“I love you my Darling,” Thomas said towards Nara ignoring his bodyguard’s words, tears abundant in his eyes knowing he was losing her and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
A few moments later a hand on his shoulder brought him back from the depths of his mind as he held Nara limply in his arms.
“She’s gone, Thomas,” said Mikhail his voice full of sorrow.
“I know, I know,” he said repeatedly in anguish before turning his head looking up towards Mikhail with a stare of the devil. A look that gave the hardened bodyguard shivers all the way through his spine.
58
London
The despicable and horrific attack made news everywhere for a week around the world. Questions had been asked why, knowing that VIPs’ children were at the school, it had taken thirty minutes for the nearest armed police unit, and medical units to descend on the school in force having been alerted by the two armed security officers. Additional questions were then asked as to how something like this could happen again at a school in his country. Each time, the Chief Constable and the Home Secretary tried their best to give a sensible answer. Each time both failed in the process.
As the dust settled the facts began to come forth.
The assassination team had killed fifteen parents, five teachers, and more terribly six children and wounding another ten in trying to kill Thomas.
He had lost Nara and his unborn child when she had shielded their little girl.
Unsurprisingly Victoria, had had become withdrawn and silent as the direct result of the trauma of seeing her mother die before her eyes. Not even Tania could get a word out of her.
Every night the little girl would climb into his bed and only then would she fall asleep in his arms.
Although he had returned all the numerous calls of condolences from his associates, Presidents, Prime Ministers, and his and Nara’s friends, lost to his demons and grief just like his daughter, Thomas withdrew from the normal world and society.
Within days six men were arrested in the manhunt that followed, now all that remained was the ringleader, a Somali only known as Ahmed.
Although the press speculated to the causes of the attack privately Thomas knew who had ordered it.
With the coroner ordering an inquest into the deaths of all the victims of the school massacre, Thomas was told he had to wait until the body had been assessed for evidence. It had taken ten days for that to happen.
Replacing the phone in his study having just been told he was allowed collect Nara’s body, Thomas took a moment to mentally pull together.
He stiffening his back, straightening his neck then went to find Tania so he could ask her if he could bury her alongside his mother at the family plot at his father’s estate.
“I am sure our Gunara would like that, Thomas,” the woman answered who had aged ten years over the last week as she hugged him in tears sobbing in the sitting room of her bedroom.
“Thank you,” was all he could reply fighting his own grief.
Back in his study, still just holding it together he picked up the phone again. He paused briefly then dialed the number of his father’s office. Immediately he was transferred to Rufus when he announced whom he was.
It had been almost thirty-one years since he last spoke to his father.
“Thomas, I am so very sorry!” the merchant banker said as if they had only spoken yesterday, the second he came on the phone.
“Thank you Father,” replied the man, no longer the angry youth of eighteen.
“I will ensure the family plot is prepared for her alongside your mother,” his father stated, knowing why after all these years he had called him.
“Thank you Father,” Thomas answered again before putting down the phone so not to allow his father to speak any further.
Arriving at the TLH private office Rebecca was immediately shown into the conference room on the ground floor. She declined the offer of refreshments and chose to stand as she waited for Thomas to come.
The last ten days had been a whirlwind to say the least.
When she heard of the attempted assassination and the carnage she immediately asked her counterparts at MI5 if she could question the arrested members of the hit team. After a week of giving her the run around they finally gave her permission to do so. It hadn’t taken her long to break one of the young Somali refugees who up to that point like his colleagues hadn’t said a word despite intense questioning by the locals and the comic relief of Thames House.
Walking into the room Rebecca had quickly taken up position opposite the young man of no more than eighteen, she could tell straight away by the expression on his face he was terrified despite his lack of words.
Her assessment was that he more than likely was a refugee roped in by his Principals on fear of the threat of death of his family in Somalia if he did not do as ordered. She didn’t pity him as he had made his choice, and it was one that would cost him the rest of his life in prison just like his colleagues.
To break him, all she had to do was put a picture under his nose of Ahmed and Wasir to get the answer she had known was right. The look of fear in his eyes told her everything.
“That was quick!” commented the impressed Chief Inspector observing her when she got up without asking a question.
“They belong to the Clan of the former Interior Minister of Adwalland,” she offered as a courtesy towards him. “We will send you over any relevant files we have them,” she added as she left in the interview room hardly less than a couple minutes of sitting down in.
Sitting in Vauxhall Bridge updating the DG, as to who was behind the attack on one of Britain’s most significant businessmen the Head of MI6 she was told.
“Rebecca, the PM wants this bloody bugger caught!” stated the senior officer reflecting on his rather uncomfortable meeting with the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary yesterday when he was informed in no uncertain terms that Britain should not be used to settle debts like something out of the eighteenth century. Such was the depth of public outrage over the murdering of children it was politically damaging the Government. The world’s press were like a swarm of hornets, anything even remotely related to Litchfield was looked at: his links to the Russian President, the fact that an armed police unit was only there to limit the casualties because he held a diplomat passport of Russia, his influence in the corridors of power of Westminster and so on.
The situation was a hot potato, to put it mildly.
“Even the bloody Yanks have washed their hands of him!” he continued making reference to the fact that they covertly supported Wasir’s coup attempt despite denials.
“We believe he is in Mauritania, Sir,” Michael offered, drawing upon from the intelligence that an aircraft belonging to one of the companies Wasir was linked had flown out of Bristol airport two hours after the attack with a passenger that looked like the ringleader onboard.
It had taken them a week to find out that the aircraft had flown first to Madeira then changed it flight plan mid-flight by taking a detour to Mauritania instead of Eritrea.
“Really?”
“Is that confirmed?” asked the DG, looking for a bone for the Foreign Secretary, his immediate superior, to gnaw on.
“Yes, the Americans confirmed it for us,” Rebecca answered. Something she had only just found out about, when to her surprise an English sounding voice had called her back a couple of days before in response to having asked Langley if it were case due to the fact they had assets on the ground. The voice confirmed the inquiry and then followed up with an email attaching surveillance footage to confirm it.