Chapter Three
The view from the front of the old Welsh farmhouse looked down the valley and out to the Irish Sea. The building had been abandoned for almost a year, but was still in good condition, weatherproof and, more importantly for Rick Washington, remote. The evening wind was chill, and he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. He watched the small van as it wound its way up the side of the hill, the road winding back and forth to accommodate the incline.
He hunched his shoulders against the wind, Fucking England was cold enough, but Wales! And this was supposed to be summer, he thought. Washington had spent the last year in the Philippines and his bones were definitely not used to this Welsh climate.
The reconstructive surgery he’d undergone in Manilla had totally changed his appearance, and he doubted his own mother would recognise him now. The implanted full head of thick black hair played to his vanity and the absence of the painful limp was a blessing.
For a second his thoughts flashed to the small ranch in Panama. The old goatherd who’d saved Greg Stoneham from the helicopter crash, and the beautiful girl who’d tended his injuries. She’d fixed him up pretty good, but the leg had not been set well. Consuela Sanchez, he thought, you saved my life honey. But you wouldn’t know me now. You wouldn’t know Rick Washington.
The van was still struggling up the side of the hill as the evening rain began to fall. A voice from behind pulled his thoughts back from Panama. ‘They here yet, boss?’
Washington didn’t turn around. ‘A few minutes. You ready for them?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Then get-the-fuck back in there.’
A few minutes later the van pulled into the ramshackle farmyard. Washington waved to the two men as they stepped out of the cab. ‘How’d it go?’ he said.
The men walked over and nodded. ‘No problems, boss. All good.’
‘Okay, let’s get ‘em inside. This summer weather is freezing my balls off.’
They walked over to the van and, before opening the rear doors, the three pulled on full-face balaclavas.
The old man and woman were roughly pulled from the rear of the van. ‘Take it easy,’ snarled Washington to his men, ‘no need for that.’ He stood in front of the couple and said, ‘Mr and Mrs Pike, I know you are scared, but you’ll have nothing to fear if you do as you are told. You will not be harmed. You see we are wearing masks. If we intended to kill you, we would not worry about you seeing our faces. But do not doubt us. If you do not comply with every instruction you will be killed.’
The woman began to sob and the man put his arms around her pulling her close.
‘Okay, get inside,’ snapped one of the henchmen, then, after seeing the scathing look from Washington, continued, ‘Please.’
The inside of the farmhouse was basic, but after Washington’s men had cleaned-up the place and got the portable generator running, would be comfortable enough for the next few days.
A small hallway opened into a large central lounge. The Pikes were ushered through the big room and up the stairs. Several doors ran off the landing, one of which stood open. The three masked men accompanied them to the room. The one with the American voice said, ‘Please make yourselves comfortable.’ He walked over to a thin rope next to the door. ‘If you need the bathroom, or if you’re ill, please pull this and one of my men will come. I believe you have your medication, Mrs Pike, and I understand that will be sufficient for the next few days. We don’t expect to be here longer than three or four at the most. There will be hot food in about an hour. Now if you will excuse me.’
‘Why are you doing this, sir?’ said Mr Pike.
‘I’m afraid I cannot answer any questions. Please just stay calm and try and relax. This will all be over in a few days.’
The American and the two men left the room. The door was closed, followed by the sound of the lock being turned.
Joan Pike had stopped sobbing and looked around the room. There were two inflatable beds with a pile of new sheets and duvets, still in the wrappings, on each. On the table in the corner was a case of water, teabags, coffee and biscuits, some cartons of milk and a kettle.
George Pike looked at his wife. ‘Looks like we have three-star accommodation, dear.’ He went to the single window and found it to be screwed shut and the panes covered with white paint. He turned to see Joan, who now sat in one of the shabby armchairs. ‘How’re you feeling, old girl?’
She looked at her husband and took in a deep breath. ‘Confused, angry and afraid.’
‘Well, in that case there’s only one thing to do, my dear.’
‘Oh… And what might that be, George?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
In the adjacent bedroom, Kathy Dowling and her two sons had similar accommodation to the Pikes. In the third room, Lady Olivia Grainger and her daughter Caroline stood in silence, their ears pressed hard to the old oak door, and listened to the goings-on across the landing.
Chapter Four
In his Knightsbridge pied-a-terre, Sir Anthony Grainger stood at the window and looked out over the small park. The Ormolu mantel clock softly chimed 4am. He had not slept. He hadn’t eaten, and the pain in his head was getting worse. He went to the bathroom and took some Paracetamol from the cabinet. Returning to the drawing room he poured a small amount of scotch into a crystal tumbler, raised it to his lips, then stopped. No alcohol, need a clear head. Stay calm. Whatever needs to be done, he thought. He picked up a small bottle of sparkling water, cracked the cap, and then washed the pills down. He went to the window again and watched as a taxi dropped off a fare, a couple of houses down the street. He looked up to the big full moon, and said, ‘Please, God. Please protect my girls.’
The sleek black Jaguar pulled up to the curb at six-o’clock. The driver and Special Branch officer were both surprised to see Sir Anthony, uncharacteristically, waiting at the top of the steps. Both men quickly exited the vehicle and, as the driver held open the rear door, the protection officer trotted up the steps, and said, ‘Good morning, Sir Anthony,’
‘Morning.’
The officer frowned slightly at the unexpected curtness, then picked up the small holdall. ‘Everything alright, sir?’
No reply from Grainger, who walked swiftly down to the waiting car. The driver smiled and said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as Grainger climbed in.
The officer dropped the bag into the boot, then looked at the driver, who shrugged. It was clear the Secretary of State was not his usual friendly self today.
The Times newspaper, on the seat next to Grainger, had been left unopened and the crossword, which was usually completed before he arrived at his office, was not attempted. At that hour the drive, from Knightsbridge to London City Heliport, had been reasonably swift and the Jaguar pulled up to the VIP entrance a little after six-thirty.
A security guard came out of the booth and checked the driver’s I.D. Glancing in the back; he recognised Sir Anthony and quickly stepped back. He turned and nodded to his colleague and the heavy electronic gate hissed open. As the Jaguar passed through the guard gave a cursory salute, then watched as the big car drove away.
A couple of minutes later the vehicle pulled up to the rear of the terminal building. Another security guard stepped forward, as the driver quickly got out and flashed his I.D. The guard nodded and stepped back. Sir Anthony, his face solemn, climbed out, as his protection officer collected the bag from the boot.