‘Pretty big site,’ said Bokus as he looked at them.
‘The compound in the middle belongs to the pirates. We think the tents at the bottom are their Middle Eastern visitors.’
‘Al Qaeda,’ Fane declared.
‘Or Al Shebab,’ said Bokus.
‘Same thing to all intents and purposes,’ snapped Fane.
Martin, who had been quietly watching this Battle of the Titans, winked at Liz.
Then Bokus said, ‘An F-16 could keep these guys pinned down easy.’
‘There are almost certainly hostages in the camp,’ Liz said firmly. ‘Attractive as an air strike may sound, think of the repercussions if you kill the captain of an oil tanker being held to ransom.’
‘Shit happens,’ Bokus said with a shrug, and turned to resume his argument with Fane. We’re getting nowhere, thought Liz, her mind busily reviewing options to resolve the stalemate.
Then Martin Seurat broke in, so quietly at first that it took Fane and Bokus, in mid-argument, a minute to realise he was speaking. ‘Gentlemen, it seems to me each of your positions is reasonable. But also completely incompatible. I have an alternative to propose.’
Bokus and Fane stopped talking and both turned to look suspiciously at him as he continued. ‘You will remember that the last time pirates attempted to seize the Aristides, they were foiled by the French Navy. It so happens that the corvette responsible is currently patrolling the same waters. I would propose that this be the vessel that should intervene if there is a new attempt – we are talking days from now, and the ship is already in place.’
‘So you’re saying the French should run the show?’ said Bokus irritably.
‘Not at all. I am merely pointing out that we have the advantage of knowing the Aristides, and that we are already in position.’ Before Bokus could protest, he went on, ‘I suggest the British be responsible in the event – unlikely, we hope – that it’s necessary to put a force down on land. I am sure our own commandos could do the job, but I am happy to defer to the expertise of your special forces, Geoffrey and Liz.’
That should satisfy Fane, thought Liz, as she quietly assessed Martin’s diplomacy, but it still left Bokus to be appeased. Martin now turned to the American. ‘Monsieur, I accept your argument that airpower might be useful. But in this situation, where it will be very difficult to distinguish between the innocent and the enemy, I think helicopters would be the most advantageous. If you can have a ship within ten miles or so of the coast, they could put in reinforcements as needed to either the Aristides or the pirates’ camp. They would have adequate firepower if there is resistance, but also have the ability to be – how should I say? – discriminating in who they attack. And, most important, they could transport people out if needed – casualties, freed hostages or prisoners.’
It was a good argument, Liz thought, and to his credit Bokus seemed to see that. Moreover, if Bokus couldn’t win the argument with Fane, Seurat’s solution also meant he wouldn’t entirely lose. He conceded, ‘It makes sense.’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Liz.
Fane didn’t say anything. He looked unhappy, though Liz sensed this was not because he had any objection to the plan itself, but because the compromise came from Seurat. Eventually Fane gave a grudging nod. Then, reasserting his position as chairman of the meeting, he said, ‘Well, if that’s agreed then we’d better decide how to co-ordinate all the planning.’
Well done, Martin, thought Liz, as they exchanged glances.
Chapter 45
When Peggy Kinsolving had done her research on the background of the various employees in UCSO’s two offices, she hadn’t bothered with UCSO’s Chief Executive, David Blakey. She knew he was an ex-MI6 officer and had left it at that. After all, no one could say that MI6 was casual about its recruitment and he certainly wouldn’t have been employed there if there had been any doubt about his background.
But Peggy hated loose ends and the loose ends in Blakey’s case were the five years since he’d left MI6. So really just to satisfy herself, she decided to put him under her investigative microscope.
Her friend Millie the Moaner was now working in the Personnel Department of MI6 – or Human Resources as even MI6 called it now – and she got permission for Peggy to see Blakey’s file. It recorded his recruitment, after he’d been talent-spotted while working on a postgraduate Politics thesis; his various postings; his marriage to Dorothy, who had been his secretary in Copenhagen, and their separation and divorce. It was clear from the confidential reports by his various Heads of Station that his performance had been acceptable if never outstanding. But there was something about Blakey that was frequently mentioned; his relationships with women, both before and after his marriage. He had been warned repeatedly that his behaviour was not compatible with his secret work, and eventually his blatant relationship with a woman from the German Foreign Office, whom he met when he was posted to Berlin, had caused the break-up of his marriage, and ultimately his departure from the Service.
Peggy thought she now had a pretty clear idea of the sort of man David Blakey was, but she did not immediately see how that could be relevant to the goings on in the UCSO office in Athens. In any case, he might have changed; it was more than five years since the last page in his file had been added – the reference the Service had written in support of his application for the post he now held in UCSO. But Peggy was like a bloodhound once she was on the trail, and she decided to take a closer look at Mr Blakey.
David Blakey lived in a flat north of Baker Street. It was an area that had once been a mixture of working-class housing and quiet middle-class mansion blocks, a neighbourhood that had never been chic – until the last ten years, when prices for even a studio apartment topped £400,000 and many property owners found themselves, on paper at least, millionaires. When a newsagent’s closed, or the local ironmonger’s, it was replaced these days by an estate agent or a smart flower shop. Like all Londoners, Peggy looked at the affluent area and wished she had bought something there when she first came to London six or seven years before; though, like most Londoners her age, she hadn’t had the money then to buy property of any sort.
She stopped at the corner nearest to Blakey’s flat, and took a clipboard out of her briefcase; fastened to it were a few official-looking forms she’d had run up by Printing. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, buttoned up her jacket, and walked purposefully up to the door of the mansion block. She rang the bell of 2C, which her researches had told her was on the same landing as Blakey’s flat, 3C. After a moment a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Goodhart? I’m from the Electoral Register,’ Peggy said, holding up to the entry camera a quite realistic-looking identity card, also run up by Printing. ‘I’m confirming current occupancy in this block. May I have a word, please?’
‘All right,’ the woman said resignedly, and buzzed her in.
Inside, the entrance hall was deserted. Peggy ignored the brass cage lift and took the stairs, arriving on the second-floor landing only slightly out of breath. The door of 2C was on its chain, open just a crack, but the sight of Peggy apparently reassured Mrs Goodhart and she took off the chain and opened the door.
To Peggy’s eyes, Mrs Goodhart looked as if she had dressed for a wedding – smart silk suit, golden hair swept tightly back into a knot at the nape of her neck. ‘Will this take long? I’m going out for lunch and I need to leave in five minutes.’
‘No. I just have a few questions,’ said Peggy, flashing her a charming smile. ‘Only one side, you see,’ she added, holding up her clipboard.
The woman laughed. ‘Come in then. It’s a bit bleak standing out here on the landing.’