Omega Place Page 5

  ‘Yes.’ Markham nodded, pushing the folders across his desk. ‘Oh, there is one other thing.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Any idea why it’s called Omega Place? Odd sort of name for people like that. They normally use some tortuous acronym or other.’

  ‘No idea, sir, but I’ll have it looked into.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that.’ Markham began tidying his desk. ‘It would be interesting to know…’

  Henry Garden paced his office. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette in he couldn’t remember how long. Years. Decades, even. He’d given up, broken that particular habit, chucked it. But the one thing he wanted right now was to light up. Instead, he was wearing out carpet and chewing a nail. Another thing he thought he’d given up doing.

  What a great way to start back at work after a week’s break. God, how he wished he was back in Las Vegas. If he’d taken two weeks off – ten days even – he wouldn’t have to be dealing with this crap right now. It would be someone else’s responsibility and nothing to do with him. Until later. The trouble was, in this world there was always a later… nothing ever went away for good.

  Right there in the middle of the bloody meeting with that spook Markham was when it had happened… when the MI5 Director had taken out a folder and started briefing the Home Secretary on Omega Place. At the time, Garden had thought he was going to spit out the biscuit he was eating and had had to make out he was choking. Everyone else round the table was enquiring how Omega Place knew about the RPA programme, while what he was asking himself was how the bloody, bloody hell did they know about Omega Place?

  Because, as far as he understood, it didn’t really exist.

  He’d tried putting up a couple of smokescreens, about them possibly being foreign nationals of some sort – Arab, one of the ’Stans or whatever – but no one paid much attention. Except Markham, who’d given him a strange look, like he’d just noticed he was there and was wondering who he might be. In Garden’s experience the last thing you wanted was to be noticed by people like Markham, so he mostly kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meeting. All that he could think was that, whatever was going on, something appeared to have gone a bit pear-shaped.

  More than a bit.

  And as Nick delighted in reminding him, ‘When there’s shit to clear up, Henry Garden’s the man whose job it is to pick up the shovel!’. Or, right now, the phone. Nick would really want to know about this. The question was, what was the best way of getting in touch with him? Certainly not an office landline, or email.

  Garden looked at his watch, and then consulted his BlackBerry. This was a set of circumstances he’d hoped and prayed he’d never have to deal with – a potential collision between the office and his very private life – but he did have a ten-minute window. He would use it to take a quick walk.

  Henry Garden had been a not-very civil servant all his life, climbing up the greasy pole using a successful mixture of administrative talent (medium) and an attentive, unctuous servility (major) to get to where he was today: a divisional manager at the Home Office. For a time at school his nickname had been Grovel, which he’d hated and had worked extremely hard to eradicate, but, if put under extreme pressure, he would have to admit to its pinpoint accuracy. Children could be so damn cruel, one of many reasons he was so very glad he didn’t have any.

  As soon as he was out of sight of the office he speed-dialled Nick Harvey’s mobile number. And got voicemail. Bloody typical. The man never answered the phone, like it would be committing some huge moral crime if he was ever available. Henry knew that for a person in his position in public service (especially a person with what some might call an overfondness for games of chance) to have anything to do with a man like Nick was asking for trouble, which was why he’d gone for a walk to make the call. There was absolutely no way of knowing what or who they were listening to at work, when work was the Counter-Terrorism and Intelligence Directorate. As his dear, departed mother always used to say: better be safe than sorry.

  9

  Saturday 29th July, M6 southbound

  Paul glanced at the dashboard. They were getting pretty low on petrol, not low enough for the light to flash on the gauge, but time, in his opinion, to fill up. He’d been driving for the last couple of hours, Rob catnapping up front with him, Terri now spark out in the back of the van.

  Rob had just handed over the keys at the last major stop and said it was his turn at the wheel. Another little test, obviously. See if the new kid really could drive. Paul had taken the keys with the silent mantra ‘please, please, please don’t let me stall!’ repeating in his head like a stuck record. He’d had his licence for less than six months and the only car he’d ever properly driven was his mam’s six-year-old Fiesta, all 1.1 litres of it.

