Sleeping Soldiers: (Tom Marlowe Book 1), page 25
Farringdon had been reading something on his phone while they spoke, and now he looked up.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Seems that before, only MI5 wanted you. But now they’ve issued a warrant for your capture and arrest, and they seem to be framing you for the murder of some Section Chief named Harris?’
‘I’m not being framed,’ Marlowe admitted. ‘I did kill Harris. He was working with foreign agents.’
‘And this therapist you’re also being blamed for?’
‘He killed her.’
Farringdon pursed his lips as he stared at the phone.
‘This makes things difficult,’ he sighed. ‘We need to move fast. Put the clothes on in the car.’
Marlowe went to reply but stopped as he received a text. Reading it, he smiled.
‘Tessa and Marshall found the tape cartridge,’ he said. ‘They’re bringing it in, should be in Westminster in half an hour.’
He held up an image, showing Marshall, Tessa and some tied up third person, standing by a freshly dug grave, smiling and with a black plastic square box, around ten centimetres in length, in their hands.
‘That’s a DLT cartridge,’ Farringdon smiled. ‘I used to own those.’
‘You wouldn’t, by chance still have the drive, would you?’ Brad asked.
‘You know, my American friend, I think I might.’ Now all smiles, Farringdon opened a door, revealing a cupboard filled with boxes. Pulling one out, he pulled a DLT cartridge box from the various cables inside.
‘It’s definitely here somewhere,’ he said. ‘But we don’t have time.’
Deciding, he threw his apartment keys to Brad.
‘Don’t break anything,’ he said, nodding for Marlowe to follow as he walked out of the apartment.
Picking up the clothes, Marlowe looked at Brad, now holding the cartridge box.
‘If you find a drive, get it to Trix,’ he said.
And with that, Marlowe followed Farringdon out of the apartment and down to his car.
‘Hold on,’ Brad said, half to himself as realisation took hold. ‘If you’re going in the car, how the hell do I get there?’
Bridget Summers sat on the bench in Parliament Square and watched the main gate into New Palace Yard. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the people she worked with, but she knew this was the only chance to get everything done. Raymond was the planner, but at the same time he was prone to moments of fancy, the field agent who never was, and could easily screw all this up for a taste of adventure.
‘I should have gone in with him,’ she muttered.
‘Who?’ the voice of Shaw spoke in her earpiece.
‘Sykes,’ Bridget muttered. ‘I don’t trust him. Or Levin. I worked with her years ago and she was a corrupt cow even then.’
‘She’ll do what needs to be done. She’s as in this as we are,’ Shaw soothed. ‘Just let things work out.’
‘Where are you?’ Bridget looked around, as if expecting to suddenly see the MI5 agent waving from across the road.
‘Portcullis House,’ Shaw replied, and Bridget could hear the triumph in her voice. ‘And you’ll never guess who we caught trying to sneak in.’
Rising, Bridget started walking towards the corner of the park, and the buildings on the other side of the road.
‘Marlowe?’
‘Even better,’ Shaw was gloating now. ‘We got his grandma. Wintergreen.’
‘Oh, you’re right,’ Bridget smiled. ‘That’s indeed better.’
Wintergreen sat on a chair in the Portcullis House atrium, glaring at the man aiming his gun at her.
‘Did I fire you once?’ she asked. ‘You look familiar.’
‘No, but you turned me down for a promotion,’ Curtis smiled. ‘Guess I had the last laugh.’
‘Sure, if you mean “guess I killed dozens of blameless people”,’ Wintergreen shrugged. ‘So, when does your boss turn up?’
‘My boss was killed by—’
‘Not Harris,’ Wintergreen snapped, half rising. ‘I don’t mean more important puppets; I mean your actual boss.’
Curtis stared at Wintergreen for a long moment, confused.
At this, Wintergreen chuckled.
‘So, you don’t even know who your boss is,’ she said, sitting back up. ‘Christ, you think you get the last laugh. You don’t even know which country you’re selling us out to. What corporation’s paying your mortgage.’
