The Negotiator

Death in London

I was on leave in London and having a ball when I spotted her unmistakable figure. I looked twice just to be sure. It was Patricia Hanrahan alright, elegantly dressed in a designer suit that showed all her assets to discrete perfection. She was with a tall man in a beautifully cut suit and handmade shoes. They were leaving an expensive restaurant and had eyes only for each other.

I walked up behind them, the guy was an American, his clipped, educated, Bostonian accent unmistakable. Patricia was giggling, obviously tipsy. I hung back and followed at a few yards distance. They walked just a couple of hundred yards to one of those boutique hotels that seem tailor made for liaisons. I followed them in and took a note of the floor they went to. I then enquired about a room, but they were fully booked. I went back to the Union Jack club and my very ordinary bed. Tomorrow was another day.

Knowing that Patricia would be using the hotel only for a short time I was up early and dressed as smartly as my casual wardrobe allowed. I made my way to her hotel and ordered breakfast. I positioned myself in a corner partially shielded by a screen that discretely blocked the view of people entering or leaving the toilets. I could see the door to the dining room and reception beyond. I ordered a full English breakfast with toast and coffee, dawdling over it.

An hour later I was about to give up when I saw them. They went into reception with their scant baggage and checked out. I paid my bill then hurried after them. After a lingering kiss in the foyer he walked away whilst she scanned the street for a taxi. I sneaked behind her and up the street a short way then turned in a shop doorway and walked back towards her. She spotted me and her face turned white.

‘Good god almighty’ she managed, ‘holy mother of God.’

I looked and sounded as surprised as she. ‘Wow Patricia, is that really you baby?’ I asked hoping my American accent had not rusted from lack of use.

She recovered enough to say ‘I thought you were dead. Where the hell have you been hiding?’

‘It’s a long story’ I told her ’have you time for coffee?’ She turned back towards the hotel and I stopped her. I had no wish to return there as some remark by a waitress could uncover my deceit.

‘Hey, there’s a cute little café just along the road here, they do pancakes and maple syrup. Would you mind?’ I smiled ‘I love that stuff.’

We walked to where I’d breakfasted a few days earlier and I had to force down a couple of pancakes to look genuine. She ordered an espresso and turned to me. ‘Where the hell have you been Jack, we looked all over for you, but no one has seen you for months, not in Eire nor the States.’ She paused eyeing me up and down curiously ‘we heard you’d gone to Libya then nothing more.’

Her attitude was one of puzzled enquiry, she seemed genuinely pleased to see me, though. I decided an edited version of the truth was best. I didn’t know how much she knew of O’Rourke’s shenanigans and I wanted to play the innocent stooge. ‘I scratched my ear and looked embarrassed ‘Well now’ I began, ‘the truth is that O’Rourke fellow of yours is a bit of a rogue, he was lining his pockets at your expense.’

She bridled at that ‘not my expense, I can assure you. It was at the expense of those patriots who donated so much.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.’

She nodded, ‘go on.’

‘He sent me on a fool’s errand to negotiate with a Libyan general who locked me in a dungeon and had the crap beaten out of me out of me. He thought it possible I was some kind of spy.’

‘Really?’ she said, sounding shocked.

‘Yeah, really. Then they put me on some old boat full of weapons and sent me off as a human shield in case the CIA or someone bombed or torpedoed it. He thought if I was a spy they wouldn’t kill one of their own. I was a sort of insurance. The crew were a bunch of cutthroats who made me do the cooking. They said they were sailing straight to Eire with arms for the IRA.’

I took a swig of my coffee as she waited to hear the rest.’ I had to think of a way to get off the boat so one night I left the taps running in the galley so that we ran out of fresh water. We stopped in a little port in Morocco to refill and that’s where I managed to jump ship. I reckon they would have killed me once we got to Ireland.’

‘Bloody hell, who did you tell about this?’

‘I went to the American embassy and told my tale. It took a week to check me out and get new documents then they called me a damned fool and shipped me back to the States. There the CIA got hold of me and made me tell it all again, they really leaned on me. They were especially interested in General Anwar, apparently he’s very close to Gadaffi.’ I sighed and hesitated, looking away as if embarrassed, ‘the truth is Patricia I was scared, damned scared, so I went into hiding, never staying more than a few days anywhere. I didn’t use credit cards. After a couple of months, I surfaced again just to see how things stood. I rang the CIA number they gave me in case I remembered anything else. The people there acted like I didn’t exist, so I thought the crisis over.’

