Chapter 2: I Spy With My Tired Eye

Saturday June 27th, 2015. Dallas Road, Ealing.

“Good morning.”

“You’re up early?” said Kelly, who I found scooping yoghurt into a bowl of muesli when I sauntered into the kitchen. She’d spent the night at my house, in her own room.

“Are you kidding? It’s five minutes past eight! I’ve been staring at the ceiling for half an hour, trying to get back to sleep.”

“Well, give it another go. Or give me ten minutes and I’ll come and wear you out.”

“Cheeky cow,” I muttered, as I filled the tea kettle from the tap. Kelly just giggled. She had called me while dad drove me home after dinner, asking if it was okay for her to spend the night. Given that she slept at our house half the week and had her own room and front door key that wasn’t strictly necessary, but she would always check. I was a bit surprised, because she usually went out with friends on a Friday and her parents’ house was about as far from central London as ours.

“Hi, can I sleep with you?” she asked, because she loves double entendres.

“What, on a Friday? Are you planning to hide a hangover from your parents?”

“No. I just feel like it. I miss Eddie.”

“Edwin. He’s not a Martian crater.”

“Oh, there’s a crater called Eddie, is there? I found that Belgian singer, too. Eddy Wallie.”

“I didn’t know you kept track.”

“Well, I do. Anyway, I’ll be in at around midnight, so don’t wait up.”

“I won’t. Listen, sweetheart, there’s nobody home. Kate is on assignment and Melody is spending the night at her mother’s place and she’s got Edwin with her.”

“So you’re home alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m definitely coming over.”

I sighed.

“That joke is wearing rather thin, Kelly. I’m flattered, but tonight is not...”

“You should be, but that’s not what I mean. I’m coming over because of your night terrors. Suppose you get one tonight! God knows what you’ll do if nobody intervenes. Mobilise Ealing, probably. Or dig a moat around Dallas Road.”

“Very funny.”

“No, it isn’t. But you shouldn’t be alone. So you’d better sleep in your skivvies, because if I hear howling I’m coming in.”

Truth be told, I was glad she’d be there. There was every chance I’d have one tonight.

“I’ll leave the door off the latch, then. Have a great evening, Kelly.”

“You too, Martin.”

I’d gone to bed as soon as I came in, but I read a book until I heard her coming up the stairs. She saw the light through the transom window and briefly stepped into my bedroom.

“Hi. I’m home safe and sound. You can go to sleep now, Carstairs.”

“Thank you, Miss Kelly. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”

“Yeah. Plenty of offers to get laid. Turned them all down.”

“Good.”

Fortunately I had a quiet night, so we met again over breakfast.

“Got any plans?” she asked, as I joined her while I waited for the kettle to boil.

“Yes, I’m going to Homebase and I’ll wash the car on the way back. Wanna come?”

“God, no! So what’s the job today?”

“Replacing some tiles in the garden.”

“Well, have fun with that. Mum is picking me up in half an hour. Will you be here alone tonight as well?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. Then I’ll sleep at home. Sunday morning coffee with something nice still on?”

“Always. I may get something from the supermarket, though. I might not have time to bake something.”

“I can bake a cake with mum. Give us a shout if you can’t manage. Can I shower first?”

“Sure. Just don’t leave any weird circles anywhere.”

“Oh, you bastard!”

Granted, that was a cheap shot. Even so, I got a kiss on my cheek before she went upstairs.

Kelly left the house while I was in the shower. I changed into jeans and a button-down shirt, grabbed the keys to my Seat Leon and drove straight to the Armstrong training academy, which is located just outside Twickenham. It used to be an airfield, in the days when those were dotted around London and consisted of little more than a fenced off field and a hangar. The grounds were surrounded by a trench and a metal fence, which you could see through if you were prepared to crawl through quite a lot of thorny brushwood. There was a model village, not model in scale but in that it contained fake houses, office buildings and, surprisingly, an oil rig where all sorts of dramas could be reenacted. They could stage a bank robbery turned hostage situation, a fire drill or a large scale riot there, depending on who was the customer that day, be it the police to practice crowd control or fire fighters getting their certificates renewed. That was the public face of Armstrong Security. But there was also a division that handled security for clients such as Keller & Fox. Clients who, on occasion, needed a protective detail or a secured transport. Our drivers all trained at this facility and I had joined them recently, to get some exercise and because Caroline felt I might benefit from knowing what to do in an emergency.