  Starting the van had been, if anything, even more nerve-wracking than getting up the pole and doing the camera. With Terri sitting right next to him, and Rob grinning his sly, tricky grin, he’d truly felt the pressure. He’d stalled, of course, but thank God not until about a mile or so after setting off, at a set of lights. Now that he’d got – he looked at the trip meter – almost 150 miles behind him, he felt much more relaxed. And he wasn’t gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifebelt any more.

  ‘Rob? You awake?’

  A grunt. Silence. Then Rob yawned. ‘Am now… wha’d’you want?’

  ‘We’ll need petrol soon. Shall I stop at the next service station?’

  Rob slid across the seat and looked at the dash. ‘Yeah, better had, man.’

  Since his successful debut back in Leeds – one camera deactivated, one point made – Paul could feel that Rob had been treating him as less of a waste of space. Whether he was totally convinced Terri was doing the right thing in bringing him with them was hard to tell. It was like being in the playground at primary school trying to work out if you were going to be accepted into the cool gang, allowed to play football in the only team that mattered. He’d hated that feeling then and he didn’t much care for it now.

  He’d half thought that, if he passed the first test, he might, having proved his point, just say adios and bugger off. After all, he’d only really put himself through it, climbed that pole and cut the cable, to show Rob he was wrong. And prove Terri had been right, of course… that had been important.

  But as soon as he’d done it, and got back down to the pavement, he’d experienced such a rush he felt like going and finding another camera to do – right there and then! They hadn’t let him, which was probably just as well as he would no doubt have screwed it up with a massive dose of over-confidence. The thing was, though, he did want to do it again. And he wanted to be a part of Omega Place; he wanted to belong to something that mattered, that was bigger than him. Being with Terri and Rob was the front line, and he didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so alive as he had high up that pole, giving two fingers to the authoritarian sods and their cameras: their evil eyes, as Terri called them.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘When d’you think Terri’s gonna tell, y’know, Orlando, that you’ve like got me in tow?’

  ‘Dunno. Ask her, man, not me.’

  ‘Why’s it up to her?’

  ‘Cos it’s not my stupid idea, man.’

  Right. Still a waste a space, then. Paul tried to shake off the negative vibe.

  ‘What d’you think he’s gonna say?’

  ‘Orlando?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘Anyone’s guess… he’ll probably ask Sky what he thinks, as that’s who you’ll be working with.’

  ‘How comes you aren’t working with Sky, if he’s the one found you?’

  ‘What’s Terri been blabbing, man?’

  ‘She’s not blabbed nothing, Rob, just said it was at Glastonbury where you met Sky, that’s all.’

  ‘And?’ Rob had turned sideways on the seat, leaning back against the window, and was looking questioningly at Paul. Hard eyes.

  ‘And nothing… just, like, said h
e’d caught you stealing. Said you were good at it, but he was better at spotting you at it.’

  Rob’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘Well, that’s true enough. Like my social worker said, if there’s one thing a Gillespie’s good at it’s nicking! Prob’ly said it was the only thing. Can’t argue with that…’

  Apart from the van and a mobile phone, Paul had also witnessed Rob lifting a couple of books and a wallet so far on their journey south. The wallet was for petrol money, Rob had said. Just the cash, as the credit cards were worthless without their chip ’n’ pin numbers, though according to Rob a fair few people kept them in their wallets, which was handy. He was a total pirate. Completely fearless, but careful, he lifted anything and everything he could lay his hands on, just because he could get away with it. Terri had said he almost never came out of a motorway service station without something, even if, like the books, he didn’t want them as he couldn’t read. And unless he was asleep, Paul had also discovered, Rob pretty much didn’t stop talking.

  ‘… still, if you’re good at something, you should work at it, right? I remember them saying that at school, when I could be bothered to go.’