‘So, what are you doing in London?’ she asked

‘I might ask you the same question’ I replied, ‘I thought you hated the Brits?’

‘Not the ones who run Harrods, she quipped ‘and a lot of other nice shops besides.’

‘And does Seamus know you’re here?’

She was growing impatient and ignored my question ‘now what about you?’

‘Simple’ I told her ‘I’m on vacation, so if you have any spare time my dear Patricia, you’ll find I don’t have to dash off on business like last time.’

She smiled broadly ‘maybe I’ll take you up on that, where are you staying?’

I told her I was staying in a shabby place in Bayswater that I’d booked sight unseen and that I was moving that very day. I could hardly say I was staying at the subsidised home of the British squaddies in London, the Union Jack Club ‘I don’t do shabby hotels as you know. Have you got a number?’

She gave me the number of the Tower hotel on the River ‘We have a suite there, it’s not the very best but it’s convenient. If you don’t ring in the next two days don’t ring at all, Seamus is up in Birmingham arranging some mischief or other and he’ll be back in three days.’ She looked wistful, the business will take a day and the screwing of young girls the other two.’

‘He knows you take lovers’ I said, so why does he not allow you to be as open as he is about his affairs?’

She gave me a wry smile’ it’s his ego, Jack, his ego. As long as nothing is said he can pretend he doesn’t know. He caught me with young guy called Declan once, one of his best he always called him before he caught us. A week later Declan was killed in a drink drive accident.’

‘It happens’ I said.

She looked close to tears ‘Declan was teetotal, yet the post mortem said he was four time over the drink/drive limit; he supposedly drove head on into a lorry.’ She looked upset now and I tried to change the subject, but she ignored me, staring into the distance,

‘There were no skid marks made by his car. The police said he mustn’t have braked, just drove straight in, but I think they parked him up and drove the lorry into him.’ He was such a beautiful young man. He had the body of a Greek god, shining black hair and eyes as blue as the sea. He read poetry to me, he loved animals, I couldn’t get enough of him. He had a girlfriend, too, but she didn’t deserve him.’ She paused, and I was struggling to find words of comfort when she resumed ‘we got caught through my stupidity. I took a chance that Seamus wouldn’t be home that night; I was wrong.’ She dabbed her eyes with a tissue ‘Declan’s girlfriend was killed a week later planting a bomb in the North, clumsy b***h. Blew herself and two volunteers to pieces.’

Small world I thought, it couldn’t have happened to more deserving people.

It has always puzzled me that otherwise nice ordinary people can do terrible things in the name of some cause or belief system and that nasty, godless bastards like me, can do good, like stopping bombers killing innocent folk. I pushed the thought away. ‘Do you really still want to see me?’ I asked her. I thought the answer would be no as she had the American businessman in tow.

‘Oh, you bet’ she said brightening at once. ‘A girl doesn’t meet a lover like you every day’ her smile lit up her face ‘so, you’ll ring then?’

I said I would whilst thinking of the pounding my new credit card would take. I could hardly go on staying where I was, and the army wouldn’t fund my s*x life. I wanted to see her for the s*x, yes but that was secondary to my real motivation. I wanted to glean what intelligence I could. It even crossed my mind to kidnap her and subject her to some GST but that would take planning, and resources that I didn’t have. If I reported to Harriet, there was a good chance she’d order me to back off. Seamus Hanrahan, we knew, was making overtures to the Libyans directly now, but we didn’t know if he’d gotten anywhere or who he was liaising with. If it was Anwar, then I would be compromised. I felt I had an opportunity here to find out vital information. OK, so I was on leave, but I was still a soldier, still in intelligence. Harriet wouldn’t approve, of course and the bloody bean counters wouldn’t stump up any money for what was a private initiative. Well f**k ‘em, we still didn’t know how arms were getting into Northern Ireland from the States seemingly unchecked. It was a matter of personal pride to do whatever I could to stop our soldiers and policemen being killed on the streets.

I smiled broadly ‘Oh god, how I’ve missed you’ I told her taking her hand and kissing it ‘I’ll have a new place later today baby, then I’ll call you.’

