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  ‘You’ve done it then?’ asked the young man.

  ‘Yes, Stokes,’ said Chatham. ‘You can tell upstairs to stand down.’

  Stokes lingered in the doorway. ‘Your wife phoned again...’ he said. ‘She wants to know if you plan on joining her for the rest of your holiday.’

  Chatham rolled his eyes but his face took on a guilty flush as his eyes flicked down to his desk and the small black and white photograph of his wife.

  ‘Well you did stand her up at lunchtime,’ said Stokes.

  ‘There was an accident,’ said Chatham, fixing his aide with a disapproving eye.

  ‘I know, said Stokes. ‘She was just upset that you didn’t call...’

  ‘I...’

  ‘Lost your mobile phone... I know,’ said Stokes. ‘I told her...’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said that was ‘convenient’.’

  Chatham sighed. He could not blame his wife for being annoyed. It had been eighteen months since they he had last taken a holiday and this one had been murder to arrange. With annoyance he waved Stokes out. ‘Just tell them upstairs,’ he said.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Stokes and with that he left the room.

  Chatham took an exhausted breath. He was just reaching out to call his wife when a phone began to ring. And not just any phone but the phone.

  He paused. Maybe he had heard wrong. Maybe it was just his desk phone that was ringing. The phone rang again and now there was no mistaking its distinctive tone. Chatham turned to look at the old-fashioned phone that sat on the bureau in the corner of his office. In the seven years he had held this post that phone had rung only five times and none of them was an occasion he was eager to recall. He stared at the large black phone as if it were a Pandora’s Box he feared to open but the prospect of ignoring it was not an option. Only a handful of people in the world were cleared to use that line and ignoring any one of them was absolutely unthinkable.

  The phone rang a third time but still he hesitated. His wife would never forgive him if he ruined the rest of their holiday. Almost without thinking he got up from his desk, and went to stand over the bureau.

  The phone rang a fourth time.

  Four times was tardy; five would be downright rude, and if the phone was left to ring six times Chatham would be getting a call from his superiors. There was no doubt about it… this call was going to screw up his week but Richard Chatham could not abide rudeness. He picked up the phone. ‘Blenheim Suite, Chatham speaking,’ he said, following the accepted protocol.

  ‘My apologies for ruining your holiday, Mr Chatham.’

  In an instant Chatham went from professional resignation to icy alertness. That was not a conventional reply and the voice was not one that he recognised. The accent was English but not the Prime Minister’s Eton English; this was more northerly, Manchester maybe…

  ‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘This is not the time for introductions, Mr Chatham. I just need you to listen.’

  The voice was self-assured but despite that there was a distinct note of weariness to it.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ Chatham was playing for time, trying to collect his thoughts. He was still reeling from the fact that an unauthorised individual had managed to get access to this line. Stepping away from the bureau he reached across his desk and began to stab at the red button on the base of his normal desk phone.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Chatham. I’m not in a position to answer your questions at the moment. But I do need your attention.’

  Chatham waited impatiently for Stokes to answer the buzzer. At the same time he tried to glean as much detail about the caller as possible.

  He was male… young… early-twenties…

  The door to Chatham’s office opened and Stokes poked his head into the room. ‘Sir?’ The frantic beeping of the intercom had effectively communicated the urgency of the summons.

  Chatham made a rapid circling motion with his finger and pointed to the handset held to his ear. He also mouthed the words, ‘Trace this call!’

  Stokes looked down at the phone on Chatham’s desk. He seemed puzzled by the fact that the handset was still in place. Chatham covered the mouthpiece of the phone he was holding. ‘Not that one you idiot... This one!’ He pointed to the phone sitting on the bureau.

  Stokes looked at the old-fashioned phone and comprehension finally dawned. He disappeared rapidly from the doorway and Chatham returned his full attention to the caller on the line.

  ‘Are you still there, Mr Chatham?’ said the caller as if he had been waiting for Chatham to finish.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. Now who the hell is this? This is a restricted…’

  ‘Please, Mr Chatham. I do not have time to explain. Now, do you have a pen and paper?’

  Needled at being cut off like that Chatham grabbed a pencil from a rosewood desk-tidy and flipped open his leather-bound diary. He glanced anxiously at the door to his office, wondering how Stokes was coming along with the trace. It would not be an easy task. This was a clean line… no computer screening, no automatic recording, no network and exchange software. The people who used this phone had to know that their words were treated with the utmost confidentiality.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Chatham trying to sound calm when in truth he was deeply unsettled by this breach of security. If someone had managed to get hold of this number then he wondered what other sensitive information they might have access to. He was about to find out.

  ‘Please write down the following letters and numbers as I call them out,’ the caller directed.

  Chatham’s pencil hovered over the page. ‘What kind of perverse game is this?’

  ‘T…’ the voice said.

  Chatham wrote a capital T at the top of the page.

  ‘H… E… R…M… O… P…Y… L… A… E…’

  A chill ran down Chatham’s spine as he recognised the first part of his password for accessing the classified files of the Blenheim Suite. As a student of history Chatham had combined two famous battles to make up his password. The first was the battle of Thermopylae from the Greaco-Persian Wars, the second was the battle of Crècy which took place on the 26th of August 1346.

