Omega Place Page 4

  ‘Is that it?’

  Salter nodded. ‘His only mention in the annals of crime and punishment. Maybe he learnt his lesson, been a good boy since then.’

  ‘Until his dabs appear on this stuff from the squat. No other prints?’

  ‘None that were of any use.’

  ‘Wonder what he’s been up to for the last sixteen years, our Mr Baker. Did the lab get anything else off that stuff?’

  ‘Both the stickers and the orange paper can be bought in any high street stationer’s, and the printing is standard laserjet output. No distinguishing features.’ Salter tipped back his chair and rocked to and fro. ‘You think this lot are worth worrying about, then, boss?’

  ‘Upstairs are interested.’

  ‘The RPAs?’

  ‘Bull’s eye. This Omega Place lot are definitely worth looking at. Political activism and state secrets are two things that definitely don’t go well together…’

  * * *

  INTERNAL MEMO – FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

  FROM:

  Alex Markham, Dir. Int. Affairs, MI5

  TO:

  Michael Turner, PPS Home Secretary

  DATE:

  28/7/06

  REF No.:

  DF5002.40.70/1.1V

  PRIORITY:

  HIGHEST

  Re:

  Material found at a Southgate address, passed on to us by the Met.

  Michael,

  The attached material came to light during the repossession of a property by bailiffs, spotted by an eagle-eyed uniform. It came, fairly swiftly for these things, to Threat Evaluation, here at Thames House.

  My only reason for involving you in this is the mention of the RPAs, about which I think there should be a meeting.

  Please advise the Home Office response ASAP.

  Yrs

  Alex

  From the desk of Michael Turner

  Alex,

  The Home Secretary is, understandably, extremely worried by the implications contained in this so-called Manifesto 3, as well as by the actions of these people (BTW, do we have examples of Manifestos 1 and 2? If so, could we please have copies). This kind of grassroots unrest is exactly the kind of thing we don’t need at the moment.

  The mention of the RPAs is particularly unsettling, and the HS would like to meet with you and discuss how these people can be shut down forthwith, if not sooner, to quote. There has been mention of setting up a taskforce.

  My view is that we don’t want to overreact to events. We all know what can happen when perceived threats are dealt with a little too enthusiastically. That being the case, I thought you might like a ‘heads-up’ re this task-force idea, in advance of the meeting.

  I look forward to your thoughts.

  Michael

  7

  Thursday 27th July, the outskirts of Leeds

  Paul sat in the middle, between Rob, who’d taken over the driving at the last stop, and Terri. They were in a new van, having dumped the white Transit at a service station car park the night before and replaced it with a nondescript blue van.

  He had to admit that these two had their business down. Stealing the van had been done like a military operation, right down to changing the number plates. It was no more than five minutes from the time they’d parked up, after doing a quick circuit of the car park to check the place out and choose the van they wanted to take, to the moment they were back on the motorway.

  Rob had told him to stay in the Transit and wait for his signal – a sharp whistle – before coming over, walking, not running, to the new van. All he’d had to do was keep an eye out for anyone walking or driving their way; if he spotted anyone, Terri had said, he should get out of the van, opening and closing the door twice. But no one had come.

  And now here they were, approaching Leeds. The furthest south he’d ever been, in England anyway. He’d gone to Spain a few times on holiday, back in the day, before the divorce, but if they took him on to London it would be his first time there. Part of him, the scared, nervous part, couldn’t believe what he’d done. Instead of taking the first opportunity to get away from these people he’d only asked to go with them!

  But everything had happened so fast. And it was exciting, being with Terri and Rob, even if Rob was a bit of a dickhead. They were pretty out there, these two; like renegades, really, beyond the law. And why the hell not? At least they believed in something and weren’t just sitting round letting stuff happen. He was doing something as well, not stuck back at home thinking about it. Like Dave. And here he was, driving around in a stolen vehicle, about to get even more involved. He must be cracked…

  ‘You going to set me like a test or something?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rob looked across at Terri, grinning. ‘GCSE Post Climbing and Camera Smashing! Now if they’d had them at my school I might’ve passed an exam or two.’

  ‘We’re gonna have to see how fit you are,’ Terri yawned. ‘And whether you can cut it under pressure.’

  Paul, like he’d caught it from Terri, yawned too; all three of them had had a fairly uncomfortable night, sleeping in the van in a lay-by.

  ‘You never explained why you needed someone else.’

  Terri’s turn to glance over at Rob.

  ‘You never telled him, Terri?’

  ‘Told him what?’

  ‘About Jez, man.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Yet.’

  ‘Who’s Jez?’

  Terri started rolling a fag, something Paul had noticed she did when she wanted time to think. He waited for her to say something, to add another small jigsaw piece to the puzzle, because he still didn’t know very much about Omega Place. So far there were just the names. Terri Hyde, Rob Gillespie, and they’d mentioned someone called Orlando. Orlando Welles, he thought that was it, who they talked about like he was the boss. And someone called Sky, an older bloke, a Yank. And if he’d remembered right there was another girl – Izzy? – and a bloke, Tommy. But that was it, the sum total of what he knew about these people.