I left her then and walked, my head buzzing with “what ifs.’’ I needed time to sort out my feelings and to plan what best to do. I also needed to get somewhere decent in line with my supposed status. I went into Harrods and bought a decent suitcase. Not top of the range, seasoned travellers never bought poncy stuff unless they were film stars.

Finding a hotel was easier than I thought. I climbed into a taxi a short way from the UJ club and asked the driver for a classy hotel that didn’t charge over the top. ‘My mate works at St James’ Court hotel’ he told me ‘it’s near Green Park and the Mall mate, very traditional, very handy for the tourist trail and they don’t take liberties with their prices.’

They had a decent room available that my card would just about stand for a few days. I took it, bathed and then rang her. She agreed to come next day. I looked at my new suitcase, it looked too new for a seasoned traveller, so I kicked it around a bit, giving it what I called baggage handlers bruises.

Going out for a meal that evening, I saw one of those huge hotel trollies full of suitcases standing unattended in the foyer ready to be loaded for the airport. I slid behind it and found a label that said the owner had arrived from New York a week ago. People never seem to pull these labels off for some reason. I pulled it off. That would go on my case making it look more authentic. My clothes were something else again, not exactly classy but not exactly down market either. I decided they would have to do. I remembered the last time I had anything to do with the Hanrahan’s my room had been searched.

She arrived all smiles at three next day. I asked her if she wanted to go out somewhere. Her eyes flashed lustily ‘are you kidding me young man?’ she laughed ‘I ordered champagne at the desk, so I did, they are sending it up and before you say you don’t like champagne, don’t bother. It’s my treat and if you don’t like it, I’ll drink the lot.’ She giggled girlishly from the smell of her breath she’d had a couple already. The champagne arrived a few minutes later and I poured two glasses.

To say she was hungry for s*x was an understatement. She went at me like a thing possessed. I remembered all her erogenous zones, her earlobes, her buttocks and behind her knees. I nibbled, stroked and poked with gentle thymic movements, working her up to a state of near delirium whilst calling her a filthy w***e, a low-life slut and a dog. She moaned, grabbed me and tried to pull me in. ‘Beg b***h’ I told her, ‘no beg, no cock.’

She bit my lip savagely, drawing blood then cried ‘bastard, you f*****g bastard. Do it, do it.’

‘Say please’ I ordered, still working her zones.

‘Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ she screamed ‘Please, you bastard, please.’

I mounted her then but resisted her urgent thrusting, slowing my strokes until she was nearly demented ‘Oh I hate you, Murphy, I f*****g hate you. f**k me hard you lousy bastard.’

I speeded up then as my own need demanded. I could hold back no longer. She came then, again and again, spurting and squirting great gouts, soaking the bed.

Afterwards she lay back on the pillows smoking one of those stinking Russian cigarettes, her eyes misty and distant ‘oh Jack, you are such a wicked bastard’ she said dreamily ‘I thought I was going to go mad. I’ve never been forced to beg for it before.’

I laughed ‘all part of the service’ I joked, then instantly regretted it.

She turned, her eyes flashed dangerously ‘is that how you see me Jack? Some silly b***h to be serviced at your convenience? A handy f**k?’

I was shocked at her sudden change of mood ‘of course not Patricia, that was meant as a joke, gee honey, I meant nothing by it.’

She looked uncertain ‘You see, Jack, I’ve had men try to take advantage of me all my life. Piss takers, money grubbers, people with powerful egos who think they can control me once they’ve bedded me.’ She drew deeply on her cigarette then stubbed it in the ashtray. ‘A bloke who pulls women is admired, congratulated, called a stud, a randy buck. Let a woman pull a bloke she fancies, let her go after a f**k and guess what? She’s called a slut, a w***e and a thousand other dirty names.’ I’m sick of it Jack.’

I sympathised with her. There were hundreds of derogatory names for women and almost none for men, it seemed grossly unfair, yet I realised now that I was one of those men who unconsciously subscribed to these attitudes. I wouldn’t deliberately put anyone down man or woman, but I laughed at the locker room jokes that put women down along with the rest. I listened eagerly to Jonno as he described his latest conquest, how, using his techniques, he’d shelled some girl out of her drawers the same evening they’d met. I guess soldiers are worse than the rest of society, too, being constantly in a macho environment. We could be called away to war at a moment’s notice; where every f**k might be your last. Maybe psychologist Harriet could explain why Patricia felt the need to be abused during s*x, I couldn’t.