Right now the parking lot was half full with mostly black, mid-range cars. Volvos, Volkswagens, Toyotas. Everyone had backed into their space, one of the habits you get into when you do security for a living. Four silver Land Rovers stood parked nearest the door. Pray you never see those pull out of a side street when you’re driving around, because you are probably getting nabbed. Armstrong Securities solves all kinds of problems and they’re willing to break the law for their clients, up to a point anyway. They’re not murderers, but they will cheerfully kick your teeth in if you decide to jump on stage during a performance where you’re not wanted, or if you’re found hiding in a hotel room closet, waiting for your idol to go to bed so you can declare your love or offer your body. And they will also snatch you off the street if Caroline Keller says she will bear the consequences.

A woman in her mid thirties, dressed like a well to do soccer mom, opened the door for me. I could hear gunshots in the background.

“Carstairs! How have you been!”

Apparently we were on a hugging basis. I wasn’t aware, but I’ve learned to deal with that.

“Hi Lara, good to see you. Thanks for accommodating me.”

“Sure. Your guests are running a bit late. Care to join in some shooting exercises?”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

I’ve never had formal training in handling firearms, but I’ve had a go with a few courtesy of my friend Wayne. You may know him as ‘The Tank’. He’s done more movies than I’ve had hot dinners and two or three of them are actually worth watching. That’s his joke, by the way. Wayne lives on a farm ... I’m sorry, a RANCH, and has a shed ... BARN ... where he shoots glass bottles, old lamps, basically anything he can buy for cheap at a car boot sale. (Or is that a trunk sale?) He’ll buy five awful plates that belonged to someone’s dead grandmother, smile as he listens to the story of how granny once had the mayor over for dinner and how pleased she would be that her dinnerware will find a new home with someone who appreciates quality flatware and then he’ll take them to his barn and shoot the shit out of them. Same with small pieces of furniture, paintings, basically anything he can get for a few bucks and destroy with his shotgun. It’s hilarious. And it’s how I learned to shoot, or rather how I learned to shoot without killing or crippling myself. Lesson number one: shooting is loud. Very loud. If we all shot people like they do in the movies we’d go deaf in an instant and spend the rest of our lives battling with horrible tinnitus. Lessons two and three are basically the same, but they focus on toes and bystanders rather than ear drums. Only at around lesson four did Wayne discuss what happens when you actually get shot, which he seemed to consider far less likely and far less dangerous than hearing loss. So I learned that lesson well and the rest of it is mostly about not being an idiot and learning how much of a kickback you get from various sorts of weapons, or burning yourself on the barrel. There are a lot of ‘hilarious’ clips on YouTube featuring people who knock their own teeth out with the butt of a rifle or an oversized pistol, simply because they have no idea that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So I knew a little about the earplugs, the stance, the safety procedures and the fact that a gun gets quite hot after you’ve emptied a clip. But a gun, to me, was just a gun. A tool to have some fun with, but not something that should become a part of your identity.

The Armstrong shooting gallery was exactly as you’ve seen them on TV, with five lanes and a metal rail that would deliver the target card to you after the Range Master had made sure it was safe to take off the hearing protection. I had shot five bullets on my first try and had missed three times. One of them hadn’t even hit the card. But the other two shots weren’t too bad: I’d hit the target’s chin and his left shoulder.

“Not too shabby, Carstairs!” said someone behind me, as a meaty hand landed on my shoulder.

“Oh, hi Tom! How nice of you to lie.”

I turned round and shook the hand of a tall, muscular guy I had met during my last training session.

