Clandestine, page 15
They had started off well, but it had quickly deteriorated after a few months. Colin was possessive and jealous and had a yearning to control. They had split up and gotten back together again several times over the past few months. But this last time had been the final straw; he was just immature and Cassie was well and truly sick of his shit. God, it had felt good to tell him not to come near her again and to throw his new business card back in his face. She was done with him once and for all.
Never mind, Cass, she thought. There are plenty more fish in the sea, you’ll find a Fiyero to your Elphaba.
Cassie set about clearing the outside tables from the last customers, ready to take them to the kitchen and stuff them in the dishwasher. The street was busy, as normal, and this was the time of day between the morning coffee crowd and the lunchtime rush. People came rushing past her, but she ignored them; she was just focusing on getting home and chilling.
In the distance, she could hear police sirens that were getting closer. Probably more pickpockets, they seemed to be a thing in West London at the moment. She had collected all the cups, saucers and plates onto the tray and was about to head back inside when she noticed a commotion behind her. It was a guy running towards her, a good-looking guy, frantically waving his arms at her.
She was confused: oh no, not another loon! He came straight toward her, not deviating at all and for one scary moment she thought he was going to blast right through her!
He knocked the tray out of her hands and shouted for her to “GET DOWN! IT’S A BOMB!”
Yep, she thought, as she huddled down and made herself small, took herself into her little space, it’s been one of those weeks.
On the counter-terrorism course, prior to his deployment to Northern Ireland, Danny’s ‘Box’ instructors had taught him to dominate with his voice in order to control a situation, and it was a skill that he was using with dramatic effect now.
The mystery girl looked terrified, but instantly crouched, Danny covering, body-shielding her, before pulling one of the cast-iron tables down on its side to provide them both with minimal cover to protect them from the inevitable blast.
“It’s okay. Just stay still,” he said, his voice sounding calmer than he felt.
“What… what… is… it?” said the girl. The shakiness in her voice was evident.
“It looks like a terrorist attack… suicide bomber… just keep down until it’s safe. He’s just a few shops down.”
Danny looked down and saw that she was holding his hand, squeezing it tight through fear. She was beautiful; caramel-coloured skin and sparkling blue eyes. Her body next to his, she smelt of honeysuckle.
He clicked his mind back to the situation. Things were happening fast. But… there was no explosion, at least not yet. Then he heard the screams, someone shouted, “He has a knife!” and then the revving of an engine at high speed followed by heavy breaking, a door slamming and boots hitting the ground with force; the Armed Response Unit had arrived.
Danny heard the forceful command of “ARMED POLICE – DROP THE KNIFE!” followed by two controlled gunshots, 9mm, the ever faithful double tap, and he knew that it was all over for the young man with the food delivery bag. There was no explosion, no dead man’s switch, so Danny assumed that they had gone for headshots as was their standard operating procedure. A bullet to the head stops everything. ‘Death by cop’, they call it.
He could hear the mystery girl hyperventilating, so he tried to calm her. “It’s okay, it’s all over. Thank God. Let’s just stay still until the police give us the all-clear.”
“How… how did you know?” she stammered, looking into his eyes.
He could have said it all. I was watching you, actually, watching over you. I’m a spy, a voyeur and I’m a little bit infatuated with you. You’re beautiful, clearly out of my league, but you know what, I’m willing to take a chance if you are, pretty girl.
Instead, he said none of that and answered, playing it down, “Just in the right place at the right time, I guess? I’m Danny by the way, nice to meet you.”
The Watcher
“There is not a surveillance man alive who doesn’t at some point or another become fixated on the target that he is watching.”
Mr Palmer’s Extraordinary Retirement Plan
“Beautiful day, Mr Palmer,” said the shopkeeper stocking up his fruit and veg display outside his grocer’s shop.
“Morning, Mr Palfrey. Gorgeous, isn’t it? Might get to watch the cricket this weekend if the sunny weather holds,” said Mr Palmer, a beaming smile on his face.
This was a routine of theirs, every day, five days a week, a quick discussion on the state of the British weather and then a brisk wave, a “cheerio” and the two gentlemen returned to their own thoughts; one to his shop and the other to his trip into London. That was the summation of their relationship.
Reginald Palmer made his way briskly down the Surbiton high street towards the train station. This morning, he was feeling extra perky and had a spring in his step. He always enjoyed this time of the day, on his way to work, the world slowly waking up, and the luxury for him of travelling to London to sell his wares. His wares were electronic circuit boards for a variety of white goods and computers of various denominations. In the old days he would have been called a ‘travelling salesman’, but here, in the 1990s, he was referred to by the much more corporate title of Regional Accounts Manager. It really was as boring and dull as it sounded, he mused. But, the upside was that it paid well and it allowed him the freedom to travel on a regular basis.
This morning, he was dressed in his usual manner, the same way he had been dressed on his way to work for the last twenty years or more. His usual three piece suit in charcoal grey with a faint pinstripe to it, clean white shirt, sombre tie, highly polished brogues. A black raincoat draped over his arm (in case of liquid emergencies) and an old, battered but highly trusted briefcase finished off the ensemble. Reginald Palmer took pride in the fact that he was safe, boring and unremarkable.