I smiled at her and kissed her tenderly, feeling genuine remorse, then I apologised and sent for more champagne as a token of my contrition. I had touched a raw spot. She was a complex character, insecure and vulnerable on many levels. On the one hand getting off on being called dirty names and yet so touchy about them at other times.

We sipped our champagne in silence for a while then I advanced on her gently pulling her off the bed and into the shower. I washed her all over with body foam, lingering between her legs, caressing her breasts with soapy hands, teasing her n*****s and fingertip brushing her buttocks. I knelt before her as she spread her thighs I was growing hard. I licked and flicked lightly feeling her, too, grow hard, her legs trembling, I stroked behind her knees and heard her deep throated groans. This time I made love gently, subtly, telling her what a wonderful, beautiful woman she was. I took the shower head down, playing it between her legs, letting the needle water sting her c******s. She hung one arm around my neck thrusting her tongue deep in my throat, her other hand pumping my soapy c**k. When she was ready she pulled herself up me, wrapping her legs around my waist as she lowered herself onto me. The hot stinging water cleansing the soap from us both.

Afterwards, swathed in a huge bathrobe, she felt the need to lie quietly on the bed propped on one elbow sipping the last of the champagne. Clearly, she was lost in her own thoughts. I took the opportunity to meditate and sat upright on the floor in the lotus position and closed my eyes. She never interrupted but I knew she was watching with curiosity.

Afterwards she asked about it, mistaking it for some sort of religious ritual. I told her it was nothing of the sort, simply an ancient practice to switch off the ceaseless chatter of the conscious mind so that one can listen to the subconscious, gaining insights. She insisted I teach her the basics there and then.

Afterwards she opened her soul to me, telling of her deep unhappiness at being married to Seamus Hanrahan. It had been great when they were students at Uni, before he got interested in politics. Now, he put politics only slightly lower than his pursuit of young girls. Now he was nasty and domineering, putting her down at every opportunity. ‘Oh, he’s great in public’ she said ‘always plays the adoring husband to perfection. But behind closed doors he’s a monster, often hitting me and always in places that didn’t show.’

She showed me a fading bruise in her armpit ‘that was two weeks ago’ she said, ‘he pinched and twisted my flesh viciously for taking too long to get ready to go to dinner with friends. The bastard even shows me pictures of girls he says he’s had.’

I was getting a picture of a misogynistic man who loved to wield power over others. She told me his rise in the Provo’s was largely due to his ruthlessness and his wealth. His wealth came from extortion and drug dealing in the North where he ran a brigade of Provos. His brigade were men like himself. They took on the mantel of the freedom fighter to further their criminal ambitions. Hanrahan kept his nose clean in Eire, courting politicians and others of power and influence. He was a real slime ball, the kind of slime ball I was sometimes tasked to take out.

She was weeping softly now opening her heart to me ‘my father was just the same’ she said ‘he wanted a boy and I came along. Mother had a hard time with having me. She couldn’t get pregnant after that. He always resented me. Nothing I did to please him ever worked. I came top of my class and he said he expected no less of me. I did well at sports he just grunted and put my medals in a drawer or if I won a cup he’d toss it in the cupboard. I was so desperate for him to love me’ she sighed, blew her nose and continued. ‘I’ve always felt worthless Jack, despite the show of confidence. I suppose that’s why I screw around, why the nasty names turn me on, so.’

I felt sorry for her and a little guilty myself, after all I was using her worse than any other man who just wanted s*x. I was using her to get at her husband. I had to remind myself why I was doing it. Patricia was just a means to an end. Still, I didn’t feel good about it. I was under pressure of time now, too. I only had until tomorrow to try and get some more information from her and if she changed her mind and didn’t meet me I’d never get another chance. As she was drunk I thought I had to take a chance.

‘Didn’t you mention Seamus was into smuggling? Am I mistaken? I asked as sincerely as I could manage. I think we were a bit drunk at the time? ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you denounce him, if not for that then you must know of other things he’s into?’

