“Come on, don’t worry. Millie is tough. I remember hearing that once she left a New York Deli, only to be confronted by six self styled ninjas. Then, armed with just a loaf of French bread, four carrots and a tub of Tofu, she fought them all off.”
“Is that true?” Katie asked, her face brightening.
“Not a word, but it made you smile. We both know she’s a tough cookie.” Dee paused, and it was the younger woman’s turn to shake her head with disapproval.
“Come on, Clara Campbell,” Dee said, referencing the actress’s alter ego. “We have an appointment with the Pope’s couch!” Her protégé looked puzzled, but picked up her bag and followed anyway.
Chapter 31
Doncaster Railway Station, East Coast Line. Tuesday 5pm.
Gil was halfway between London and Newcastle when a text came through on her mobile phone, informing her that her premium seat on the aircraft had been confirmed. Upon her arrival at Newcastle Central Station, a limousine would be waiting to whisk her away to the Britannia Hotel at Newcastle Airport.
Agents, and particularly former agents like Gil who were trying to remain anonymous, loved train travel. It was possible to travel anywhere in the UK, and no one asked for your name as long as you paid for your tickets in cash. These arrangements made it doubly difficult for anyone to track your movements. As cautious as ever, when Gil arrived at the Airport’s basic three star hotel, she would be staying in a room booked under the name of Jean Lansbury, the Celebrato Cards North East Regional Representative. By the time the invoice was queried by Celebrato HQ, Gil would be long gone.
Gil was content that the precautions she had taken at the Strand would convince MI5 that she was dead, but only for the time being. Whether it took twenty four hours, a week or a month, they would eventually find out that she had survived Tim’s amateur assassination attempt and they would be back on her tail. She had no qualms about that; she just had to make sure that when they started looking for her the trail would be stone cold.
Gil set down her fork, having demolished the decadent dessert she had ordered as a well deserved treat. The sticky toffee pudding with caramelised sugar strings and sauce anglais lay heavy on her stomach as she looked out over the Yorkshire countryside, whilst the 6090 bhp electric train whizzed along at over one hundred miles per hour. The carriages attached to the 225 engines that pulled and pushed her northwards along electrified tracks to Newcastle had, coincidentally, been recently refitted at Doncaster, according to the metal plate on the floor by the door. The pleasantly appointed rolling stock had, rather ostentatiously, taken the name of the Mallard Coaches, to reflect the past glories of the railway and more specifically to honour the fast steam trains which had once travelled the historic east coast line between London and Edinburgh.
As she was still around ninety minutes away from her final stop, Gil leaned back in her reclined seat and snoozed.
***
Barry Mitchinson had made the first mistake of taking some of his wife’s beta blockers to calm himself down, but he had made the second mistake of washing them down with copious amounts of Old Time Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey. The pills and the whiskey didn’t mix well, and Barry had been experiencing mild hallucinatory side effects, as well as feeling an exaggerated sense of anxiety. He told himself he was a professional and that he needed to carry on. He had an operative missing.
He looked at his watch. Almost eight hours had passed since Tim had reported that he was on his way back to the office, having disposed of the Chameleon. Barry rarely left the office on business matters, but this was a search that he would have to conduct himself; if the Director caught even the faintest sniff of a Level Three operative being lost on assignment in the UK, Barry’s career would be over.
“Evening, Mr Mitchinson.” The formal greeting came from a well built man of indeterminate age who lacked a single hair anywhere on his head or face. His shiny bald pate shone under the streetlight.
“Right, then. Let’s get this gate open and get out of this wind.”
Trevor fiddled with the lock for a minute before declaring, “Someone has changed the padlock. I can’t get in. We’ll have to go down the side entrance if you don’t mind, sir.”
Barry shivered as he pushed his hands deep into his old Crombie overcoat. The woollen scarf around his neck was offering some protection from the cold, but his face was almost numb. They reached the side entrance.
“Bloody hell! The lock’s been changed here as well. You know, I bet those idiots in maintenance have put the wrong padlocks on the station doors. I wouldn’t mind betting that if we went to Temple we’d find the Strand padlocks on the wrong gates.” The man paused as he placed the keys back in his pockets. “I hope you don’t mind tight spaces,” he said, leading him back the way they had come.
Barry huddled into his coat and followed Trevor to the Aldwych and the old fire exit door.
“Hoo-bloody-ray!” the Transport for London operative hooted loudly as the door opened. The two men entered and began to descend the narrow stairway to the platform level. A faint but rather unpleasant aroma met them on the breeze.
“What’s that smell?” Barry asked, turning his nose up.
“Buggered if I know,” the old underground worker responded. “It smells like yesterday’s barbeque.”
Trevor Deacon took a long hard look at the door leading to the rail line. Signs of recent burning were all too obvious. Kids, he thought to himself.
***
Barry didn’t like fieldwork at the best of times, and if his career had not been at risk he would never have entered this pit of a staircase. He was panicking in a way he had never done before, and only his pride prevented him from screaming out, demanding to be freed from this claustrophobic hell.
Trevor took his time opening the door and the pungent, rancid smell reached their noses even more strongly, but not before the charred remains of Tim came into sight.
“My God, is that Tim? Is he dead?” Barry spluttered uselessly.
“Hang on, I’ll check for a pulse.” The older man leaned closer to the body that looked more like a charcoal sculpture than a human body.
“You’re joking surely?” Barry exclaimed.
“Of course I am, you prat!” All respect had disappeared from his voice. Norman leaned forward, being careful not to touch anything. “Did your man wear a Rolex?”
“Yes, an Oyster, I believe. Why?”
“Well, good news there, then.” There was a pause. “It’s still working.”
***
Twenty minutes later the tunnel was filled with bodies, all alive except for Tim, whose metal service tags had survived the incineration. There were representatives from the Transport Police, Transport for London, the Health and Safety Executive and an MI5 duty officer.
Barry had tried fruitlessly to rein things in, to keep the lid on this, but Trevor Deacon was having none of it. This was his problem, even if the dead man was some fried spook who had evidently been wandering around where he shouldn’t have been.
The HSE man was clearly in charge, and the police were following his instructions. He wandered over to Barry, who was sitting on the edge of the platform, his legs dangling over the rail.
“Here’s the thing, Mr Mitchinson. Your boy has undoubtedly been cooked by several hundred volts, but the line is not presently live.” The tall thin HSE inspector took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Using his spectacles to point in the direction of the rails at the entrance of the tunnel, he continued.
“The bar - the one you see there - well, that bar prevents anyone from making the line live inadvertently. So, given that it’s in place now, the only possibility is that someone replaced it after your man died. No current can have passed though the line with that bar in place.”