turned away from the parking meter and, glancing up to where he knew the nearest security video camera was hidden, treated it to a lingering smile. Every little helped. If they knew he was coming it might just cut down the number of security checks he’d have to be stopped for. Picking his way between the buildings, he ducked into the little labyrinth of covered walkways which would bring him to the back of Downing Street and ultimately to the rear security entrance of Number 10.
In fact Davies was stopped only twice, although he suspected he had identified at least two other plain-clothes men, who had allowed him to pass unchallenged. He preferred to assume that this was due to his face having become familiar, rather than security becoming sloppy. There could be no let-up in London’s fight against terrorism.
The final checkpoint, however, was very thorough. Davies waited patiently as the doorman checked his security pass, radioed in his details and paused to await clearance. Finally, he was inside the building and climbing the stairs to Conference Room B.
He pushed open the panelled double doors and stepped into the room, casting his eyes about for any familiar faces. It was always a psychological advantage to re-establish any personal links, however tenuous, Davies had always found. It gave you that little extra clout, should you find yourself out on a limb.
Of the five people already in the room, Davies recognized only two: Michael Wynne-Tilsley, one of the top-echelon parliamentary secretaries, and David Grieves from the ‘green slime’. Davies decided not to bother with Wynne-Tilsley, other than to give him a brief nod. On the single occasion he had had any dealings with the man before, Davies had found him to be a close-lipped, somewhat arrogant little bastard, and far too protective of his job to give out any useful information. He would be better off having a preliminary word with Grieves. The man might be MI6, but he would probably respect Davies’s grade five security clearance enough to give him at least an inkling of what the meeting was about. And forewarned was forearmed. Davies hated going into things blinkered, let alone blind.
He sauntered over to the man, smiling and holding out his hand. ‘David, how are you?’
Grieves accepted the proffered hand a trifle warily. ‘Don’t even ask,’ he warned, though there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Davies grinned sheepishly. ‘Come on, David, you’re here and I’m here, so somebody’s got to be thinking of a joint operation.’
Grieves conceded the point with a vague shrug.
Davies pushed his tactical advantage. ‘So where in this benighted little world are we going to get our feet wet now?’ he asked. ‘First guess: central Africa.’
Grieves smiled. ‘Wrong,’ he said curtly. ‘A bit closer to home and that’s all I’m telling you until the Home Secretary opens the briefing.’
It was scant information, but it was enough to tell Davies two things. First, if the Home Secretary rather than the Foreign Secretary was involved, then it was a sure bet that it was a purely internal matter. Second, Grieves’s guardedness suggested that he had been called to another one of those ‘This Meeting Never Happened’ meetings. It was useful information to have. Briefings conducted on a strictly need-to-know basis were invariably the stickiest.
Wisely, Davies decided not to press the military intelligence man any further. He looked around the room, trying to guess at the identities of the other three occupants. The youngest man looked pretty bland and faceless, and Davies took him to be a minor civil servant of some kind. The other two were a different breed. Both in their late forties or early fifties, they had the unmistakable stamp of those used to exercising authority. The senior of the pair was tantalizingly familiar. Davies felt sure that he ought to recognize the man, quite possibly from exposure in the media. But for the moment, it just would not come.
Grieves followed the direction of his gaze. ‘I take it you recognize McMillan,’ he muttered.
It clicked, finally. Alistair McMillan, Commissioner, Metropolitan Police. Davies must have seen the man’s picture a dozen times over the past few years. Seeing him out of uniform had thrown him off track.
‘And his colleague?’ he asked.
‘Commander John Franks, Drugs Squad,’ Grieves volunteered. ‘Now you know almost as much as I do.’
‘But not for much longer, I hope,’ Davies observed. The Home Secretary had just entered the conference room, flanked by two more parliamentary secretaries. Davies recognized Adrian Bendle from the Foreign Office, and wondered what his presence signified.
The Home Secretary wasted little time. He moved to the octagonal walnut conference table, laying down his papers, and nodding around the room in general greeting. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?’ he suggested as soon as he was seated. He glanced over at Wynne-Tilsley as everyone took their seats. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make the formal introductions and we can get started.’
Introductions over, the Home Secretary looked at them all gravely. ‘I suppose I don’t really need to remind you that this meeting is strictly confidential and unofficial?’
Davies smiled to himself, momentarily. Just as he had suspected, it was one of those. That accounted for the absence of an official recorder in the room. Pulling his face straight again, he joined in the general nods of assent around the table.
‘Good,’ the Home Secretary said, and nodded with satisfaction. He glanced aside at the young parliamentary secretary who had accompanied him. ‘Perhaps if you could close the curtains, we can take a look at what we’re up against.’
The young man rose, crossed the conference room and pulled the thick velvet curtains. Pressing a remote-control panel he held in his hand, he switched on the large-screen video monitor in the far corner of the room.
As the screen flickered into life, the Home Secretary continued. ‘Most of you will probably have seen most of these items on the news over the past few months. However, it will be useful to view them all again in context, so that we can all see the exact nature of the enemy.’
He fell silent as the first of a series of European news reports began.
Davies recognized the first one at once. It was the abduction of the Italian wine millionaire Salvo Frescatini in Milan, some three months previously. The report, cobbled together from amateur video footage, police reconstructions and television news clips, covered the kidnapping, in broad daylight, the subsequent ransom demands of the abductors and the final shoot-out when the Italian police tracked the gang down. It was a bloody encounter which had left eight police officers dead and a score of innocent bystanders wounded. The film ended with a shot of the hostage as the police had finally found him – his trussed body cut to shreds by over two dozen 9mm armour-piercing slugs from Franchi submachine-guns. The kidnappers had been armed like a combat assault team, and were both remarkably professional in their methods and utterly ruthless.
The sequence ended, the venue switching to Germany and more scenes of murderous violence. Angry right-wing mobs razing the hostels of immigrant workers to the ground, desecrated Jewish cemeteries and clips of half a dozen racist murders.
A student riot at the Sorbonne in Paris came next, with graphic images of French riot police lying in pools of their own blood after protest placards had given way to clubs, machetes and handguns.
The screen suddenly went blank. Daylight flooded into the conference room once more as the curtains were drawn back. The Home Secretary studied everyone at the table for a few seconds.
‘France…Italy…Germany,’ he muttered finally. ‘The whole of Europe seems to be suddenly exploding into extremes of violence. Our fears, gentlemen, are that it may be about to happen here.’
There was a long, somewhat shocked silence in the room, finally broken by Adrian Bendle. ‘Perhaps I could take up the story from here, Home Secretary?’ the Foreign Office man suggested.
The Home Secretary agreed with a curt nod, sitting back in his chair. Bendle took centre stage, standing and leaning over the table.
‘As you’re