  ‘1… 3… 4… 6…’ the voice on the line continued.

  Thermopylae1346… Chatham’s password to information that could undermine the United Kingdom’s relations with half the countries in the developed world.

  Chatham felt sick.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked in a voice that was all but robbed of breath.

  ‘As I indicated, Mr Chatham. I am not going to tell you my name at this time. I apologise for the secrecy but for the moment it is necessary. I have contacted you because I believe I can trust you. I hope in time you will learn to trust me but for now I just need you to write down the names of the following people.’

  Chatham’s brain was buzzing with so many thoughts that he barely registered what the caller had just said.

  ‘Mr Chatham?’

  ‘Yes…’ said Chatham. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’ Chatham’s mind raced as he began to write. ‘Who is this? What do they want?’

  ‘First of all, there’s Greater Manchester’s Chief Coroner, Sir Daniel Coombs.’

  ‘Has somebody died?’ asked Chatham.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Chatham. Now please, just note down the names.’

  Chatham bridled at being spoken to like this but he wrote the name down all the same.

  ‘Then there’s the German psychiatrist… Heinrich Döllinger.’

  ‘How did he get this number?’ thought Chatham. ‘And how the hell does he know my password?’

  ‘Yale’s Professor of Neurology… Harvey Osler,’ the caller added.

  The list ran to seventeen names and included scientists, doctors, military personnel and even religious leaders from at least thirteen different countries. Scanning the list Chatham wondered what they could possibly have in common and what the caller wanted him to do with the list.

 
; ‘Do you have them noted down?’ the caller asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Chatham. ‘But I don’t see how they concern me. I deal in the political arena.’

  ‘Oh, you’re too modest, Mr Chatham,’ the caller chided. ‘You deal in far more than that.’

  Chatham remained silent. True, his remit was largely political but the methods he used to achieve his ends had more in common with a spymaster from the era of the Cold War. But Chatham was not a high profile member of the security services. He worked behind the scenes, the oil between the cogs of power. If Chatham was doing his job properly then he should not be noticed at all. ‘That’s as maybe,’ he said. ‘But what is it you want from me? Why this list of people? Do you have information? Something that could help the British government?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’ said Chatham with growing exasperation. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to send them an invitation.’

  ‘An invitation to what?’

  ‘I’m afraid that will have to wait for another time.’

  ‘What do you mean, another time?’ said Chatham, sensing that the caller was bringing their conversation to a close.

  ‘We will speak again, Mr Chatham,’ the caller said in a tone of certainty that Chatham found far from reassuring. ‘For now, I think your colleague has some information for you.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Chatham as Stokes reappeared in the doorway.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Chatham. And once again I am sorry for ruining your holiday.’

  The caller hung up and the buzz of the disconnected line was like the bewildered buzzing of Chatham’s mind. ‘What the hell had just happened? What the hell was all that about?’ Slowly Chatham lowered the handset from his ear. Then he looked up at Stokes whose expression suggested that he had never seen his boss this unsettled before. ‘What have you got?’ asked Chatham in a voice that made his young aide shrink behind the door.

  Stokes hesitated.

  ‘Tell me you got something,’ said Chatham. ‘The guy was on for ages, you must have got something!’

  ‘Yes, we got something,’ said Stokes. ‘But you’re not going to like it.’

  Richard Chatham leaned heavily on his broad walnut desk. It seemed that one crisis was over but the next had only just begun. Someone had done the unthinkable. They had successfully breached one of the upper tiers of MI5 security. They had undermined the integrity of the Blenheim Suite and they had ensured that he would be working every hour God sent until he had some answers. He screwed up his face in frustrated anguish and glanced at the black and white photo on his desk. Of all the questions flooding through his mind there was one that stood out more starkly than all the rest…

  How the hell was he going to tell his wife?

  Chapter 3

  Psimon’s hand shook as he lowered the mobile phone and pressed the button to end the call. He had tried to sound calm and confident while in truth he had felt sick with nerves. But that was it. That was the first call, the crucial call that set everything else in motion. Now he just had to see it through, if he could.

  Reaching across the table he picked up the padded envelope and dropped the mobile phone inside. He sealed the envelope and turned it over to check the address.

  Richard Chatham

  International Liaison for National Security

  The Blenheim Suite

  MI5

  London

  He hoped that Mr Chatham would be relieved to get his phone back but he suspected its return would only add to the sense of futility that the poor man was undoubtedly feeling. Still, he could not suppress a wicked little smile at Chatham’s bewilderment. Putting the package down he picked up a black marker and approached the far wall of his spare room which was covered by a mass of notes, newspaper cuttings and pictures, most of them concerning abductions and gruesome, unsolved murders. There were photographs of individuals alongside travel schedules, maps and obscure technical blueprints. And everything was covered with interconnecting lines and arrows. It looked like the obsessive wall of a madman.

  Psimon moved to the left-hand-side of the wall, where a small piece of paper bore the words ‘Richard Chatham MI5’. He underlined the name and gave it a self-satisfied little tick. Only one picture lay to the left of Chatham’s name and Psimon brushed the photograph of his parents lightly with his fingertips.