She gave a sardonic laugh, her mouth turned down at the corners and her hand gripped the sheets crunching and screwing them into a tight ball. She looked look much older than her years.

‘You Americans’ she said bitterly ‘you don’t understand the situation in Ireland. I’d be dead in a day if he even thought I’d go to the authorities.’

‘But wouldn’t they protect you?’ I asked.

She laughed again this time with genuine mirth ‘Oh, Jack, dear Jack’ she smiled, ruffling my hair, ‘Ireland isn’t America, In Ireland things are done along sectarian lines and both factions are in the police and security services. The IRA have eyes and ears everywhere. They’d soon know where I was located. She looked down and her voice dropped ‘besides, he’s made damn sure I’m implicated in certain of his crimes. I hate it, Jack, but I’m stuck.’

We sat in silence for a while and I thought she’d make a damn fine widow, but that’s as far as my thinking went. I couldn’t top her bastard husband without official sanction and that would take evidence. For that same lack of evidence, the courts had no realistic prospect of dealing with him. No, I couldn’t just bump him off.

When she had gone I rang Harriet and brought her up to speed. She listened without interruption, it was a welcome trait of hers that she heard all the facts before asking questions. Then she was silent for a long moment.

‘Jack, I want you out of there asap’ she said her voice filled with concern. ‘We don’t know how much Hanrahan knows about you. If he believes you dead, then he’s going to be mightily pissed off to know you’re alive and screwing his wife. He could hit you from any direction without you being able to defend yourself.’

‘It’s a good chance to get a line on how the guns are getting from the USA’ I said, ‘I’m sure the Hanrahan’s are the key. He’s away for at least another day, please, Harriet, let me try something I’ve been thinking up.’ She asked me what it was, but my plan was only half formed, and I refused to tell her. She cursed me for stubborn bugger in her own refined way, but gave me another day.

Next day I met Patricia for lunch in my hotel restaurant she seemed moody and upset. She ordered a Caesar salad and fizzy water but only picked at it. Clearly there was something wrong. ‘Hey young lady’ I said trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘what on earth is wrong?’

She gave me a wan smile ‘Who are you Jack’ she said, ‘Who the hell are you?’

I felt a jolt of surprise but managed to look looked puzzled ‘Patricia, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about you Jack and the way you used s*x and champagne to soften me up yesterday. How you cleverly got me to expose my inner thoughts about my husband then asked questions about smuggling. I’ve recalled all our conversations, and never once have I mentioned smuggling drunk or sober.’ I started to protest but she cut me off. The other thing I recalled was the time I shoved my finger up your backside. Your American accent disappeared, just for two words, but those two words were pure English home counties. So, just who the f**k are you? MI5? MI6?

It occurred to me that she could be wearing a wire, so I continued to express puzzlement ‘Patricia, baby, look. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and, frankly, you are beginning to worry me. All I’ve ever done is to try to help you.’ My feelings for you are genuine. I smiled, trying to look as sincere as I could. ‘Why don’t we finish here and go up to my room?’

Her hand moved involuntarily towards her chest, just an inch or so in a totally unconscious gesture ‘I’m not in the mood Jack, beside I have an appointment for my hair later.’

‘OK, no sweat’ I replied, but I am exactly who I say I am. As you know I lived in Oxford for five years with an English woman so maybe some British slang rubbed off on me.’

I glanced casually around the dining room. Wires don’t have a long range and this was an old building with thick walls. It was occupied almost exclusively by couples with just one pair of businessmen at a table in the corner nearest the door. They had come in a few minutes after Patricia but, as far as I could recall had never looked our way. One had his back to me. He had a perfect view of reception through the open door. The other man who looked like an Arab, sat facing me. They were munching away steadily and seemed to be absorbed in conversation.

My instincts started to buzz. They were two big, fit looking guys, the one of whom was wearing a large hearing aid. Sitting there, one could watch me the other the foyer I couldn’t move without being seen. If I left that way they would have ample time to follow me. A hit on the street is far easier to perform than one would think. Walking up on a busy pavement with a small noise supressed pistol or a knife, shooting or stabbing your target as you walk on by. The victim collapses whilst the assassin walks on as if nothing had happened. People take time to assess a situation. A lot of them would walk on, not wanting to be involved. Someone would eventually take notice and see if they could help. It would take a few seconds before they realised the person was dead, meanwhile the assassin would be a distance away and the unwitting witnesses would be on their way, oblivious to the fact that they’d witnessed a murder.