She stood now, facing Curtis.
‘Because know this,’ she said. ‘They’d better be paying you “mortgage payment” levels of money because you’re going to need it when you find yourself hunted across the globe. And you will be hunted after what you do tonight.’
‘Lies,’ Curtis snapped. ‘You’ll say anything to convince me you’re not the traitor I know you to be. I’ve seen the list, Miss Wintergreen. I saw your name.’
‘You’ve seen a list,’ Wintergreen sighed. ‘A doctored one. The one Shaw and Harris wanted you to see.’
Curtis went to speak again, to shout, but stopped, looking away, and Wintergreen knew he was mentally replaying half a dozen conversations at once.
Christ, he really doesn’t know what’s going on, she realised.
Eventually he looked back, waving to the chair as he did so.
‘Just sit the hell down,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long now until MI5 gets here.’
‘My friend, MI5 aren’t coming,’ Wintergreen smiled, complying. ‘Shaw has her own plans.’
Sitting back against the chair, Emilia Wintergreen hoped to God this was worth it, and that Trix had got in while she played bait. Otherwise, this was all for nothing, and she was about to be caught in a radioactive blast radius for her sins.
That said, she had many sins.
The guards on duty at the southern end of the Houses of Parliament were surprised when the blue Peugeot pulled up at the gate, and Anthony Farringdon leant out with a smile.
‘Sir!’ the first one said with delight. ‘Been a while.’
‘You’re looking good, George,’ Farringdon said, patting the arm through the window. ‘The stripes suit you.’
‘What are you doing here?’ the guard, now identified as George, looked into the car. ‘With …?’
‘All hands on deck,’ Farringdon said, shrugging. ‘And I’m the only one who can remember where everything was the last time we did this. Eidetic memory, remember?’
He nodded at Marlowe, now dressed in the uniform of a doorkeeper.
‘Williams here met me at the other gate, he’ll be taking me through,’ he said calmly. ‘All I’m doing is looking over everything, getting in my car and going home.’
George considered this for a long time, and then nodded.
‘ID?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, sir, we need—’
‘No, that’s fine,’ Farringdon’s smile faded. ‘I thought loyalty meant a lot here. Looks like the moment you retire, your word’s not worth shit.’
‘Sir, I didn’t mean that—’ George looked conflicted now, looking back at the gatehouse.
‘Bring it down, they’re okay,’ he eventually said.
‘Thank you,’ Farringdon smiled. ‘You’re good people. Stay safe.’
And, the barrier now lowered into the pavement, the Peugeot drove into the Royal Court, which was mainly a car park for official vehicles.
Farringdon stared back at the guards, his face impassive, and Marlowe could see he regretted lying to them.
‘You’ve done your bit,’ Marlowe said. ‘I can do the rest from here. Give it ten minutes, then leave. And tell the guards to get the hell out.’
‘That doesn’t help the people inside,’ Farringdon was already unbuckling his seatbelt, but Marlowe placed a hand on Farringdon’s.
‘I said, I’ve got it,’ he repeated. ‘I know where to go, you’ve helped me in. Now, all I ask is you …’
He trailed off as his phone beeped.
‘Message from Trix,’ he said, reading it. ‘Wintergreen gave herself up as a distraction. She’s at Portcullis House.’
‘I’m sure she has a plan,’ Farringdon smiled. ‘Be safe, Thomas.’
‘And you, Anthony,’ Marlowe shook the older man’s extended hand and climbed out of the car, hastening to a door to his left. This, through the Norman Porch, was the route to the Queen’s Robing Room, and the path every monarch took on the way to open Parliament. It was as far from the Westminster Great Hall as you could be, but at least he was inside.
All he had to do now, was make it through the entire Houses of Parliament without being recognised, take down half a dozen foreign mercenaries and a couple of zealot sleeper agents, and disarm a dirty bomb in a locked, secret room before it killed hundreds of people.
So basically Sunday then, he thought to himself as he started up the stairs.