  ‘Bothered?’ Paul frowned. ‘Didn’t your mam make you?’

  ‘Her? They took us away from me mam when I was five or so, put me in care and tried to get people to take us for the next ten years. I think I had more foster parents on my file than bloody social workers. And I had a fair few of those, man.’

  ‘Where was your dad all this time?’

  Rob shrugged, letting loose a small, humourless laugh. ‘Me dad was the Invisible Man, Pauly. I never saw him. Never once, that I can remember. And me mam was a bit of an alky, couldn’t cope with the four of us. I took off when I was, like, you know, mebbe twenty… left Carlisle and I’ve not been back since.’

  Paul didn’t know what to say. However shitty he’d thought his own life had been since his parents split, it paled into insignificance beside the crap Rob had had to deal with. He felt kind of embarrassed – even if Rob was a liar and only half the story was true – for even thinking he’d had a hard time.

  ‘Why’d you get out, man?’ Rob opened the glove compartment and took a Twix from the stash. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He thought about why he’d left home. His nice, comfortable house with a mam who would do anything for him… and a stepfather he didn’t get on with. Didn’t sound like such a bad place to be. Paul glanced at Rob as he took one of the bars out, broke it in half and put the lot in his mouth; no wonder he had spots, and such shitty teeth. Unlike his, what with his mam being paranoid about taking him to the bloody dentist it seemed like all the time.

  ‘So, Pauly, what’s your story, morning glory?’

  ‘Me? I’d had it with me stepdad, basically…’

  ‘He take his belt to you?’

  Paul shook his head. No, Rob, he thought, he tried to make me like him with too many expensive gifts and never laid a finger on me; he just wasn’t me real dad, and he never will be.

  Down the road Paul saw the bright lights of a sign for a service station.

  ‘I’ll stop at this next place, shall I?’

  Rob had closed his eyes, catnapping again. ‘Why not, man. One’s as good as another… what is it?’

  ‘Howd’you mean, what is it?’

  ‘You know, like what kind of petrol?’

  ‘Dunno, why?’

  Rob sat up and grinned, rummaging in the pocket of his hoodie. ‘Hope it’s a Texaco, man! There was a voucher in that wallet I got, five quid or something… we’ll get some more sweets, right?’

  * * *

  They’d finally made the outskirts of Birmingham. Over halfway to London. Paul sat behind the wheel of the van, watching Rob walk away down the street with Terri. This gig, she’d said, didn’t need more than the regulation two people. And anyway, he’d done most of the driving, he could take a rest.

  They’d trawled the city, looking for a good target, and then parked up in a place that was low traffic and well off-camera. There was no way they could get in or out of the city centre without being tracked – something, Terri said, that was true of most towns and cities. But what they needed was somewhere they could leave the van where they wouldn’t be caught on film and connected with it, even if it was going to be ditched for something else before they got back to London. Change transport like you change your socks. Another of Orlando’s rules, apparently.

  So here he was, sat on his own in a deserted, badly-lit side street in some place called Erdington. Him, a mobile and more chocolate bars than his local corner shop. Bored. Nothing to do. And he’d been told to stay put, that he’d get a call that they were on their way back from doing the job and he should be ready to pick them up.

  Lying across the front bench seat – the most comfortable place in the van, even though he couldn’t fully stretch out – Paul wondered whether this was another of their tests. To see if he’d follow orders. More than likely it was, so he wasn’t going to go anywhere. And he was tired, aching from sitting on his arse for hours, so maybe a kip wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He made sure the volume on the mobile was up high, the vibrate turned on, and pulled his hood round his head. If his friend Dave could see him now, he thought as he closed his eyes.

  He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, and for a moment couldn’t work out why he’d woken up. The mobile wasn’t ringing… and then he heard voices. Two people… but it wasn’t Terri and Rob. It sounded like the people were whispering and he wondered why. Did whoever it was know he was in the van?