I wondered if I was being paranoid. Patricia could have easily got me up to my room then, after s*x, whilst I was dosing, she could have let a hitman in. I knew she had genuine feelings for me so maybe she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

We had been silent for some time, the Arab guy facing me glanced our way, caught me watching him and went back to is meal a fraction too quickly. I thought for a moment then said ‘Look Patricia, I’m moving hotels tomorrow, I’ll give you the number. I was taking a risk, but it was the only realistic chance I had. I wrote on a napkin and swivelled it towards her: I’m Army intelligence, I want to help you. He’s back isn’t he? Has he hurt you? I watched as her eyes pricked with tears. She had enough sense to say nothing. She slid up her sleeves revealing angry bruising and cigarette burns to her forearms. Looking into her eyes, I saw a terrible sadness there.

I felt my fists clenching into tight balls until my knuckles ached. I hate women beaters, they really boil my piss. I wanted to cross the room and beat the s**t out of the two guys. I took a long, deep breath, that would not be a good tactic. Hell, they might be as good as me then I’d definitely have blown it. Brains were needed now not brawn.

She was talking ‘Oh, that’s so scruffy Jack, let me copy it.’

She drew a little silver cased notebook from her hand bag and pretended to copy what I had written. I was followed last time she wrote you are in danger get out now.

I looked in their direction, they still seemed absorbed in their conversation ‘I need to take a leak.’ I said then got up and went towards the gents. The lavatory was situated off the short corridor that led to the kitchens.

Out of sight of the blokes. I shot through the kitchen doors and ran past startled chefs to the yard. It was full of huge waste bins, the gate to the outside was closed. I ran to the gate and threw it open then drew a waste bin across it. I then dodged back behind one of the other bins.

A few seconds later the two guys ran out of the door. Seeing the gate open and the way blocked by the waste bin they put two and two together and came up with five. They wrenched the bin aside and darted through, one ran left the other right. I didn’t have much time. I ran back to the dining room, the shouts of angry chefs following me. Patricia was no longer at the table.

I took the napkin and hurriedly scribbled a note: I can help. Memorise this number and ring. I ran for the foyer not l knowing how much time I had.

She was at the pavement’s edge hailing a taxi as I caught her arm. Her eyes were full of fear and uncertainty, but she had the wit to grasp the napkin. I kissed her then, and with real passion. ‘Come with me’ I said you’ve nothing to lose now’ but she shook her head

‘No’ she said with terrible finality ‘He still needs me.’

I was more than sorry for the poor woman, she was trapped by her hopeless, helpless dependency on her abuser. I felt something akin to compassion. She was a victim not an enemy and still may prove useful but that was not my main motivation. I really wanted to help her, but I couldn’t spare the time to persuade her, there was a hell of a lot at stake. I leapt into her taxi as it pulled up ‘Euston station please’ I told the cabbie and sat down.

‘The lady not coming mate?’ The cabby asked suspiciously ‘It was her that hailed me. I don’t like cab bullies.’

I glanced through the window, as one of the Arab guys came running around the corner.

‘No mate’ and that’s her husband coming for me, if you want a decent tip, let’s go.’

The man sighed ‘such a wicked world.’ he said as he unhurriedly put the cab into gear and checked his mirrors.

The Arab bloke reached the cab and threw the door open, but I was ready for him. He dived in, making a grab for me. I couldn’t see a weapon, so I grabbed him around the neck and jammed his head against my left side. He struggled, but I held on then I quickly pressed my right hand on the left side of his head thrusting my thumb into his left eye socket next to his nose, digging hard. My thumb slipped around the back of the orb and I prised the eye from his face. He screamed in terror and pain as I shoved him back into the street.

‘Get going you bastard’ I yelled. The driver looked terrified and shot out into the traffic to the blast of angry horns. When looked down on the floor saw a hypodermic needle so, the bastard was armed after all. I’d been lucky.

When we reached the station he was silent, regarding me with a mixture of fear and loathing. I stuffed several notes into his hand. ‘Thank you’ I said, my normal calm restored.

His face was a picture, hovering between anger and fear. As I turned away he said ‘Fornicators, the lord will cast you down. I will remember you mister.’