25
ADDRESSED REHEARSAL
Baroness Levin watched the contractors finish up the Great Hall setup with a sense of distinct sadness. That they would work so hard for something doomed to never be seen was a bittersweet honour, but they’d at least have the opportunity to be part of a greater purpose, martyrs to a cause they didn’t yet know they believed in.
She knew Raymond Sykes would be done soon, and the bomb primed and ready, he’d unlock himself and scuttle away like the coward he was. Levin, however, wouldn’t be leaving. For her to leave would raise flags; people would frown when they scanned the lists of the dead and go “why would the woman organising this walk out shortly before a horrible terrorist attack”, and there would be questions, and likely answers; ones she didn’t want brought out into the open.
No, she’d had a good life, a fulfilled life, and although many of the people on the Rubicon list had spent years waiting for this call, this moment to effectively destroy their prior lives, she was at peace to move on to the next life. And, with her death, her husband, her children, even her grandchildren would mourn without the press demanding answers.
Weirdly, she was even looking forward to it. She wondered what her obituary would say, whether she’d get even a speech from the Prime Minister.
One of the Eastern Europeans she’d brought with her, a request from Sykes she should have ignored, walked over.
‘There are crowds of rehearsal invitees building up outside,’ he said, his accent showing. ‘Do you want them in?’
Levin looked at her watch in surprise. Although tomorrow would be packed out to the rafters, tonight would be a smaller affair, with only a couple of hundred people: ambassadors, minor MPs and civil servants, even a couple of lower-level Royals coming to help; all on the basis they got a ticket to sit at the back the following day.
Poor buggers didn’t know there wouldn’t be a following day, she thought to herself as she scanned over the chaos in the hall.
‘Ten more minutes, and then I’ll let them in,’ she said. ‘And once they’re all in lock the doors.’
Outside, in New Palace Yard, the crowds of suited visitors were getting irritated at the wait. Many of them probably hadn’t had to wait for anything in a long time, and for Trix Preston, currently in the middle of the crowd in a hastily purchased dress, her tablet in her hand, she found it rather amusing to watch their rising anger.
At the same time, it was irritating. She was supposed to have got in a lot earlier, with Wintergreen diverting MI5 over to Portcullis House, but although Trix had got through the underground passageway into the Palace of Westminster’s grounds without being searched, she couldn’t get into the building itself until they allowed people into the Great Hall.
Which, when they started doing this, meant the rehearsal was almost ready to start, which also meant the bomb would be primed to explode shortly afterwards.
She had a small earpiece lodged in her left ear, and casually she looked around.
‘I can’t get in,’ she whispered. ‘Marlowe, can you hear me? I’m stuck here until they allow us through the doors.’
Marlowe was moving fast through the Palace of Westminster as Trix’s voice spoke in his ear.
‘I’m just entering the Peer’s Lobby,’ he replied. ‘Once I’m in the Central Lobby, I can—’
He stopped as a suited man walked into the Peers Corridor ahead of him. The man was in his thirties, obviously military, even though he was well dressed, and he seemed as surprised to see Marlowe as Marlowe was to see him.
‘You!’ he hissed, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a silenced pistol, firing at Marlowe as Marlowe dived backwards behind a counter beside the double doors to the House of Lords. Marlowe had his own weapon, but unlike the one facing him, his wasn’t silenced, and he knew the moment he fired it, he’d alert everyone in Westminster.
But maybe that was a good thing, he thought to himself. If the doors were closed, even with Trix outside, nobody else would be inside when the bomb went off.
Pulling his SIG Sauer out and readying himself, he popped up from behind the counter, firing two shots in quick succession, the gunshots echoing in the hallway as they both hit their target, the suited assassin falling to the ground, his face now missing from the impacts of the bullets.
But, as Marlowe ran to the body, he could already hear the cries of people echoing up through the Central Hall, only a hundred feet away.
Well, so much for subtly, Marlowe grimaced. Let’s just hope it did the right thing.
‘Gunshots!’ Sean the Doorkeeper shouted as the crowds outside, hearing the faint echoes, panicked. ‘Lock it down!’
