If The Bed Falls In Page 9

  His attention focussed back onto the apartment. He got to his feet and started to investigate his luxury prison. To escape a box one has two possibilities. Use an existing exit or make one. The easiest exit was not viable. He also knew that the walls were of a double brick construction and breaching them with the handful of toiletry implements presented complementarily in the bathroom was even less viable. That only left the windows, of which there were four. A small frosted affair in the bathroom, a larger one in the bedroom, but with a sheer drop below it, and the picture windows in each of the two receptions. One had the same sheer drop as the bedroom, but the other was about two metres from some metal rails that ran the full height of the building. Joseph assumed they were some sort of maintenance assembly, allowing access to the exterior of the structure. This was the only reasonable way down to the ground. Fighting his way past the heavy-set guard outside the door would be a treacherous route to freedom as Joseph had had all his armaments taken from him, but the guard would be armed. And, however capable Joseph was in combat, there was no way of knowing how competent was the guard. Simmons was no fool. He was unlikely to have put anyone but his best man on sentry duty. So, it would have to be the window, then over to the maintenance railings, then a torturous descent to the ground.

  Joseph walked to the window, and looked down. Eleven floors of thin air, between him and the street below, left him breathless. An uneasy lightness in his testicles caused him to smooth the thighs of his jeans downwards creating more space around his crotch. He scanned the window frame carefully, then turned and headed towards the door. He knocked loudly. After a moment’s pause a voice came from outside.

  “What do you want, Miller?”

  “Can I have a quick word?” Joseph called through the door.

  Another moment passed, then there was a creak as the guard rose from the cane chair.

  “Hold on,” the guard responded.

  The distinct click of a gun being cocked was the next sound that Joseph heard, then the tinny rattle of the key being turned in the lock. The door opened and Joseph was greeted by the muzzle of a Glock G43.

  “Nice gun,” said Joseph.

  “Yeah,” the guard replied with a smile. He chewed languidly on some gum. “Not even fired it yet… at least not at someone.”

  “Trust me,” Joseph looked the man in the eye, “I have no intention of changing that situation.”

  The guard stopped chewing and stared stoically at Joseph.

  “What do you want, Miller?”

  “I noticed you chewing gum as I came into the room.”

  The heavy framed man swayed slightly distributing his weight evenly between his firmly planted feet.

  “So?”

  “Can I have a piece?” Joseph asked simply.

  “You what?”

  “Can I have a piece of your gum,” Joseph reiterated.

  “Really?” the guard asked, frowning.

  “Yep, really,” Joseph affirmed with a smile.

  The guard twitched the Glock.

  “Move back into the room.”

  Joseph slowly backed up a few paces.

  The guard removed his left hand from the gun, simultaneously placing his right index finger onto the trigger. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and produced a stick of gum.

  “Only… tutti-frutti I’m afraid.”

  “I like tutti-frutti,” said Joseph.

  The guard flared his nostrils a little and breathed heavily.

  “Good,” the guard said slowly, and tossed a stick of gum towards Joseph who caught it deftly in his left hand. The guard nodded nervously, then reached for the door handle.

  “Thanks,” Joseph said, standing completely still; the piece of gum nestling in his hand.

  “You’re… welcome,” the guard intoned, then closed and locked the door.

  Joseph waited another moment until he heard the large bulk of the guard strain the integrity of the cane chair, then he returned to the window. He ran a finger around the frame, stopping at a point near the top, right corner. The stick of gum was still in his left hand. Joseph pushed the foil covered stick from the paper wrapper, then carefully removed the gum from the silver foil. Taking the foil between the index finger and thumb of his left hand, he let the paper fall to the floor and put the gum into his mouth. Joseph reached up and slid the foil between the window and frame at the point he had established a moment before. Then while holding the foil in place, he opened the window. Joseph kept pressure on the foil ensuring it remained firmly against the two contacts of the window alarm. He reached up to his mouth and removed the chewed gum, which he used to fix the foil in place. Now, with both hands free, he opened the window fully. He leant out, holding on tightly to the window frame. Momentarily he wished he was facing a battalion of burly, Glock-wielding guards rather than this vertiginous challenge. He gingerly stepped through the aperture and was immediately buffeted by gusting London winds.

  Now fully outside on the window-ledge he made an attempt to reach the first metal rail. His body was manoeuvrable and supple, but his arms were just too short. Joseph tried a second time, stretching every last sinew, feeling tendons in his fingers cramping with the exertion, but he was still short by a good half metre.

  Although he wanted to deny it, jumping was the only solution. But a failed jump would mean falling; crashing against bone-breaking walls and being lacerated on protuberances until finally hitting the ground eleven floors below. Falling was not an option. He steadied himself on the window-ledge, focused on the nearest rail, bent his legs slightly and began to spring upwards. A moment into this one-chance-movement, a truck way below on the Thames embankment hit its horn. The sudden noise rose up to Joseph with frightening urgency. Startled, he tried to arrest the jump, but his momentum had passed the point of no return. The sandstone building, then blue sky, then an aerial view of London below, flashed past his eyes. He grabbed frantically at everything, but his hands were either met with empty air or abrasive stone that afforded no purchase, and only painfully removed lumps of skin. When the spinning and panic stopped, Joseph found himself hanging by his fingertips from the same ledge on which he had moments before been standing. He had travelled two metres downwards, but not a centimetre nearer to the rail, and his acute acrophobia pulled at him like malevolent gravity.