  With a sigh of exhaustion he stepped back from the wall. What he really needed now was sleep but he found himself hovering, his eyes drawn to a small piece of fluorescent orange paper bearing a mobile telephone number and the name ‘Steve Brennus’. This piece of paper lay at the centre of the wall with numerous lines and arrows radiating from it. Pinned to the wall beside it were a Virgin Airlines envelope and a receipt from a local florist for a bouquet of flowers and a ‘large, stuffed Nemo’.

  Psimon continued to stare at the piece of paper, his hand aching as he gripped the marker in his fist. His heart began to pound and beads of sweat stood out upon his brow. To acknowledge that piece of paper was to acknowledge the very worst of all his fears.

  ‘Not just now,’ he breathed.

  This deferment was enough and the tension went out of his body. With a deep breath he turned away from the wall. He put the marker back on the table and was about to leave the room when a sense of overwhelming fear rose up inside him. An image sprang into his mind; the image of a man standing bound and naked on the stone floor of a crudely built chapel. A dark figure loomed over him. It was the dark figure of Lucifer.

  Psimon’s face grew pale and fixed with terror then his head was snatched back as if someone had hit him in the face with something hard. With a choking cry he was sent reeling back against the wall. He raised his hands as if to fend off another blow. ‘No! Please no…’ he gasped although he was completely alone in the room. Another invisible blow smashed into the side of his knee and with an agonised grunt he fell to the floor. ‘Not again! Please…’ He cowered against the wall, his trembling hands still trying to shield his face.

  The blows had ceased and Psimon looked up as if someone were speaking to him. He began to cry, shaking his head in hopeless denial. He knew what was coming next. His eyes grew wide with horror then his body convulsed in agony as a spatter of lesions appeared on his face.

  He screamed as the burning began.

  ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Yes... I confess!’ But it was too late. Even now he could feel the shroud closing around his body. ‘No,’ he sobbed. ‘No…’ And then he spoke no more. His words were choked off and his eyes began to bulge. The muscles in his face and neck strained with desperate futility but the blackness was closing in around him, his vision shrinking down to a dark, diminishing tunnel…

  And then… as suddenly as it had materialised, it was gone; the pain was gone.

  Psimon drew a shuddering breath. His entire body shook as he glanced around the room as if trying to convince himself there was no one there. Finally he let out a tremulous sigh and leaned back against the wall. He sat for a minute or two in shock then rose unsteadily to his feet. With trembling fingers he plucked the small piece of orange paper from the wall then, stumbling across the room, he collapsed into the chair at the table beside the door. With one hand he wiped the tears from his face, with the other he reached for his small black note book. His hands shook as he turned to the page marked for today then he took out the thin pencil and crossed out the name of Dr Marcus Bryant. Beneath it he wrote, I’m sorry. He squeezed his eyes shut as a tight knot of guilt twisted inside him. Once again Lucifer had taken a life and once again he had been unable to stop him. He closed the notebook and stared at the small piece of orange paper.

  ‘No,’ he breathed. ‘I can’t do this alone.’

  Reaching inside his jacket he took out his own mobile phone then he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to compose himself. When he was ready he raised the phone and entered the number. There was no need for him to check it; he knew the number by heart.


  *

  Steve Brennus stood in the front room of his parents’ Welsh cottage, a mobile phone held to his ear. He dropped a beautifully prepared business plan on the coffee table and slumped into the armchair by the window as his accountant confirmed what he already knew.

  He was screwed.

  ‘I’m sorry Steve. But they’ve already extended the deadline twice... Unless you can come up with twelve thousand pounds by next Thursday the bank will take possession of the house.’

  Steve put a hand to his head.

  ‘I still can’t believe it’s all gone?’ said his accountant after a pause. ‘Three hundred thousand pounds is an awful lot to lose in one night.’

  Steve snorted bitterly. ‘Apparently Christine’s brother has a gift for losing money.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No. Not since she phoned from the hospital.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘They’ll want you back,’ said his accountant. ‘They just need a bit of time.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Steve.

  ‘You should call her...’

  ‘No. She’ll call me when she’s ready.’

  Another uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Listen Steve,’ began his accountant. ‘Jenny and I have got more shares. We could easily...’

  ‘No, Mike, really...’ said Steve. ‘You’ve already done more than enough.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that... Things’ll work themselves out. You’ll see.’

  Steve couldn’t bring himself to answer. ‘I have to go...’ he said

  ‘Okay. You take care of yourself. And call me if you need anything...’

  Steve ended the call and put his phone down on the coffee table. Looking through the rain-streaked window he gazed at the vast, dim shapes of the Welsh mountains. Even on a dismal evening like this they managed to look glorious, indomitable, like the Welsh spirit, his mate Paddy would have said. He glanced at a photograph on the mantelpiece, five hard-faced young men in combat fatigues, sitting together on a sand-coloured Landover. Their uniforms bore no sign of the SAS regiment in which they served but Christine had cut out a picture of the famous ‘winged dagger’ and stuck it in the corner of the frame. Steve shook his head, a nostalgic smile creeping onto his face.