“Yeah. William, actually. Tom was the other one. Never mind. Have you done this before?”

“Over a year ago. Shooting bottles in a barn.”

“What did you use?”

“Oh, I can never remember. Just a gun. Some sort of ... gun type gun. With bullets.”

Lara laughed and William rolled his eyes. I’m sorry, I just don’t know or care about guns.

“Take it outside, guys,” said the man who was supervising the shooting gallery. “Shooters! Approach the line!”

“Well, that was fun,” I said, as we left the shooting range and stepped into the canteen. It was all as homely and luxurious as a Serbian youth hostel, but most of the people who came here didn’t care and the others, such as myself, just had to suck it up.

“Lara! G-men are here!” yelled someone who had been put in charge of minding the main entrance.

“You can use my office. Why don’t you go ahead and take the best seat. Leave the blind up, so the sun is in their eyes,” said Lara, slapping my shoulder. Have I mentioned Lara owns the company and is quite dangerous? She pretends to be a waitress or a lost fan and then BANG, you’re on the ground with her shoe on your chest. I like her a lot, even though she gave me half a dozen bruises in the first week I trained with her. She’ll do whatever it takes to teach you about security, even if that means letting you pat her down five times in a row to find a razor blade she’s hidden on her person, in exactly the same place where a mad fangirl would hide it. I’ll leave that to your imagination. (What?! Not even an insane woman would hide it THERE, you pervert. Butt crack! Much safer. Wrapped in toilet tissue, obviously.)

I stepped into her office, which looked vaguely like Indiana Jones had stepped out for a smoke break. A steel desk, a black steel barrel that served as a side table, two wooden crates labeled ‘Peru’ and some maps on the wall. The seats were old office chairs and no two were alike. I leaned against the desk with my arms folded and waited for my guests to be shown in. William knocked and opened the door.

“Your visitors are here, boss. They’re clean. Go right in, fellas. Oh, I’ll hang on to that for ya.”

Two men walked in. I’d met them before. Sir Rupert seemed to find it all very amusing, as if he was being led through the pre-show of an amusement park ride. He scanned the room as he extended his hand.

“Martin! How lovely to see you! My, you have interesting friends!”

“FUCK!” said the second man, following Dupree in, as William relieved him of his suitcase.

“I’m sure you’ll get it back, Simon. Martin, you remember Commander Sixsmith with MI6, right?”

“WHY WAS I BEING FRISKED?”

“Why are you bringing guns to a meeting?” I asked, as I pointed out two chairs and sat down behind the desk.

“Because I don’t leave them in the car and I have more to do today! Bloody hell, I thought we’d be meeting in some kind of office.”

“Well, you are. Kind of.”

Someone on the range unloaded a full clip. Others cheered.

“Are those gunshots?!”

“Yes. I’m surprised you don’t recognise them. Sir Rupert, thank you for seeing me.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine! Such a nice outing. I don’t really get out of the city all that often. Although we do have tables and chairs in Marsham Street, you know.”

Sir Rupert was a man in his sixties, with grey curls and rather a cheeky smile. Last time I saw him he was wearing a herringbone suit, but now he was dressed in slacks and a knitted vest. This man was the most senior civil servant at the Home Office. Ministers would come and go, but Sir Rupert had been a constant for the past thirteen years, the crowning glory of a life in the civil service. I was pretty sure that pleasant smile could disappear at any minute if this meeting went the wrong way, though. I’d seen it happen.

“Well, I can’t help hearing Caroline’s words echoing through my mind. And the fact that you threatened me stuck in my craw, too. So I’d rather play a home game for this.”

“Ah, yes. Very unfortunate. A misunderstanding, I’m afraid. But you do realise the Official Secrets Act still applies, right? These gentlemen...”

He gestured to the door, behind which many people were taking classes, shooting guns and presumably having a great time doing manly stuff. I know I enjoyed it.

“Know nothing. No details, at any rate. Just that I needed a place to have a quiet, unrecorded conversation. Which they provide, for a small fee.”

“Good. And your family?”