  His painful fingers felt wet and sticky against the rough stonework ledge, but although his courage flagged, his sense of purpose would not give up. He began to swing from side to side, gaining momentum and speed. ‘The next one,’ he thought, as he performed his last swing away from the rail, bending at the waist to increase his range when he finally let go. His fingers slipped their moorings and he was airborne. Then, a moment later, he crashed into the metal rail, which he clasped to himself with arms and legs like a desperate lover.

  Now, as long as he didn’t look down, the descent should have been easy. But he did look down. He found himself spinning around the greasy rail like a novice pole-dancer, then slammed against an eighth floor plate-glass window. He opened his eyes, and a familiar face smiled awkwardly back at him. Sitting at a desk, facing the window, was the flunky that had earlier shown Joseph to the executive apartment.

  The young man rose, and slowly made his way across to the window. He carefully opened it.

  “Are you okay, Sir?” he asked tentatively.

  “Not totally, no,” Joseph replied.

  “Would you like to come inside?” the flunky continued.

  “That, my friend, would be an extraordinarily good idea,” Joseph said as the young man helped him through the window.

  The two men stood looking at each other in silence.

  “You haven’t asked why I was outside,” Joseph remarked.

  The flunky swallowed hard.

  “No Sir. I haven’t.”

  “Is that good manners or are you unsure of how to handle the subsequent conversation?”

  “The latter, Sir. Although I do have very good manners,” the flunky said, carefu
lly.

  “I have no doubt… Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Cyril, Sir… My parents had a strange sense of humour,” replied the young man.

  “Cyril’s not a bad name,” commented Joseph.

  “But it’s not a good one, is it, Sir?”

  Joseph smiled tightly, and looked around the room before speaking.

  “So, what do you know about the situation?”

  “Well, Sir, I know that a Blue alert was issued regarding you, and therefore I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  “A Blue alert!” Joseph echoed, “I feel quite honoured.”

  “I think you have a right to be. I’ve been here three years and the only other Blue that’s been issued was for a crazed terrorist that escaped custody two years ago… Would you like to sit down, Sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  The two men sat.

  “And what happened to this crazed terrorist two years ago, Cyril?” Joseph asked as he inspected his hands and the damage they had sustained outside.

  “He was shot dead, Sir.” Joseph looked up. Cyril pointed over his shoulder towards the door. “Right out there.”

  “I see.” Joseph raised his eyebrows and chewed his lip. “So, what do you intend to do now?” Cyril shook his head slowly. “You should turn me in, Cyril. I’m a Blue.”

  “Yes, Sir… I suppose I should.”

  Both men’s eyes drifted to the phone on Cyril’s desk. The young man looked up.

  “I guess I’m a very bad employee, Sir.”

  “Terrible, I’d say… Mistakes like that could get you killed.”

  “My bowels are well aware of that, Sir.”

  “I’m guessing that you don’t believe the Blue is warranted?”

  “I do not, Sir.”

  “Is that your naïvety speaking again?”

  Cyril rubbed his knees as he spoke.

  “I’ve been studying your files for the last three years, Sir. I’m a profiler. I look at evidence and work out who the people are behind the reports. I know it may be seen as immodest, but I’m rather good at it… Whatever they say, Sir, I know that you could never be deserving of a Blue alert.”

  “So,” Joseph said, painfully rising from his chair, “what do you think I’m going to do with you?… In your professional opinion?”

  Cyril swallowed hard again.

  “I rather think you are not at liberty to leave me as a threat, Sir.”

  Joseph studied the young man’s face carefully.

  “Is that what you are? A threat? Would you turn me in?”

  “No, Sir, I most definitely would not. But I’ve put you in a difficult position. You are on the eighth floor of a very secure building full of highly trained and armed agents. You have to get away. Best ways it will take you several minutes to get out into the street. However, it would only take me a couple of seconds to raise the alarm… I must, therefore, be considered a threat, whatever I may tell you.”

  “You have a very methodical brain, Cyril. Even under extreme duress,” Joseph commented.

  “Thank you, Sir. That means the world coming from you.”

  “You’re very welcome. In other circumstances I would be championing you for a field position.”

  “Really, Sir? Do you mean that?”

  “Really Cyril, I do.”

  They looked kindly at each other in silence.

  “How will you do it, Sir?” Cyril’s voice tremored slightly.

  Joseph walked around the room.

  “I could just tie you up?”

  “And I could scream the place down, Sir,” Cyril countered.

  “I’d gag you.”

  “I’m sure you would, Sir.”

  Cyril went silent. Joseph turned to him.

  “But that may not be enough?” Joseph enquired.

