First and Only Page 14

  ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ insisted Psimon.

  ‘Just want to make sure you’re not going to be strung up by some sadistic poltergeist while I’m gone.’

  ‘The latest victim is dead,’ said Psimon, his tone in sober contrast to Steve’s attempt at gallows humour. ‘He will be hunting again now…’

  ‘I’ll get my clothes,’ said Steve awkwardly.

  He went into the hall, turned left towards the stairs, and nearly fell over three black plastic bin-bags, each one stuffed full of paper. Steve could see bits of twisted masking tape poking out of the tie-handle tops. He glanced back in the direction of the spare room where he had discovered the bizarre planning wall. It would seem that Psimon had had a busy morning.

  A shower, a shave, another cup of coffee and Steve felt pretty good. He picked up his jacket from the back of the couch and checked his phone for messages, nothing from Christine. Steve’s good mood evaporated.

  ‘So where’s the nearest café?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought we’d head into town,’ replied Psimon. ‘There’s a place I know by the canal. And…’ he added, holding out a fat brown envelope to Steve. ‘I thought you could deposit this on the way.’

  Steve frowned.

  ‘Job’s not over yet,’ he said.

  ‘Just want to make sure you get paid,’ said Psimon. ‘I might be a little distracted later.’

  Still Steve hesitated.

  ‘Your bank’s only half a mile from the restaurant and they’re open Saturday mornings…’

  Steve could see that this was important to Psimon but it felt a bit too much like tying up loose ends to him; setting one’s estate in order.

  ‘Lunch is on me then,’ said Steve, taking the envelope and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Steve folded over his last piece of pizza and mopped up the sweet chilli sauce from his plate.

  ‘That,’ he said with his mouth still full, ‘was the best pizza I’ve ever had.’

  Psimon smiled at Steve’s indulgence. His own meal had been barely touched.

  Both men reached for their water.

  ‘So, what’s so special about this place?’ asked Steve as he sat back from the table.

  Albert’s Shed was a popular restaurant. It was converted from a large brick tool shed and took its name from the old builder who used to keep his tools there. It sat at a junction on the canal, part of the recent regeneration of the heart of Manchester.

  ‘Well, the food’s excellent,’ said Psimon. ‘And I like the view out of these big windows.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Steve.

  He knew now that Psimon did precious little without careful planning and, more often than not, an ulterior motive.

  ‘Why this place in particular?’

  ‘Like I said,’ said Psimon. ‘It’s good food, it’s close to your bank…’

  ‘And…’ pressed Steve.

  ‘And it’s handy for our meeting.’

  ‘What meeting?’ asked Steve. He should have known that this pleasant lunch was too good to last.

  ‘Our meeting with the British and American governments,’ said Psimon calmly.

  Steve suddenly found himself wishing that he had not eaten so much pizza.

  ‘They’re not coming,’ said Steve for about the fifth time in two minutes.

  They were outside the restaurant now, loitering on the cobbled forecourt. Psimon sat on the edge of a raised brick flowerbed while Steve paced back and forth in front of him, his eyes scanning the small approach road for any sign of the country’s top brass.

  Psimon watched him, wishing he would just sit down and wait.

  ‘What do they want with you?’ asked Steve. ‘How do they know you’re here?’

  He stopped suddenly and looked at Psimon.

  ‘Last night,’ he said. ‘That car outside your flat.’ He raised an accusing finger. ‘They were casing your flat… watching for your return. Did you know you were under surveillance?’

  Steve had resumed his pacing but Psimon was no longer watching. It was time for him to concentrate. He cast his thoughts back over the last forty-eight hours to two encounters in airport departure lounges and two men briefly met...

  Commander Douglas Scott

  and

  Captain Philip Kern

  He pictured their faces, remembered how it felt to stand in their presence, and opened his mind…

  *

  Psimon could still see Steve, he was still aware of his surroundings but his mind was focussed on a different location, on two different locations to be precise… dark, confined, and filled with strange noises like those one might hear in the womb. He could hear voices around him; voices speaking in clear, efficient tones. He heard the answers made, the orders given.

  He was there and present.

  Psimon allowed his mind to explore these alien environs, just enough to reassure himself that the details he had worked so hard to procure were accurate and accessible. They were. Complex systems, exactly as the blueprints had depicted but in the end they were just switches and valves; electrical switches… mechanical valves; sensitive dials, circled in red.

  It was time to act.

  No one would be killed; no one would be hurt. There would be confusion; there would be fear. But no one would be hurt.

  It was time to act.

  Psimon flicked the switches, opened the valves and saw the dials swing into the red.

  There was confusion. There was fear.

  And Psimon withdrew.

  *

  ‘I said, they’re not coming,’ repeated Steve, bending forwards and raising his voice as if Psimon were hard of hearing. ‘The UK Government is not interested in some spoon bender from Altrincham. You’d be better off speaking to the producers of daytime telly. Least that way you could make some decent money.’

  Psimon looked up at Steve and the expression in his eyes made the former SAS man feel sick.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘What I had to,’ said Psimon.