  ‘Jez was diamond.’ Terri pinched strands of tobacco from each end of the roll-up, carefully putting them back in the pouch and resealing it. ‘The best.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yeah, “was”. He karked it, man.’ Rob made a diving motion with his left hand. ‘He’s not the best now.’

  ‘Shut it, Rob.’

  Paul looked out of the windscreen, watching the streets and shops and cars go by. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘What? Course not. It was an accident.’ Terri lit her cigarette. ‘He was up on a roof, doing some cameras, and he got spotted. There was a chase, he made a mistake, slipped and fell. Ten, maybe fifteen metres. There was no way he could’ve survived that. And Sky watched it happen, there was nothing he could do… had to leave him there, on the pavement. Alone.’

  ‘He was dead, sis. And if it happened to me, right? If it happened to me, God forbid,’ Rob crossed himself, ‘you’d have to leave me an all. That’s the way it is. That’s what Orlando’s always said… even if you only break something, you get left.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he always says, but Orlando hardly ever goes out to do stuff, does he? He’s not going to have to deal with it like we are, is he, Rob?’

  ‘He’s the brains, isn’t he… makes the plans for us to do.’

  ‘What am I going to have to do?’

  ‘Shitting yourself, now, Pauly?’ Rob checked his mirrors and indicated that he was pulling over into the left lane. ‘Sure you want to join us? You can get out here, pick up another lift. No problem, mate.’

  Paul said nothing, chewing his lip and watching as Rob drove into a McDonald’s car park. Whatever it was they were going to ask him to have a go at, he swore to himself he was going to show the mouthy bastard behind the wheel that he could do it. He was fit enough, didn’t smoke and trained pretty much twice a week with the football team. And he wasn’t afraid of heights… didn’t think he was, anyway.

  The van pulled up with a squeal of brakes.

&
nbsp; ‘Are we eating in or out, sis?’

  ‘Out.’ Terri rolled up her window and opened the door. ‘I need to stretch my legs. Come on, Paul, we’ll go and queue. You want your usual, Rob?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Paul watched the van drive off. ‘Why does he call you “sis”? He’s not your brother, is he?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, why then?’

  ‘D’you like being called Pauly?’

  ‘No, not really. It’s what me mam calls me.’

  ‘Same thing with me, my brother always called me sis. Somehow, God knows how, he works out exactly what you don’t want to be called, calls you that all the bloody time, and then everyone else starts doing it too. It’s like a really annoying talent.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He says he’s twenty-one, but he lies about everything else, so we know that’s probably not true.’ Terri went in through the double doors, holding one open for Paul. ‘I reckon he’s your age… Sky says he’s sure he was around sixteen when he met him and that was a year or so ago.’

  ‘Where’d they meet?’

  ‘Glastonbury… Rob was nicking stuff. He’s very good at it, but Sky’s better at spotting someone doing it. What d’you want?’

  Paul took the change out of his pocket to see what he had.

  ‘I’m paying. We get expenses when we’re on the road, so save your money.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  Straight up. Paul was staring at the camera Terri and Paul had chosen for him to put out of action. It was right at the top of a six-metre-high pole – too far away, apparently, to use their high-powered, super-soaker water pistol, converted to fire emulsion paint, and way too far from any easily accessible buildings to drop bricks from. He was going to have to climb. Not right to the top, just as far as the cable. The one he was going to have to cut through with a pair of heavy-duty, insulated clippers. Still and all, high enough.

  Once the camera had been located Rob had driven around till he’d found what he was looking for: some out-of-the-way place where nobody would disturb them for an hour or so. Which was how Paul had got his first and only lesson in pole climbing before he had to do it for real.

  And now, here he was. About to do it. For real.

  Jee-zus.

  ‘OK, Pauly…’ Rob looked at his watch, then up and down the empty street. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Terri nodded, a half-smile on her lips. ‘The first couple of metres’ll be a doddle cos they’ve put that anti-sticker paint on. Great for grip.’

  Standing in the shadows of a doorway on the opposite side of the street to the camera, Paul hefted the leather harness Rob had taught him how to use and felt his stomach knot as he broke out into a nervous sweat. He could do this. He could do this…

  Leaving the safety of the deep shadows, Paul loped across the road, the cutters, swinging on a nylon lanyard, thumping on his chest like an extra heartbeat. It was three in the morning. He was about to climb up a post and cut the cable to a CCTV camera. He must need his bloody head examining, he really must. He stopped in front of the post and, like Rob had showed him, stepped into the harness, swung the belt part around the pole and did it up.

  Too loose…

  As the seconds ticked by, the blood singing in his ears, sweat running down his face, he undid the straps and pulled them tighter. Not too tight. He tested the belt.

  Fine.

  HERE WE GO!

  He hitched the belt upwards, leaned back, using his own weight to create tension, then climbed up. Jerking himself forward, Paul swung the belt up again and climbed some more – step and repeat, step and repeat. And don’t look down. He looked up instead and saw the cable that was his ultimate target snaking in a loop down from the camera, which was pointing at a crossroads to his left. He only had a couple of metres to go. Easy.

