Whipped Up

Chapter 2

TWO

By the time Chaise reached the motorway, Simms was back at the airport interview room. He found Mellor still there, looking sheepish.

“Well?”

“He took the car.”

Mellor nodded and reached for his mobile. He punched in a few numbers and waited, arching a single eyebrow towards Simms and motioning for him to sit down, before he spoke into the phone. “He has flown.” He listened, winced, switched it off and steepled his fingers. “Don’t suppose you got my trousers back?”

“No, sir. He kept them.”

“Maybe he liked the colour.”

Simms’s face registered not a flicker. “Maybe. He also took my gun.”

“That was to be expected. I’ll need you to go out to Burtons or somewhere and buy me another pair. Brown will do. I’m a thirty-eight waist, twenty-nine inside leg.” He pulled out some banknotes from his wallet and pushed them across the desk to Simms.

“I’m going to kill him when I find him.” Simms put the money into his pocket.

“No, you won’t.” Mellor leaned forward. “You’ll do your b****y job, understand? He’s gone, just as we planned. He doesn’t know we’ll be watching his every move, and that’s good. It’s worked. He’s duped.”

“He hit me, and nobody does that.”

“This is not a suggestion, Simms. It’s an order.”

Simms stiffened. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“If he steps out of line, then you can do what you need to do.”

Simms allowed himself to relax, and a tiny smile fluttered around the edges of his mouth. “Let’s hope he does.”

“Just go and get me the trousers.”

Not so very far away from where Mellor and Simms sat, in another small office a few metres from Westminster Palace, Harper rapped his fingers on the telephone receiver for a few moments before he buzzed his secretary. “I’m going to see the Minister.”

It was a short walk through the underground corridor linking Harper’s office to Whitehall. He enjoyed the few moments of solitude along this subterranean system Winston Churchill ordered built during the Second World War. It had served its purpose then, and still did, especially when the rain beat down as it did today.

The secretary barely glanced at him and pointed her pencil towards the Minister’s door. Harper stopped, straightened his tie, and went through, giving a tiny knock as he did so.

The Home Secretary sat reading a file as Harper entered. He’d been in this room many times, having served under several ministers, some of them vagaries of international affairs, others couldn’t give a damn. This particular one fell somewhere in the middle, a man with an agenda, out to make his mark. So Harper sat, looked around the modern, Spartan room, and waited. And waited.

“This Chaise is quite a character,” said the Home Secretary at last. He took off his reading glasses and folded them very carefully. He held them in both hands as he stared hard at Harper. “You think you can control him?”

“I believe so, Minister. But we have the back-up, just in case.”

“The idea of somebody out of control, roaming our streets is not a comfortable one, Harper.”

“I know sir, that is why we—”

“Nor is the idea of employing … what word did you use ...?” He flipped open the file and scrolled down the tightly printed words using the ear-stem of his glasses. “Yes … using a freelance.” He slapped the manila folder shut. “I don’t like that, Harper. I want our own people for this type of work, not outsiders.”

“He’s very good, sir. He took care of dear Jimmy for us.”

“Yes, but dear Jimmy was shot in a Central African backwater, not on the streets of Britain. I don’t want any unpleasantness if this all gets out of hand. We’ve had enough of answering awkward questions in the House, and God help us if some over-ambitious journalist got hold of this. I would prefer us not to be likened to Mossad, Harper.”

Harper shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. “I doubt it will come to that, Minister.”

“So why hire this Esteban individual in the first place?”

“Insurance, Minister. You can never be too careful with the likes of Chaise.”

“One of the best it says here,” he stabbed at the file with his index finger. “And now he feels hard done-by. We need to reassure him, not alienate him.”

“I’m keeping a close eye on him, Minister. I’m confident things will not get out of hand.”

The Home Secretary narrowed his eyes, taking note of Harper’s tone when re-using his own phrase. He grunted. “If they do, you’ll use this Esteban?”

“That is the plan, yes … but …” he spread out his hands, “… I think everything will be all right.”

“I can’t take the risk, Harper. I want our best man on this.”

“Esteban is our best man, sir.”

“No. For all the reasons I’ve mentioned, it simply is not acceptable. I’ve been talking to MI6.”

Harper’s face drained of colour. “Minister, I’m not sure if that’s such a good—”

“They have provided us with an operative, and he will be working undercover to shadow Chaise. He’s already on his way to Liverpool where he—”

“Minister, I really must object to—”

“I’ve given him carte blanche, Mr Harper. He is good, low-key, and experienced. Most importantly,” he gave an oil slick of a smile, “he is answerable to me. But I’m not an autocrat, Mr Harper. Naturally, you can continue to keep your man on the ground, so to speak, but all operational decisions will go through this office, and then to my man. I want that clearly understood. Your job is to ensure these instructions go down the line, Mr Harper. I will not tolerate any unsanctioned actions from officers ignorant of my wishes – or who claim to be. All clear?”

“Perfectly Minister. Is the Prime Minister aware, sir?”

“I’ll ignore that rather inane question, Mr Harper.” He stood up and wandered to the window and, hands behind his back, stared out across the expanse of Horse Guards Parade. “All being well, as long as we remain in the shadows this Chaise character will be unaware of our close proximity, and simply live a normal, quiet life. But if he should begin killing people, Mr Harper ...” he turned, “… in that instance, we could use Mr Esteban. Until then, we keep it very much under wraps and out of sight. Agreed?”

“It was never my intention to use Esteban in any other way but to—”

“Are we agreed, Mr Harper?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“Good. I want weekly updates, Mr Harper. I shall pay you the same courtesy.”

The interview was over.

Harper went out and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against the woodwork and let out a long breath. What he’d experienced was akin to the worst excesses of Adolf Hitler’s administration, when he ordered two or three different departments to do the same job, with each remaining in ignorance of the other. Hitler would then sit back and enjoy the ensuing chaos.

Harper wondered if the Home Office operated in a similar way, because this plan would lead to disaster, and Esteban was out there, difficult to contact depending on his location. Part of the beauty of using freelancers such as Esteban was that they were anonymous, invisible. Whoever this agent from MI6 was, he had better be careful, because going up against Chaise and Esteban was not something to be advised.

“Are you all right, Mr Harper?”

It was the secretary with the pencil, with which she was drumming her perfect teeth.

Harper sighed and shook his head, “No. I most definitely am not.”