Oh yes, in the opinion of Reginald Palmer, a good suit and a clean white shirt were all the tools that you needed when you were a Regional Accounts Manager and, say what you would about his good lady wife, Beatrice, (and believe me, there was quite a lot that he would have liked to say both to and about her), she always had his work shirts crisp, clean and ironed beautifully. It’s just a shame that the rest of her was just so… unsavoury.
Theirs was not a happy or pleasant marriage by any stretch of the imagination. The phrase ‘chalk and cheese’ came to mind. Married in their twenties after having been introduced to each other at a weekend summer dance – him a salesman, her a part-time typist at a government department in Whitehall – they had inevitably fallen into a routine until the preordained conclusion of engagement had happened.
She had been charming at first and Palmer had wooed her, but once the ring was on the finger it was like the mask of her had been stripped away. Beatrice had piled on the pounds, long gone was her svelte figure, as was their sex life; once a month (if he was lucky), and with the lights off and the nightie on. It had been quick and unsatisfying.
She was what Palmer would term a ‘social climber’ – lower-middle- class that thought she was upper-class and material possessions and money became her gods. A bigger house, a better car, the latest gadgets, all paid for by the hard work of Reginald Palmer, not Mrs Beatrice Palmer, because God forbid she would go out and work anymore after she had quit the office job in Whitehall. Instead, she preferred to be a lady that lunched, together with her horrendous friends at the local Women’s Institute!
And shout – why did she have to shout all the time? Even when she whispered, she didn’t really whisper, it was all done at 100 decibels. A faux laugh to pretend that she was just so much fun and full of humour! Again, all done at 100 decibels so that everyone could see and hear her. And don’t even get him started on how she chews with her mouth open; it sounded like a cow chewing the cud, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SLURP. The thought of spending the rest of his life with her made him shudder inside. The only saving grace was that they hadn’t been blessed with children – thank God! That would have made a terrible situation even more complicated.
So now, at the age of fifty-five, Reginald Palmer was going to take early retirement and start his life all over again while he was still able. He could think of nothing better for his retirement than that of wandering the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, a little cottage by a lake, occasionally stopping to unpack his easel, stool, canvas and watercolours and paint for the rest of his days in peace and tranquillity. When he was a boy, he had loved to paint and sketch, and now, as a middle-aged man, he reasoned that it was high time that he returned to the thing that gave him pleasure.
He would be away from the stress of his chosen career, away from that nervous knot that permanently lived in the pit of his stomach, away from the banality and small-mindedness of little England and, best of all, away from that harridan that he had married over twenty years ago. All of this would come to fruition, he hoped, but it would be a solo journey. He planned to cut Beatrice loose once and for all. But before he was able to implement his plan he had a little errand to run first.
He walked briskly towards the train station, a mere twenty minutes’ walk from his three bedroom semi-detached in a leafy suburb, waving and nodding a ‘good morning’ to those he knew or was on first name terms with; Gerald the postman, Mrs Sachs, the Chairwoman of the local Conservative Party, Mr Bland, the proprietor of The Crown public house. They were all friends and a part of his life, but he felt no affinity with any of them; they were merely bit part actors in his stage show of life.
The train station was a concrete art deco monstrosity, but as far as some stations in and around London went, it was far from the worst. At this time of the morning it was reasonably busy, but Palmer didn’t have to wait long to purchase his ticket to London Euston from Mr Worthington in the ticket office. Within ten minutes, the train was pulling up and Palmer had found himself a nice and not too noisy corner seat in the third carriage. He nestled the briefcase between his legs and settled back, ready to enjoy the hour-long journey. Soon, the gentle rocking of the train helped him to calm his mind and concentrate his thoughts.
He had made the decision at the end of last year; he had been watching the news and he’d had an epiphany. He thought it through for the rest of the night, how he could be free of his shackles, how he could get out of this rat-race. He thought he had the workings of a plan, his special retirement plan, but he just needed a few more things to fall into place. So Palmer bided his time and carried on; meeting clients, living his life, gathering his thoughts, watching the news and waiting… for there is nothing more difficult than the creeping, insidious fear of waiting for all one’s ducks to be in a row.
Then, true to form as he had guessed, months later he had received a message from Head Office confirming that there were going to be some changes in the infrastructure due to recent global developments and he should expect to be recalled to Head Office for consultations about his future imminently.
So for weeks, he had been gathering together his nest egg, the thing that would buy him the retirement that he craved and on this day, the penultimate day of his employment with his old firm, he was going to pitch to Head Office’s competitors.
An hour later, Mr Palmer and his fellow passengers disembarked at Euston Station, but instead of heading towards the underground, he instead made his way to the men’s toilets on the main concourse. Once inside, he found himself a cubicle and locked the door. From his briefcase he took out a battered and flattened trilby hat, a pair of spectacles with clear lenses, and a false greying moustache that matched the colour of his hair. Out on the street and heading towards a taxi rank, he affected a stooping gait that made him look like a barrel trying to walk.
