She felt her stamina fading. Natasha looked all round her for signs of pursuit before deciding to dismount. She held on to the bike as she tried to regain her breath and as her chest heaved for air, she promised herself that when she got out of this situation, she would re-join the gym.
The stillness of the night was broken by the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres. Natasha jerked her head around but couldn’t locate the sound. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw the car appear a hundred yards away.
With a groan she hopped on the bike and started peddling hard. The car soon caught up but just as it was about to make contact she swerved the wheel onto a ramp and through some metal bollards designed to prevent cars entering the pedestrian precinct. She had stopped at this mall a few months ago and was unable to park where she wanted to because of the bollards. If she remembered correctly there were several sets of these around the corner.
Behind her she heard a loud crumpling noise. She turned around and saw that the car had attempted to ride over the barriers. Either they thought they could crash through or perhaps they had not appreciated how narrow the barriers were. Either way the results were the same. The car had mounted the kerb and lay between two of the bollards. Steam was escaping from under the bonnet. At that moment Natasha prayed that this was the end of the chase. Surely they would need to leave the car. If they had to resume the chase on foot Natasha had the advantage.
As she looked the car reversed off the bollards to the sound of tearing metal. The engine revved and the car reversed, the driver hunting for another entrance to the mall.
Natasha watched unbelievingly and desperately started pedalling again.
‘Morning, Sir Anthony — you have fresh news?’
‘Some, Prime Minister. A laptop from our sleeper was retrieved just after the order was given to cancel the mission.’
Sir Anthony looked at the Prime Minister and saw the slight hesitation. The Foreign Secretary, Howard Stern, cleared his throat. The Prime Minister was all too aware that Howard had made mistakes in the past, but he made the least number of mistakes of anyone else in the cabinet. The PM sometimes wondered if his foreign secretary would make a better PM than himself.
‘Carry on, Howard’ he said.
Howard looked at Sir Anthony. ‘Tell me a little about our people on the ground’.
‘Well we have a team of two very experienced operators’ began Sir Anthony. ‘We also have a technical guy who is helping out with the IT and security side of the operation.’
‘I didn’t mean that’ said Howard. ‘I mean, what are they like? How resourceful are they in a crisis? How likely are they to break under pressure? I just want to get a feel for the men whose lives we are putting at risk.’
Sir Anthony glanced down at his papers then closed the file and put it to one side. He knew the contents by heart. ‘I picked this team personally. Our agent is a Royal Marines vet of seventeen years; he’s been in the usual tough spots: Belfast, Bosnia, Sierra Leone. He’s worked with 22 Squadron on a number of occasions but he never wanted to leave the marines. Technically he’s still on their payroll, though we lend him out wherever he’s needed. We discovered he was born to the job of undercover operations. He has always preferred to work alone or in small teams. We had the usual problems with his general lack of respect for authority in the early days but since then he’s mellowed a little. He still has a reputation for being difficult though, but he always brought the right results — sometimes not in the, ah, expected manner.’
‘He seems quite a character — I’d like to meet him some time’ said the PM. ‘What about his manager or whatever you call them these days?’
‘The executive for the operation is someone who has a great deal of experience and has worked his way up the ladder, so to speak. He began as an agent in the field on shows like this. I won’t bore you with his past successes, but he was a top agent.’ Sir Anthony reopened the folder. ‘I won’t hide the fact that he was traumatised on his last op and had to take some time off. However he has recovered well and is proving that his experience in the field will make him one of our best executives.’
A pugnacious deputy Prime Minister Martin Dinsdale leaned forward across the PM to face Sir Anthony. ‘You mean the guy who is running our most important operation on American soil is a fruitcake who has just come back from a nervous breakdown?’ he asked bluntly.
Sir Anthony winced. ‘No, with all respect, I do not mean that’ he replied. ‘You have to know the man to understand the depth of his skills. The recent leave of absence has been his way of coping with extreme stress.’
Dinsdale leaned closer and the veins on his neck stood out. ‘Pressure — you should try this job for pressure.’
Sir Anthony remained stock still and replied in a cold calm voice. ‘Sir you don’t know the meaning of pressure. You do not face your executioner every day and stare death in the face. You’re never forced to make split second decisions that might mean life or death!’
The Prime Minister interceded quickly, fearing another outburst from his excitable deputy. ‘Gentlemen, we’re discussing the suitability of the agents in the field.’ He turned to Sir Anthony. ‘Tell us about the third man — your technical specialist.’
Sir Anthony paused before replying, knowing he was treading on thin ice.
‘We call him DD. He’s had experience in Saudi, Yemen, Iraq, and South America. He has training in field craft and is one of our of best IT specialists. He is currently studying at MIT but broke off to help at short notice.’
‘Has he ever been in a crisis situation?’
‘Yes’ Sir Anthony replied. ‘He’s faced problems in his work’ he said, not altogether convincingly.
‘Like what?’ enquired Dinsdale.
‘Well his mission has always been to assist the main operation. He’s never been a principle.’
‘You mean he’s never had to look after himself?’ asked Dinsdale bluntly.
Sir Anthony looked Dinsdale in the eye and replied carefully. ‘Sir, with respect, that’s not his job. His job is to provide intelligence from the opposition’s IT infrastructure, not to provide the heavy lifting. In his field, he has a track record as good as anyone here in London.’
Martin Dinsdale was not placated. ‘Well I think it stinks!’ Dinsdale turned to the PM. ‘Look, Terry. What we have here is the most delicate operation we have undertaken since the Second World War. If the Americans — our allies — get a whiff of what we are doing on their soil, it will compromise our special relationship for the foreseeable future! This mission is crazy, it should never have begun. The person who conceived the operation should be put back in the asylum!’
The PM replied smoothly. ‘Martin, what you say is probably true. But we need to weigh up what we might achieve if the operation is successful. I repeat, if the operation is successful. Besides, I have been reliably informed that some of the technology the Americans are deploying actually originated in our own laboratories. Sir Anthony, is that true?’
‘That’s true sir, the propulsion technology came from the University of Suffolk.’ Sir Anthony turned to look at the deputy PM. ‘And there is always plausible deniability.’
Dinsdale smirked. ‘You mean deny the story if it ever surfaces?’ Dinsdale’s smirk took a sarcastic edge. ‘Once the press get wind of this, there will be no stopping them. It will be one of those stories that will run and run.’ Dinsdale looked at the PM to emphasise his next remark.