  Steve stepped back from Psimon as if he did not recognise him. For the first time since meeting him he felt like leaving. He felt like running. Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw them coming. Three dark, unmarked cars, driving with unmistakable purpose.

  Steve felt cornered, trapped.

  As the cars surrounded the restaurant’s forecourt Steve cast an accusing glance at Psimon who looked back at him with an expression of guilt, sympathy and unflinching determination.

  Several men stepped out of the cars. They had a hard, no nonsense look about them.

  ‘Special Branch,’ thought Steve. ‘Christ, what kind of shit have I got myself into?’

  One of the henchmen approached Psimon and Steve.

  ‘This way gentlemen,’ he said in a tone that might have seemed polite had it not been so menacing.

  Psimon got up from the wall and walked towards the middle car. With a heavy sigh Steve started to follow him but the henchman blocked his path.

  ‘The other car, Mr Brennus. If you please,’ he said nodding towards the car at the rear of the convoy.

  Steve groaned out another sigh. He recognised the procedure. Divide and conquer, separate the subjects, question them in isolation, play them off against each other, do not allow them the opportunity to corroborate their stories.

  Ruing the fact of ever having met Psimon Steve made his way to the rear car. Another henchman held the door open for him and Steve glanced up towards the middle car where Psimon was being similarly apprehended. Steve saw Psimon nod his thanks to the henchman but before he disappeared inside the car he cast a look back at Steve.

  Steve gave a soft snort of surprise and found his despairing mood somewhat lifted. There was a fire burning in Psimon’s stone grey eyes, and something close to a smile on his face, and Steve found himself feeling suddenly sorry for the people taking them into custody, the people who would
soon be interrogating Psimon.

  ‘They haven’t a clue of what they’re up against,’ he thought. ‘Not a fucking clue.’

  Chapter 21

  Richard Chatham had only been to Manchester twice before, both times as a visiting student from King’s College Cambridge. The city had changed a good deal since then. It was busier for a start. It had taken them almost as long to get from the airport to the city centre as it had for them to fly from London.

  Chatham was still reeling from the speed with which the morning’s events had unfolded. After speaking to Psimon he had put down one phone only to pick up another immediately afterwards.

  ‘I think you have another call coming through…’ Psimon had said.

  Chatham knew it would not be good news even before he recognised the voice of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  ‘Chatham?’ the Chancellor had demanded. ‘Richard Chatham?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Chatham had replied. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you know someone by the name of Psimon?’

  Chatham had closed his eyes, let out a long heavy sigh, and his feet had barely touched the ground since.

  Now he looked out of the tinted window as the car drove past the neo-classical façade of Bootle Street Police Station; a large three-storey, redbrick building in the heart of Manchester. The car turned onto Bootle Street where a high archway allowed cars through to the internal courtyard at the centre of the building.

  Chatham felt an oppressive sense of finality as the car passed under the imposing arch and he wondered just how many criminals had been driven in the same way, seeing their liberty come to an end as the building closed around them.

  Beside him in the back of the car the Chancellor of the Exchequer was speaking quietly into his mobile phone. Indeed he had hardly been off it since he had picked Chatham up from his office earlier that morning… the Prime Minister, who was on a state visit to the US, the Governor of the Bank of England, the Attorney General, to get provisional authorisation for Mr Brennus’ Immunity. Then it was the Foreign Secretary and the Chief of the Defence Staff, Admiral Joseph Grant, who was currently hosting his American counterpart, Vice Admiral Edwin T. Fallon.

  ‘We’ve just arrived,’ said the Chancellor, speaking once more to the Foreign Secretary. ‘Yes, they’re already in custody,’ he added after a pause.

  Chatham glanced across discreetly, trying to keep the regret and contempt from his face. It seemed that in the space of just a few hours Psimon had gone from intriguing goldmine of useful information to public enemy number one and threat to the world’s economy.

  ‘That’s right,’ the Chancellor went on. ‘It’s not just the markets. There are defence implications too. The PM wants the military involved.’

  The Chancellor paused, listening…

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just the Americans for now. Fallon will be speaking for the White House. Admiral Grant is bringing him down from Glasgow. It seems the FBI had already flagged this guy as a possible risk to national security.’

  A frown of disapproval creased Chatham’s brow. They knew next to nothing about Psimon and yet they were already prepared to cast him in the worst possible light.

  The car came to a halt and Chatham took hold of his briefcase as a police officer came to escort them into the building where they were met by Chief Constable David McCormack, the commanding officer of Greater Manchester Police.

  ‘Chancellor,’ the Chief Constable said by way of a greeting. ‘Mr Chatham.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked the Chancellor as the Chief Constable led them through to an empty office.

  Chatham noticed the eyes of the people watching them as they passed. It was clearly no secret that something unusual was going on.

  ‘We’ve got him in one of our secure interview rooms,’ said the Chief Constable closing the door.

  ‘And his accomplice?’

  ‘Likewise,’ said the Chief Constable.

  ‘Accomplice… oh please!’ thought Chatham with distaste.

  Both Chatham and the Chancellor refused the offer of tea or coffee, and neither felt inclined to take a seat when it was offered.