“I never said a word.”

“Excellent. Well, in that case I propose we get to business. I gather you have had a change of heart vis a vis our request?”

I answered with a question of my own:

“I’m sure you’re aware of the terrorist attack at Paddington Underground station?”

Dupree pulled a serious face.

“Very much so.”

“I lost someone in that attack. Someone very dear to me. And I came very close to losing much, much more.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?”

“I’m friends with Diana Albinson.”

“Oh. I see. My condolences. And who else was involved?”

“I don’t really want to discuss the details. But I would like to know if there is a connection between the attack and the nephew of prince Asim you asked me to go keep an eye on.”

Dupree and Sixsmith exchanged a brief glance. Sixsmith nodded. Dupree cleared his throat.

“We do not usually discuss ongoing investigations outside the intelligence community, but I suppose in this case I should be open with you. While we are reasonably certain that prince Omar, the cousin you are referring to, is in some way connected to the explosion on the number thirteen bus, we have not yet tied him to the attacks at Paddington. However, that is our primary route of investigation. In our experience, it is very unlikely two completely unrelated entities conduct similar attacks.”

“They’re not that similar. The bus was just an explosion,” I remarked.

“Not quite. That explosion was intended to attract the emergency services and cause a panic. We managed to apprehend two men who were ready to start a shooting spree. The bomb on the bus appears to have gone off at the wrong time, because the person carrying it was unaware of its nature and so the thing had to be on a timer. This caused some confusion with the attackers, which allowed us to apprehend them. This has not been made public knowledge, for obvious reasons.”

There was a knock on the door. Lara entered after I answered, holding a tray with mismatched mugs and half a role of digestives. They weren’t even on a saucer: just half a role, torn in two as if we were builders on a construction site.

“Tea? I brought one coffee, just in case.”

She was doing it right now: playing innocent, pretending to be nothing more than a secretary or an office worker, charged with bringing in tea. The first time we met I fell for that act and ten seconds later she had me pinned down. Dupree reached for a mug.

“Lovely, thank you. I’m sure Simon would prefer coffee, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Tea for me, thanks,” I said.

“There you go. Everything alright here, luv’?” asked Lara, smiling as she took in the room. That was for me. If I needed assistance in any way, a carefully worded remark would get it done. But I was fine, so I just smiled back and nodded.

“My dear, our conversation has reached a somewhat sensitive point,” said Dupree. “We will certainly call on you if we need a refill. In the meantime, I must ask you to prevent any interruptions. Though I appreciate the tea.”

“And you better stay away from my briefcase!” bristled Sixsmith.

“I’m afraid we’ve x-rayed it. The boys do like to practice,” said Lara, still smiling. “Tell me, is there a kazoo in there?”

Rupert bit his lip and turned to Sixsmith.

“Simon? Is there?”

Sixsmith went beet red!

“It’s a TOY! For my SON! We had an office party the other week and I took one home for him. I just forgot to give it to him.”

I saw a bonding opportunity.

“Ah, that’s nice. How old is your son?” I asked, as I waved Lara off.

“He’s three.”

“Mine’s only fourteen months. I bought him a LEGO car the other day, even though that’s for three years and up. My wife nearly pulled my ear off.”

Don’t think that men are any less sentimental about their children than women. Our perspective may be different, but our experiences overlap quite a bit. Sixsmith smiled for the first time since we’d met.

“I got my boy a model train set. Battery powered, but my wife still blew a gasket.”

Dupree, the experienced diplomat, understood I was trying to mollify Sixsmith and asked us both some questions about our children. His were much older. In fact, he was a grandfather. But we spent close to ten minutes swapping our weirdest anecdotes about inappropriate but well intentioned gifts and the mood was a bit better when we resumed our original conversation.

“So, where were we?” said Dupree.

“You have people in custody. What have they told you?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” answered Sixsmith. “They never do. It’s all compartmentalised. They use PGP for their emails, but there isn’t much communication between cells and their bosses. They were just another pair of brainwashed idiots, who’d had a few conversations in coffee houses with men they barely knew. That’s all it takes, sadly.”