‘Stop!’ one of Baroness Levin’s observers ran down to the doors from inside. ‘It is nothing! You must—’
‘We’ll do what we’re trained for,’ Sean said, nodding to the armed police outside. ‘Lockdown!’
As the crowds ran from the double doors, Trix walked quickly over to Sean, seeing his uniform, and knowing his likely connection to the man who’d recently helped Marlowe at the other end of the building. It was a hunch, but a calculated one.
‘Farringdon sent me,’ she hissed, showing her probably blacklisted by now MI5 security pass. ‘I need to be inside when you lock things up.’
Sean, not knowing who this woman was, but recognising her ID and Farringdon’s name, waved her beside him as she slid through the doors, the bulk of the crowd moving the other way.
‘You mustn’t send them away!’ the observer cried out, looking back into the building at his friends, who’d spaced out in the Great Hall. And as the door was closed, and Sean the Doorkeeper turned the lock, the observer decided finally to stop this, and, pulling out a gun, shot the armed policeman standing to his side in the temple, grabbing his rifle as he fell to the floor.
‘Zaperét!’ he shouted, firing the gun into the air. At least it sounded like zaperét to Trix, who by now was running, using the terrified crowd as cover, towards the other end of the hall. She only had a smattering of Russian in her vocabulary, but she was pretty sure this meant blockade, or block up. And if this was the case, then the observers, overpowering the unsuspecting armed police, meant to lock down the location, hold the fort until, well, until the bloody bomb went off.
Which meant she’d probably made a terrible mistake pushing her way in.
‘Move!’ the observer by the door shouted, firing into the ceiling. ‘Get into the middle! Sit down!’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Baroness Levin said. ‘You were supposed to get more people in!’
The observer glared at Levin as, from the Central Lobby, they heard more gunshots.
‘Kill whoever that is!’ Levin shouted to her men, and two of them, standing near the back stairs peeled off, cocking their freshly gained Heckler & Koch weapons.
‘Two baddies heading your way,’ Trix muttered, hoping the gunshots had been Marlowe, and not the sound of Marlowe being shot.
At Portcullis House, Curtis looked to the main entrance as Shaw and Bridget Summers walked into the building.
‘We have reports of shooting in the Houses of Parliament,’ he said, ‘Do you know anything about this?’
Shaw ignored him, looking at Wintergreen.
‘Is it Marlowe?’ she asked.
‘I asked you a question!’ Curtis snapped, looking over at Bridget. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, or why she’s here, but with Harris gone, I’m leading—’
He stopped abruptly as Shaw pulled a gun, aiming it between his eyes.
‘For the love of Christ, just shut the hell up,’ she hissed. ‘Do your job. Baroness Levin is caught inside, and we need to get her out. If you can’t do that, then piss off and let the grownups do it.’
‘You keep aiming that gun at me, and I’m going to make you eat it,’ Curtis stated coldly, but was distracted by the sound of throaty laughter.
Wintergreen leant back in her chair.
‘Told you,’ she said. ‘You have no clue who you work for.’
‘And you can shut up too,’ Shaw placed the gun away. ‘The whole bloody place is on lockdown thanks to your Boy Scout, and now we need to fix this before he kills everyone inside.’
‘Oh, would you rather he killed other people as well?’ Wintergreen asked innocently. ‘With the nice big bomb you snuck in?’
Shaw was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door, and one of the MI5 agents standing there looked back at them.
‘We have a visitor,’ he shouted. ‘American. Claims he’s Wintergreen’s boyfriend.’
Shaw looked to the door, seeing Brad Haynes, smiling, a bouquet of hastily grabbed flowers in his hand.
‘Tell him to piss off,’ she said. ‘If he stands outside, he’ll just cause attention.’
‘I heard that,’ Brad smiled, pulling a DLT Cartridge case out from behind his back. ‘You’re holding my love, and I had gifts for her and everything.’
Bridget stared in horror at the case.
‘Get him in here now!’ she growled. ‘Where did you get that?’