  And then his foot slipped.

  He hadn’t been paying attention. Hadn’t noticed that he was on smooth metal now, not the rougher surface he’d started climbing on. He fell, in that way you do when you’re almost asleep, but not quite, and your whole body jerks. Only an inch or so, but the shock almost froze the sweat on him.

  He tried to steady himself, and then he so nearly made the classic error Rob had warned him about – grabbing for the pole instead of pushing back. What had Rob drummed into him that he had to do? Keep the triangle? That was it, he had to keep the triangle!

  The pole, the belt, him: the triangle.

  It was geometry, only it wasn’t on paper, it was hanging in the air. Paul pushed back and steadied himself. Took a deep breath and carried on upwards. The only way to go.

  Then the cable was there, right in front of him. He could stop. Stop climbing, anyway. He was about to get the clippers and get the job done when he heard the whistle. Terri’s warning sign. It meant that either there was a car or a person approaching and he was to do nothing, stay where he was. If he’d been nearer the ground he was supposed to get down as fast as possible and just stand by the post. This high up it was best, Rob had said, to do nothing. People rarely looked up, he’d said.

  Well, he’d soon find out if that was true.

  It was a car. He could hear it now. Terri must’ve spotted its headlights. Paul risked a glance down and saw it come round the corner quite slowly and for seconds he was sure whoever was in the car was going to look straight up at him. Instead the driver simply accelerated and drove on, and he realised he’d been holding his breath – like anyone could hear him from where he was. Wiping his hand on his jeans, Paul fumbled for the cutters’ thick, rubberised grips. Do it quick, Rob had said, and don’t touch the cable once it’s cut. One of the wires was the power supply.

  Reaching over, Paul positioned the curved blades, counted to three and did the deed. To his surprise the cutter sliced through the cable far more easily than he’d expected, the wires falling apart and one of them coming dangerously close to his face. Letting the cutter swing, he grinned to himself. He’d done it!

  All he had to do now was get back down.

  8

  Friday 28th July, Thames House

  Jane Mercer had a feeling in the pit of her stomach about this meeting. Under normal circumstances, if it was just a simple briefing, it would be done by someone other than the director. Ergo these weren’t normal circumstances, neither was it just a simple briefing, but she couldn’t see why. Whatever the reasons, this looked as if it could be a real opportunity for her – why else would a Deputy Section Manager have been given the file?

  As she turned right out of the lift and went through the doors into the director’s outer office she wondered why, if someone was going to leak classified information, they hadn’t leaked it to an organisation people might listen to. You could probably count the number of readers of Manifesto 3 on the fingers of one hand.

  Markham’s PA looked up as Mercer came in and nodded slightly. ‘He’s waiting for you, Jane.’

  ‘OK…’ Mercer nodded back, giving the door a light knock, waiting for a second and then going in.

  ‘Ah, Jane, thanks for coming.’ Alex Markham, Director of Internal Affairs, indicated that she should sit down. ‘I’ve just come back from a meeting with the Home Secretary.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Main topic of conversation…’ Markham picked up a folder from his desk and set it down again. ‘The report on this Omega Place. It’s rung alarm bells, at least it has in the Home Office, with the Counter-Terrorism and Intelligence mob, at least.’

  ‘It’s the mention of the remotely piloted aircraft, isn’t it?’

  ‘Correct. Have you got anything else to tell me about who we may be dealing with?’

  Mercer shook her head. ‘We’ve come up with nothing, really. Just that name, James Baker, whom we’re assuming’s involved because we found his prints on one of the stickers.’

  ‘Do we know any more about him?’

  ‘No, just that he was arrested du
ring the poll-tax riots back in 1990, but we can find no record of him since then. It’s like he doesn’t exist any more… no income tax, no National Insurance, nothing on the radar at all.’

  ‘Odd…’

  ‘We could do deep background on him, if you want.’

  ‘You think there’s a problem, that there’s something there to find?’

  Mercer shook her head. ‘Not really, sir. He’s probably a small-time activist of some sort.’

  ‘A bloody well-connected activist. The RPA programme is anything but public knowledge and the powers that be would very much like it to stay that way.’ Markham sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. ‘There were some seriously overactive imaginations at work this afternoon, I can tell you. One of them, some Counter-Terrorist suit… Henry Garden, I think it was… he was pointing the finger at everyone from radical Islamists to eastern European terror groups.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I do not exaggerate, believe me.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do? The barrel’s pretty much scraped and empty at this point. Threat evaluated.’

  ‘Understood, Mercer, absolutely understood.’ Markham leaned forward and flicked open a second folder on the desk in front of him. ‘But they want us to set up a special taskforce to close these people down, whoever they are, for good. I’ve decided to put you in charge.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Find them and shut them down – and the leak… find out where it’s coming from, will you? I’ve made arrangements for you to have another office and extra staff.’ Markham closed the folders and checked his watch. ‘I want you to hit the ground running with this on Monday.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Mercer got up. ‘Will that be all, sir?’