I turned. There are thousands of cheerful, philosophical cabbies in London and I had to pull this god bothering bastard. I leaned into his cab pushing him against his seat. I recited his name and driver number to him. ‘Make bloody sure you do remember me’ I told him ‘and if anything comes of this, you’ll get the same treatment he got.’ The guy went white and started crying. I walked away not feeling proud of myself, but I didn’t want to be the object of cabbie gossip.

I found another cab and went to Kings Cross station. I found a pay phone and reported to Harriet. She listened carefully as usual. I could almost hear her brain ticking as she absorbed the information.

‘OK Jack, here’s the thing: Hanrahan has not been to Birmingham as he told his wife. He’s been staying as a guest of the Libyan embassy where he’s been holding talks with your old friend General Anwar.’ She paused to let me absorb this. ‘Your leave is revoked, Jack. Get your sorry arse to Millbank and report to MI5, they’ll look after you until we can extract you. You’ve not only got the IRA to watch out for now but Gadaffi’s security men as well. Anwar will be furious now he knows you didn’t get killed on that arms ship. He will know it was you who destroyed it. You are in mortal danger Jack, so get to MI5 pronto.’

I put the phone down and went to the Station café and bought coffee. I sat at the back where I could watch both doors. I needed time to think. The guy who leapt into the cab had had a hypodermic so the odds where he wasn’t trying to kill me. There were two of them because they wanted to take me alive. It only takes one to assassinate as I knew well. Anwar and Hanrahan wanted questions answering.

I didn’t know what they knew about me. What had Patricia revealed to her bully boy husband? How much did Anwar know? Had he captured Abdul and his cousin before they could escape? All this and other questions bothered me. The problem of the American arms shipments wouldn’t be solved by me hiding away safely. I needed somewhere quiet where I could meditate, where I could think.

I looked at the departures board. There was a train leaving for Bedford in five minutes, just long enough to buy a ticket. Bedford is a town about forty-seven miles from London and there was no reason on earth why I should go there. So, there I went.

I arrived and found a small bed and breakfast place, my British accent now fully restored. I was Michael Jones. I booked in for three days. The landlady, Mrs Smythe, was a friendly, pleasant soul who provided sunny smiles and friendly chatter along with huge breakfasts. So huge that I could comfortably go without lunch. By using takeaways for my evening meal, I could avoid dining in public. I wasn’t prepared to take the slightest chance of being spotted. I kept mostly to my room during the day, telling Mrs Smythe I was getting over Bronchitis and needed rest.

After three days I had a plan to put to Harriet. She’d be pissed off with me for not going to Millbank as ordered but I wouldn’t have been able to think there. Being spooks like myself they’d want to know the ins and outs of the duck’s arse about everything I’d done, especially about Libya where they had great difficulty obtaining reliable information.

Their guy at the Crescent Moon hotel was worse than useless, he was just taking their money and reporting all he could to his own security people. Now I had a plan to tempt Patricia North where we could protect her and garner information on her husband.

I rang Harriet. She was incandescent ‘What the f**k do you think you’re playing at Jack? We thought you’d been picked up by the opposition.’ I heard her take a deep sighing breath ‘you have disobeyed a direct order Sergeant Major, I’ll have your arse for this.’

I’d never heard Harriet swear before and I was startled ‘I’m sorry Harriet, but I needed to think. I’ve got a plan now to tempt Patricia Hanrahan to the North where we can question her and keep her safe.’

‘If you’d have bothered to stay in touch Jack, you would have known your plan is useless. Patricia Hanrahan’s body was fished from the Thames yesterday afternoon. She had been systematically beaten to death before being dumped.’

The words hit me like a sledge hammer, my guts turned over and I felt nauseous then a wild rage flooded every fibre of my being. That bastard Hanrahan, that slimy, slithering, f*****g reptile. If it took forever, I’d catch up with him.

I must have been silent a long time because Harriet asked if I was alright. No, I wasn’t alright I told her, I was far from alright. Patricia had not followed her instructions to the letter to entrap me, and it had cost her her life.

Harriet must have sensed I was feeling emotional about the murder, her voice was much calmer now and had a tinge of sympathy when she said, ‘stay where you are Jack, I’ll send a car.’