave the time as a little after nine in the evening. Carver glanced up at it, and then asked Grantham, ‘What time did you send your man home?’
‘About ninety minutes ago,’ Grantham replied.
‘And you’re sure he’s still alive?’
‘He certainly was when he arrived home.’
‘Well, I hope he still is now,’ said Carver. ‘But I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘I told you,’ said Grantham, ‘I’ve got people covering the property, inside and out.’
‘I’m sorry, didn’t you hear what I said about Tyzack?’ Carver asked, getting to his feet. He nodded towards the desk: ‘Dame Agatha, gentleman, it’s been a pleasure, but we’ve got to get going.’
He paused and looked at Grantham, who was still rooted to his chair. ‘Or don’t you want your traitor to live?’
82
There were thousands of cars all over south London that looked just like the ten-year-old Vauxhall Corsa parked across from Selsey’s house, a little way down the road. Its body was bulked up by body panels and flared arches intended to give a small, harmless car the appearance of a serious muscle machine, as if it had been given a course of fibre-glass steroids. The windows were blacked out, and the muffler had been removed from the exhaust in an attempt to give the engine an intimidating roar, over which the thumping bass of the oversized sound system could clearly be heard.
There were countless men who looked just like the one who got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet, drinking from a can of Stella. The close-cropped hair, Fred Perry shirt, faded jeans, chunky gold jewellery and extravagant tattoos weren’t exactly an original style statement.
From the bedroom window of Bill Selsey’s house, the man could clearly be seen as he finished his beer, threw it into the gutter and reached into the car for another can.