He took the third black cab along and gave the driver a location in Pimlico. Ten minutes later, he was once again out on the street, taxi dismissed and Mr Palmer was ambling along, taking his time and watching his back in case of an unhealthy interest in him. Finally satisfied, he took another taxi and asked to be taken to Knightsbridge.
Halfway there, he told the driver to pull up short, but paid him the full amount. “I’ll walk from here, driver, thank you,” he said, before once again letting himself out. Another walk, this time looking in the windows of the excellent high class stores, until he was ready to head towards his destination.
From the outside, it had frosted glass and was the epitome of discretion. He pressed the buzzer on the intercom and was aware of a small CCTV lens appraising him. A buzz from the electronic lock and the door opened for him. Inside was a reception area complete with a pair of security guards.
“I’m here to make a withdrawal,” he said to the receptionist, a severe-looking man in his late sixties.
“Of course, Mr Goldstein and so good to see you again, sir,” said the receptionist, already filling in the paper work and reaching for a collection of keys from underneath the counter.
For now he was no longer Reginald Palmer, but instead a Jewish accountant by the name of Nathaniel Goldstein and he had beautifully forged identification, driving licence, passport, insurance documents, to prove it.
The staff of the Rickman’s Safety Deposit Facility knew that once a month at least, Mr Goldstein, who may have mentioned that he worked for a firm of accountants in the City, came and either filled or emptied his personal deposit box. It was not their business and was part of their professional pride that they didn’t ask any personal questions or enquire too closely.
The receptionist led him down to the vault, each time opening the next security doors with one of the keys from his keychain. Finally, and now alone, Palmer/Goldstein was alone in a private room with only his thoughts and doubts about whether or not he was doing the right thing.
Could he pull it off? Of course he could, there could be no going back now. He had a plan, a good plan, and the only thing that forced him forward was that going backwards or even remaining static was ten times worse than being caught and punished.
A discreet knock on the door shook him from his thoughts. The elderly receptionist entered and left him a secure lock box on the table before excusing himself and closing the door behind him. Palmer/Goldstein quickly opened the box with his personal key and swiftly removed the items inside, transferring them to his briefcase. Satisfied that he had everything and that his disguise was still in place, he made his way past the reception area and out onto the street.
A quick walk and another taxi ride, this time towards his final destination. He checked his watch – almost lunchtime, perfect! He was right on schedule; only another twenty minutes to wait. He paid off the driver on the far side of Lambeth Bridge, preferring to walk the rest of the way. He passed through a deserted underpass and removed his disguise. He entered the underpass as Goldstein, and by the time he had emerged he was once again Reginald Palmer.
And if everything went according to plan, this would probably be the last time he would be Reginald Palmer, too.
Victoria Tower Gardens is a small, bijou park located directly next to the Houses of Parliament on the north bank of the River Thames. It is a refuge, a calming safe haven for those wishing to take a few moments out of the hustle and bustle of officialdom. Sandwiches can be eaten there, people lucky enough to claim one of the benches can be left to ponder their thoughts, and the latest paperbacks can be enjoyed in peace before people have to rush back to their offices and jobs.
Ian Costain sat on one of the benches overlooking the Thames, his long legs stretched out like poles. He had been toying with a rather curious cheese and pickle sandwich for the last few minutes, not quite convinced of its veracity, but then again it was all that was available from the canteen by the time he had gotten there. He suspected that the seagulls and pigeons would be getting the bulk of it in the next few minutes.
As a mid-level officer with the Secret Intelligence Service, you’d have thought that there would have been a few perks in the food department from the canteen at SIS Headquarters at Century House, but no, it was a first come, first served basis. He had taken to spending his lunch hour during the summer months in this quaint little park. Not all the time, of course – he was still expected to attend work lunches or to dine with colleagues. But for when he needed to get out of the office, he would stroll across Lambeth Bridge and take some time out before he had to go back to the wilderness of mirrors that came with being the Deputy Director Counter-Intelligence SOV/OPS.
The recent about-face from Gorbachev and the Soviet Union had put everybody in the trade in a flux and, to be honest, had caught everyone off guard. Communism is dead! Perestroika and Glasnost were the new buzzwords and the Cold War was over. Hurrah!
Which was a load of bollocks in his opinion. Leopards don’t change their spots, never have done, never will, thought Costain. But what they do is learn to become more subtle in disguising them and it was the same for the Russians and the KGB. It was his remit and that of his team to see through the subterfuge and count how many spots this particular leopard had.
He was on the verge of risking a bite of his sandwich when he became aware of a man standing off to his left. The man was middle-aged, stocky and stout, with grey hair. He looked like a travelling salesman; that partly dishevelled, partly respectable look that is the curse of hopping in and out of taxis or fleet vehicles on the way to the next client meeting.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” asked the man, his voice firm and confident. A touch of the Home Counties about it, thought Costain
“We’ve been very lucky this week, maybe we’ll get a summer that lasts more than a few days this year,” said Costain, wary about committing himself to an unsolicited conversation with a stranger.