“Perhaps if these men actually got a reply when they sent out a job application, or even an interview, they wouldn’t be so bitter about British society,” I observed.

“That may be true, but it is not an excuse to blow up women and children,” said Dupree. “But in answer to your question: we cannot guarantee that Omar Abdullah is part of the chain of command that instigated the attack that cost Miss Albinson her life. We think so, but there is very little evidence. In the case of the explosion on the bus we do have strong indications that he paid for the operation. When in doubt, follow the money, you see. These cells need financing. If the attackers were rich, they would not be drawn to extremism. Or at least, not the practical side of it.”

I nodded.

“So that’s why you want to me to get close to Omar. Bug his room. Copy his laptop, given the chance.”

“Yes. Not just to indict him, obviously. But because he likely pays for it all. It would help to unravel the web.”

I sipped my tea.

“And you’re quite sure that folding Asim’s towels will give me the opportunity to spy on his nephew?”

“Cousin,” said Sixsmith, sounding irritated. “You keep saying nephew. They’re cousins.”

“I’m sorry. In Dutch the terms are the same. We don’t differentiate. I never noticed that until I learned English, but it hasn’t stuck.”

Dupree chuckled and gleefully dunked a biscuit in his tea.

“You know, I keep forgetting that Mr. Carstairs is not actually an Englishman. In fact, he’s not even British. And it would be weird enough if you were from one of the Commonwealth nations, an Australian or some such, but you’re DUTCH. And yet here I am, feeling ever so slightly guilty because I’m dunking my biccie in front of Mr. Carstairs. Tee hee hee. Oh, I’m sorry. That’s just me, apparently. Carry on.”

“So how long would this take?” I asked. I’m used to people reacting like that. Sixsmith sipped his coffee.

“The mission? Well, that’s hard to say. Couple of weeks? You need to get close to Omar, but it’s not as if he and Asim live in the same house. They see each other quite often, near as we can tell. But to be honest, Saudi is a bit of a black box to us. Very hard to penetrate. Our footprint there is minimal. It’s the Americans’ turf, really.”

“WEEKS?” I asked, stunned. In hindsight that was a bit naïve, I’ll admit.

“Yes. At least. Look, it’s not ideal. But it’s the best option we have right now. Do you know how often we can plant an agent at the heart of the Saudi royal family?”

“Look, I have a family! What am I going to tell them?”

“I’m sure you had an idea when you called us,” said Dupree.

“Yes. Well, the thing is: I have a contract with Aston Martin to do some commercials and promotional appearances. I thought I might use that as an excuse to get out of the house. But a commercial doesn’t take weeks to shoot, and if it does they’ll definitely want to see it.”

Dupree nodded.

“Aston Martin, eh? It’s not bad, as covers go. We have friends there. A contractor, even. But the length of the mission is unpredictable, Martin. Have you spoken to prince Asim recently?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m not even sure the position is still open.”

“Well, then let’s start there. We could ... Hello, what’s this?”

There was commotion in the hallway behind the door that lead out of the office. People were shouting. A siren started up, or maybe a fire alarm. Sixsmith got on his feet at once.

“What the fuck?”

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Glass shattered.

“MISS! YOU CAN’T GO IN THERE!” someone bellowed.

“We’ll see about that,” said a familiar voice. A very familiar voice. I buried my face in my hands, but just then the door flung open and two burly men, one of them William, burst into the room and grabbed me.

“I have the package!” said William, as the other one began to open the window.

“Now look here, what is this about!” asked Dupree.

Ominous sounds came around the corner. I was unceremoniously pushed to the ground, without a say in the matter. It helped I knew they were following protocol, so I didn’t struggle. They’d just knock me out, I learned that much.

“HEY LADY! UNG!”

“MARTIN! COME HERE AT ONCE! Get out of my way, you ape.”

“URK ... KGGGG...”

William turned over the metal desk I was, until very recently, sat behind.

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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