  “You were right about me, Sir. I would indeed make a very good field agent. I’m extraordinarily resourceful.”

  “So, you’d find a way to raise the alarm, whatever I did?”

  “No, Sir. I would not… But you can’t know that.”

  Joseph sighed.

  “Do you have a gun, Cyril?”

  “Is that how you intend to do it, Sir?” Joseph looked at Cyril and sighed again. “In the cabinet behind you, Sir.”

  Joseph moved to the cabinet, opened the drawers until he found the weapon. He laughed and turned holding a Walther PPK.

  “What else would you expect me to have, Sir?”

  Joseph walked slowly back towards Cyril and stood behind him. He checked the gun over, finding it fully loaded. Cyril had become rigid, but kept his gaze straight ahead.

  “You’ll make it quick, Sir?”

  “I promise you won’t feel a thing, Cyril,” Joseph said, pointing the gun at the back of the young man’s head.

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  Chapter 12

  John Edwards entered the House of Commons deep in thought. Unlike the throngs of tourists around him, he appeared as if he belonged there. He neither looked at or even noticed the grand architecture he walked through. Many of the policemen that manned the security posts were familiar with his face, and only a cursory glance was made of his ID, and sometimes not even that.

  Edwards entered one of the many bars and sat at a round wooden table on one of the two high backed red leather chairs that flanked it. He picked up a copy of the Times, scanned it for a few minutes then put it back onto the table, but had not digested a word. A cough made him look up into the wrinkled face of Charles Woodger, Minister for the Interior. Edwards jumped to his feet.

  “No, no, John, do sit down. I’m not the Queen,” said Woodger.

  The two men sat down.

  “Charles, I need to know some of the details…” Edwards began, but Woodger was distracted by a waiter, at whom he snapped his fingers.

  “What will you have, John?” Woodger asked.

  “Oh,” Edwards stammered, “Err, gin and tonic?”

  “Are you asking or ordering?” Woodger teased. Superior ridicule oozed from every syllable.

  “No, a ‘G’ and ‘T’ would be great,” Edwards reiterated, apologetically and still with the upwards inflection of a question.

  “Usual for me,” Woodger instructed the aproned man hovering at his shoulder.

  The waiter moved away towards the bar. Woodger turned his attention back to Edwards.

  “What were you saying?” Woodger inquired, but before Edwards could answer the minister’s focus had moved to a small group of colleagues that had just entered the bar. He looked back to Edwards.

  “So, have you managed to get any golf in recently?” Woodger asked.

  “Sorry?” replied Edwards.

  “You’re a keen golfer, no?” continued Woodger.

  “No, not really,” said Edwards.

  “Oh, right. Could have sworn you were.”

  “No, hate the game really.”

  “You don’t say,” said Woodger, taking his drink from the tray being offered to him by the waiter who had just returned, “I wonder who I’m thinking of, then?”

  “No idea, Charles. I’ve never played the game in my life,” explained Edwards.

  “My god, man. Never! Golf is like sex; when it’s good it’s great, and when it’s bad… it’s still pretty good.”

  “I’m not big on sport, Charles. I’ve got this tricky knee, you see. Broke my patella when I was eleven climbing over a wall, scrumping,” said Edwards.

  “And you’ve been scrabbling around in other peoples gardens ever since, right?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You advise governments on their business, but keep your own hands clean,” explained Woodger.

  “I’m not afraid to get my own hands dirty.”

  “Really,” said Woodger, “So why have you never gone into politics yourself?”

  “I guess because I’m better on the sidelines rather than the playing-field.”

  “I guess you are… with t
hat dicky knee of yours.”

  “Anyway,” Edwards said, shifting in his chair and trying to change the subject, “everything is going well at British Metals, but they need some details.”

  “How is Thandie?” Woodger said with a smirk.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good looking woman, eh?” Woodger looked at Edwards, his smirk broadening, “I don’t suppose you and her ever…?”

  “I’m married, Charles!”

  “Yes, of course you are… Clean hands, eh?… So, what details did you mean?”

  Edwards took a file from his briefcase, and opened it on the table.

  “As I said, everything’s set up, but we can’t finalise the plans until we have the timings.”

  “The timings?” echoed Woodger, “What timings?”

  “The exact timings of the President’s visit to the factory.”

  “But I’ve told you, we can’t disclose the exact schedule until the CIA tell us.”

  “And they haven’t told you yet?”

  “Well, yes, actually they have, but we are not allowed to disclose those details until they tell us we can,” Woodger explained.

  “But surely you can tell me? I mean, I’m not a terrorist or anything, am I?”

  “But can I be sure of that? I mean you don’t even play golf.”

  “Charles, we are talking about a factory of five hundred people. A visit from the President of the United States takes some considerable planning.”

  “Well, plan away. That’s what we pay you for.”

  “I am planning, Charles, but we are planning in the dark if you won’t finalise the details.”

  Woodger sat back in his chair. The leather creaked expensively.

  “Thirteenth of July. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”

  “Okay, that’s a start,” Edwards made some notes in his file, then looked up. “What time?”

  “I am not allowed to say.”