Stella Rimington: Dead Line

‘And she paid you?’

He nodded, looking beaten and pathetic. ‘It’s my mother-’ he started to say, and the words hung limply in the thick air of the caravan.

She’d got everything she could out of him; Mateo was just a pawn. She left him with Dawson and his men, who would hand him over to the police. Outside the caravan she found Dave Armstrong waiting for her, sitting at the wheel of a golf cart.

‘I thought this would be quicker than walking everywhere,’ he said.

‘Good idea. We need to get to the falconry centre right away. The demonstration there will be starting soon.’

‘What about the rifle? Did the kid say anything? Does he know where it is? There are three platoons out on the hills now searching for it – and for a sniper.’

‘I don’t think there is a rifle or a sniper. But it’s right to go on searching, just to be sure – and to take all the obvious precautions. But I think Mateo was a decoy, being used to distract us. Which he certainly has.’ She reached impatiently for her mobile and hit the key for Peggy.

Peggy answered at once. ‘Yes, Liz.’

‘Where’s Jana now?’

‘Apparently she’s ill and lying down in her room. Though when I checked with Ryerson, he said she’s almost never ill. Maybe it’s the stress of your interview.’

‘I doubt it. How ill is she supposed to be?’

‘Well, it can’t be too bad. She worked the lunch shift and then took a walk after it.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘She walked through the tennis courts, then came back a few minutes later to the back of the hotel.’ Liz realised with a jolt that this route would have taken her right by the falconry school. Peggy said, ‘I kept at a distance, or she’d have seen me. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t leaving the hotel grounds.’

‘Has she been out again this afternoon?’

‘No, she’s stayed in her room. I’m sure of that; I’ve been in sight of the staff quarters all afternoon.’

‘I’m going to need to question her again.’ Liz looked at her watch – there wasn’t time to do it now. ‘Please make sure she stays in her room. If she tries to leave, I want her to be detained. Make up an excuse, we can sort it out later. But I don’t want her anywhere near the Syrian delegation. Go and see Jamieson straight away, and make sure you’ve got back-up available if you need it. And be careful with this woman – she’s slippery and she may be dangerous.’

Liz was making it up as she went along now. She felt like a goalkeeper taking penalties, with no idea where the ball was going to be kicked next. Dave had driven the buggy across the fairways and they were now coming up to the road that ran past the clubhouse. On the far side armed policeman were stationed every twenty yards. As the golf buggy moved onto the asphalt surface a policeman stepped forward and halted them with a raised arm. Dave braked sharply.

‘You can’t cross here,’ the officer said.

‘We have to,’ said Liz sharply. ‘It’s urgent.’

He shook his head. ‘Hear that?’ he said, and somewhere in the sky Liz could detect the rumbling blades of a large helicopter. ‘That’s the Prime Minister,’ the policeman said. ‘And ten minutes later we’re expecting the US President. We’ve moved the landing zone,’ he added, pointing to the vast green lawn that lay stretched between them and the hotel.

‘I know,’ said Dave curtly. ‘It was me that moved it.’ He pointed to the identification tag on his jacket. ‘We’ll go around the landing strip but we need to cross the road.’

The policeman hesitated.

‘Call Mr Jamieson if you like,’ said Liz, ‘but get a move on. We’re in a hurry.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. He stepped back onto the road and let them through with an elaborate wave of his hand, to show his colleagues further down the road that they were crossing with his approval.

Dave pushed the little buggy to the limit of its speed, and they crossed the road and bumped over the crisp turf of the pitch and putt course. The throbbing bass of a helicopter’s rotors was now clearly audible, and looking east Liz could see it, less than half a mile away. A landing area the size of an Olympic swimming pool had been hastily marked out with white tape and chalk lines; fifty yards back, ropes were strung to keep the waiting press corps at a distance.

A squad of Secret Service men in dark suits were waiting on the edge of the landing zone. Behind them a covey of British security officers gathered behind a stone balustrade, like commanders watching a battle from a distance. Around the edges of the field armed policeman patrolled; two with Alsatian dogs on short leads.

As Liz and Dave crossed the last corner of the pitch and putt course, another golf buggy pulled out sharply from the path ahead of them, heading in their direction. Next to the driver sat the gaunt figure of the chief constable. He had told Liz he would be personally supervising the security at the falconry and gun dog displays, so what was he doing here? Liz tapped Dave’s arm and he slowed down until the other buggy stopped next to them.

‘All’s fine back there,’ said Jamieson, jerking his thumb to indicate the falconry school. ‘The delegations are arriving now. I’m off to see the President land – the Secret Service johnnies are insisting I be there. They’re in a bit of a state about this rifle that’s been found.’

There is no rifle, thought Liz. But she didn’t have time to argue with the man. He said blithely, ‘You’ll find my deputy Hamish is watching things over there.’

As they drove through the last line of trees onto the grassy square in front of the falconry building, she saw phalanxes of security men surrounding the two arriving delegations.

Dave parked at the end of the building as Liz walked quickly down the slope of grass to the area set up for the display. The two delegations were lined up side by side, not mingling – except at the front, where the Syrian President was talking, a little stiffly, with the Israeli Prime Minister. Near them, Liz noticed a balding bull-like man chatting to Ari Block, the Mossad head of London station. Block spotted Liz and gave a small bow.

Hamish Alexander, the chief constable’s deputy, was standing on a slight rise, overlooking the small crowd of spectators. He looked dismayingly young but seemed competent – pointing out the armed policeman at each corner of the square, and explaining that behind the small copse of oaks and birch that formed a backdrop, more policemen were stationed as an extra precaution against anyone who had somehow penetrated the perimeter.

The front door of the falconry school opened and McCash came out with a golden eagle perched on an extended gloved hand. Appreciative noises greeted the bird, though as McCash made his way through the crowd of spectators it parted, as people moved back to avoid the razor-sharp talons and beak.

‘Look at the size of him,’ said Dave appreciatively.

‘He’s called Fatty,’ said Liz with a grin. But she added tensely, ‘Dave, I’m nervous about this.’

McCash began the display with Fatty, who flew the lumbering solo that Liz had already seen. There was faint laughter from the crowd as the golden eagle seemed just to manage to land on the second platform.

McCash handed Fatty to an assistant as another colleague came out, bearing a hooded hawk. This was the bird intended to be flown by the Syrian President himself, who looked distinctly unenthusiastic when it was explained to him what he had to do.

Dave said, ‘I overheard one of the Syrians saying the President isn’t actually that keen on falconry.’

So it wasn’t true all Arabs like birds of prey, thought Liz. So much for stereotypes.

As soon as McCash unhooded the falcon, the bird flew straight up in the air, to his obvious surprise, then it tilted, turned and moved like a bullet towards the nearby copse of trees. There it disappeared behind the dense foliage. McCash’s face fell, and the spectators watched, puzzled, uncertain whether this was part of the display. McCash signalled towards the falconry school, and an assistant came running out, holding a small device in his hands.