  And then the thought didn’t so much occur to him as land with a thud in his head as he stared at the roof. Police.

  Had they spotted that the van and its plates weren’t a match? And if they were the police, what was he supposed to do now? What was Orlando’s rule for this situation? Make a run for it?

  Paul lay still, hardly breathing, straining to hear what was going on outside on the street. As he waited, right near the passenger side of the van, where his head was, someone spoke.

  ‘Reckon it’s alarmed, Stewie?’

  ‘Reckon not. Ain’t that flash, is it? Try the bleedin’ door and see, eh?’

  So, not the cops… and then another thought occurred to him. Had he remembered to lock the doors? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. More than likely not, knowing him.

  ‘What d’you reckon’s in it, like?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Just askin’, no need to get your knickers in a twist, OK?’

  ‘Just try the door, OK? Then I’ll see if I can jemmy the back, see what’s in there.’

  Dominant in the confused mess of thoughts and emotions that his head was trying to sort into a coherent plan was the fact that all he had going for him was the element of surprise. Which he’d lose the moment the door was opened or he was spotted. If he didn’t do something, right now, it was going to be too late.

  Paul gave himself a short, three-two-one countdown, sat bolt upright, swinging round to face the window as he did so, and screamed, eyes wide, teeth bared. Screamed like a murderous, bloodthirsty banshee. One that was about to burst out of the van.

  The other side of the glass the shadowy figure of a skinny, skanky-looking bloke in a dark-coloured puffa jacket squealed like a girl who’d seen a mouse, and then cannoned into his friend as he leapt backwards, both of them landing on the pavement in a heap of arms and legs and swearing.

  Paul was so wired and strung out that it was only later, as he told Terri and Rob what had happened, that he was able to see the funny side of the story. Right in the middle of it, heart pounding, all he wanted to do was get away and he pushed himself over into the driving seat, fumbled the screwdriver ‘key’ into the busted ignition, revved the engine, slammed the gearstick forward and dropped the clutch.

  As the van screeched off down the street, the mobile started to ring. The mobile that was the other side of the bench seat.

  It could onl
y be Terri or Rob.

  He had to answer it. Right now.

  Paul slammed on the brakes, somehow remembering to drop the box into neutral so he didn’t stall, and leaned across to grab the phone.

  As he reached over, Paul saw in the van’s offside mirror the two would-be thieves literally fall over themselves in their efforts to run away. Looked like they reckoned he was a homicidal maniac about to reverse back to get them, he thought as he picked up the call.

  ‘Uh… yeah?’

  ‘Pauly?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Still breathless.

  ‘Where were you, man? You been out for a run?’

  ‘No… no, just forgot which pocket I’d put the phone in. Sorry.’

  ‘Safe. We’re ready. Swing by that roundabout, OK? We’ll be there in a couple of minutes, so take it nice and easy.’

  ‘No problem.’ Paul cut the call, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Right. Nice and easy. He was going to drive like a bloody granny.

  10

  Monday 31st July, Thames House

  Jane Mercer sat at her desk. As she worked through her list of Current Files she thought about what the director had told her when she’d been called to his office late on Friday, and wondered just how much of a poisoned chalice this job was going to turn out to be. Was it going to end up being a dubious privilege? You really did have to be more than a little bit paranoid to work in this place, but while it was a good idea to be unreasonably suspicious and mistrustful of the people you were investigating, was it quite so healthy to feel the same way about the people you were working with and for?

  Was she being set up for a fall? Given the job no one else wanted because it was a sod of a job, with little chance of success? Who wanted that on their record? All she could do was do her best, tough it out.

  Mercer glanced at the rest of the files that had been sent over to her by the Threat Evaluation team. She picked up one of the stack of buff-coloured folders. It was ominously stamped ‘FYEO’ in red on the cover, but with initials in the tracking box that showed it had been read by a number of other people and wasn’t really for her eyes only at all. She opened the folder and reread the Home Office document that was on top.