  ‘Forgive me Chancellor,’ the Chief Constable began. ‘But what exactly are we looking at here? My briefing was somewhat lacking in detail. Just what is it this guy is supposed to have done?’

  The Chancellor seemed momentarily at a loss.

  ‘Mr Chatham,’ he said.

  Chatham was put on the spot. He felt himself flush with indignation.

  ‘Well,’ he began. ‘He breached MI5 security and compromised a diplomatic clean line... He is in possession of passwords to highly sensitive information,’ he added, struggling to think of anything specific that Psimon had done wrong. Breaching security and obtaining passwords were not crimes in themselves. True, a crime might have been committed in achieving these things but as yet they had no evidence of such.

  The Chancellor seemed unsatisfied with Chatham’s summary of Psimon’s misdemeanours.

  ‘With the help of his accomplice, Mr Brennus,’ he cut in, ‘he evaded federal authorities in America, who wanted to detain him for questioning. ‘And,’ the Chancellor added with a stern glance in Mr Chatham’s direction. ‘He is suspected of manipulating stock market figures, which could have unimaginable consequences for the international trading community.’

  ‘So what is he?’ asked the Chief Constable. ‘A hacker… some kind of computer whiz kid.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Chatham.

  ‘It’s not computers,’ said the Chancellor reflectively. ‘No system for predicting figures could be that accurate. It’s impossible.’

  The Chancellor sounded like a man whose faith; whose entire worldview had been undermined. Chatham knew exactly how he felt.

  There was a sudden knock on the door.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted the Chief Constable.

  A young officer poked his head round the door.

  ‘Excuse me sir,’ he said. ‘There are some men in navy uniform to see you.’

  ‘Well don’t just stand there,’ snapped the Chief Constable. ‘Show them in.’

  The secure interview room was grey and windowless. One of the Special Branch henchmen stood near the door, unmoving, unsmiling. The plastic cup of coffee on the table in front of Steve was cold and untouched. He watched the greyish brown surface ripple with minute concentric rings as heavy traffic rumbled past the building; the only evidence that the world outside existed.

  Steve tried to marshal his thoughts. He had no idea what Psimon had done, no idea why Special Branch would be interested in him at all. But whatever it was, Steve was now caught up in it. He had trusted Psimon from the beginning, even when he had no reason to do so. It was a gut feeling and Steve trusted his instincts but now, after what must be an hour of sitting in this room, he was beginning to have his doubts. Psimon had not told him everything; that was clear. And now Steve was paying the price for his trust.

  He was not worried about the questioning. His SAS training had prepared him for far worse than this. Besides, he had done nothing wrong. Okay, he had beaten up a couple of American lowlifes and failed to return a rental car to the depot. But one was self-defence and the other was hardly the crime of the century.

  No, the thoughts that bedevilled his mind were closer to home.

  All Steve could think about was his wife and his little girl. Being apart from them, even for a few short days, had been a torment in itself, not to mention the guilt and regret he felt over what had happened. The practical, financial problems that had befallen them were of nothing compared to that. All right, so they were bankrupt and homeless. But they would get through this, rebuild their lives.

  ‘Two more days,’ thought Steve bitterly.

  Two more days and this job was over. Steve could forget about Psimon and all this psychic nonsense. Two more days and he could go back to his family; phone call from Christine or not. A few days in the sin bin was the least that he deserved but
what he had done had not been deliberate. It was a foolish outburst, understandable in the heat of the moment. Surely Christine would be able to see that. And surely Sally would be able to forgive him… to trust him again… in time, surely…

  Steve’s eyes pricked with tears. He raised a hand to brush them away. He wished they would come for him and get this started. He wished the questions would begin. He wished he had never met Psimon.

  *

  Chatham felt strangely nervous. Not about being in the company of such powerful men. He dealt with people of power on a daily basis. No, Chatham felt nervous for an altogether different reason.

  He was about to meet Psimon.

  A wave of furtive looks followed the procession of dour-looking men as they made their way through the police station. First came the Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police, followed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, two admirals in full navy uniform, each with a uniformed aid in tow, and finally Mr Richard Chatham of MI5, International Liaison for National Security. In their wake they left a murmur of excited whispers as people speculated on who the mysterious detainees might be. The group descended the steps to the secure interview rooms. They passed one door with an officer standing outside and moved on to the door at the far end of the corridor.

  At a nod from the Chief Constable the officer standing guard produced a key and unlocked the door. The procession moved inside. The door was closed and locked from the outside.

  Psimon looked up as they entered the room.

  In the centre of the room was a large table. Psimon was seated on the far side, while on the near side there were chairs for the five prominent men. The two naval aids went to stand discreetly against the wall behind their respective admirals. Four of the men moved to take their seats but Chatham remained standing as Psimon rose suddenly from his chair and walked round the table to meet him.

  The Special Branch henchman moved to intercept Psimon but he was too far away and had not been expecting the suspect to move.

  ‘Mr Chatham,’ said Psimon, smiling warmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘And you, Psimon,’ said Chatham, smiling in turn despite the disapproving glares from the other men at the table.