The gruinard project chapter 7

[khandy]

Chapter 7.

The Berkeley Hotel Wilton Place SW1X 7RL 07.00hrs.

He didn’t believe in economising, it was doubtful he would lose much sleep over the current financial climate. Money was relative, it was only really important when you had none. Once you had enough to keep yourself fed, clothed and warm, money was little more than a tool. To the very wealthy it was not money that was important, it was what it represented that was important. Power. Nobody understood this more than him.

Every single thing about this man spoke of immense power. His business empire branched out all over the globe, telecommunication, health care, transport, media and entertainment. To many, he lived his life in the full glare of the media, his face was as well known as the Queen’s. His was the typical rags to riches success story. His humble beginnings allowed the public to identify with him. He smiled, he was one of the people. It was the greatest deception in the world. He was the dictionary definition of evil, probably the most immoral, malicious man to walk the earth. Lucifer was his guide, mentor and idol. He was a master manipulator, seemingly able to change any situation to his benefit.

The first time he had killed he was just fourteen. It had been the man the world would know as his father. He pretended the man was his father, but he knew he was the spawn of Satan. His biography on Wikipedia told the story of how robbers had entered his home and shot his father dead. The police had never considered him a suspect, after all he was found hidden in a wardrobe in a pool of piss, his hands over his head, his face tear stained. He told them how a masked man had entered their home and how his father had told him to hide. The public had an insatiable need for tragic real live stories, he was portrayed as being as much a victim as his father was. Why had he killed him? Power. Not power in the sense of being physically strong enough to kill. No power to determine if somebody should live or die.

He could have become a hit man or mercenary, but that wasn’t where the power lay. He hadn’t personally killed anybody for ten years, he had no need to soil his hands. He still determined who lived and who died. It was a power he used with ruthless efficiency.

The public, who believed they knew him so well, who thought of him as the benevolent entrepreneur, had no reason to doubt he was not as he was portrayed. Everybody loved and admired him, he didn’t have an enemy in the world. That was the absolute truth. He didn’t have enemies. People who crossed him, simply disappeared.

He was a fixer, his services were available to the highest bidder. His business ventures meant he had an excellent working knowledge of what was valuable to a person. He counted business tycoons, politicians, Kings and Queens as friends and confidants. A person would complain about something and he would find a solution. Sometimes what he was selling was only valuable to one specific person, other times it would be useful to any number of people and was available to the highest bidder. Most people would never realise the government were normally the highest bidder. Not that they sought out his services, no that was not how it worked. They never asked, often they didn’t know they could. He just provided a solution, to a problem or something that was needed, so tempting that they couldn’t refuse. They never knew who they were dealing with. Straw men were put in place to conduct the business. People, who were if necessary expendable. If any questions were asked the government would admit to nothing ,maintaining at all times plausible deniability. The straw men being left to carry the can. Governments the world over didn’t know he was the man to whom they were indebted.

The latest problem had been around a while. This leader had been a thorn in the Commonwealth’s side, his human rights record appalling. The trade embargo was not working, it was hurting the country not the man. The universal condemnation of the election tactics employed by mindless thugs hadn't changed anything.

In his role as the country’s foremost business man he had been at No.10 for the launch of a commonwealth trade initiative. At the private lunch afterwards, when they were discussing solutions to the problem this man presented the Prime Minister had joked if only somebody would assassinate the man.

“After all,” he continued. I can’t keep refusing to shake his hand or stop the cricket team from touring.”

The table erupted into laughter.

That was the moment. He would provide the solution and trial a new weapon all at the same time. He had joined in the smiles and laughter but nobody realised he was laughing for a completely different reason to everybody else.


He enjoyed staying at The Berkeley. It was unusual in so much as it provided the right combination of facilities and privacy, with celebrity custom. He enjoyed the fact that it was favoured by the more discerning of Hollywood stars, unlike The Savoy, The Ritz, or The Dorchester, where those ‘Stars’ who couldn’t even brush their own teeth, or wash their own dicks, stayed with an entourage of fifty.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved, supposing that some would wonder at the wisdom of holding this meeting in a top London Hotel. This was where crime writers always got it wrong. They would have had the meeting in some seedy hotel or motel, not considering that never in a million years would a man like him be seen dead in a place like that. He was expected to stay at a top London hotel, so he did, doing the expected, provided the anonymity he needed to organise the unexpected.

He reached for a towel and patted his face dry and regarded his reflection again. He knew, without vanity, that he was in good shape for fifty. His body toned from regular workouts; his face had a few lines but no sags. He was attractive to the opposite sex in the same way that George Clooney or Pierce Brosnan were. It was the image of urban sophistication they responded to. His wife in the main satisfied all his intimate needs, but occasionally, if he were abroad al;one he would pick up a girl for sex. The media never got a hint of this, not only was he discreet but he used these woman like disposable razors, tossing them away when he was finished, their bodies never found. He placed the towel on the marble surround, leaving it for house keeping to clear up later.

Tying his navy silk robe as he walked, he moved into the dining room. This was his one absolutely non negotiable request of any hotel, a suite with a separate dinning area. He would not conduct any business in a room that doubled as his bedroom. The Berkeley’s suites, while being of the highest quality, were all very individual. Some were sleekly modern, others more traditional and all had fine art on the walls and designer or antique furniture. He did not have a preference which suite he stayed in but this visit he was in the Wellington Conservatory Suite, as his family were joining him later. He guessed the style would be described, in any one of the hundreds of home magazines, as grand and opulent. What he like best was that the windows over looked Hyde Park, giving quite the most beautiful view. London had more green spaces than any other capital city. He stood for a while watching the capital wake and prepare for the day.

Room service came while he was contemplating the view, unobtrusively setting two places at the table for breakfast. He had told them yesterday he had a 7.30am breakfast meeting. A selection of fruit, cereal, toast as well as traditional English breakfast was left on the side board, along with fruit juice, tea and coffee. He glanced round as the young man finished and gave him a tip. He always tipped well, not because the hotel workers were paid a pittance, but because it was good for his image.

His preferred papers were on the table, the Financial Times, The Telegraph, The New York Times and The Washington Post. He liked to stay abreast of things on both sides of the Atlantic. He poured himself a coffee and sat down to wait for his business associate to arrive.

The man walked quickly along Knightsbridge. It was still quiet, a few runners were making their way to Hyde Park, but there was little else in the way of passers by. He had travelled on the tube, getting off at Hyde Park Corner. Wilton Place like other parts of Knightsbridge looked rich and affluent. It was a quiet and secluded place with the trees just coming into bud. The impressive Church of St Paul’s was situated close to the hotel but he walked passed quickly, churches unnerved him, making his way round to the hotel’s main entrance. A liveried doorman welcomed him to the Berkeley, holding the door open as he walked into the prestigious hotel.

Nobody paid him any attention as he walked across the lobby. In his tailored suit and briefcase he looked like what he was pretending to be, a business man visiting the hotel for a breakfast meeting. He paused at the reception desk to check what suite his business associate was in. He asked the pretty receptionist to announce his arrival, then he walked to the lift and made his way up to the Wellington suite. His quiet knock was answered immediately .

“Mr Sands so nice of you to be able to join me. Have you had breakfast?”

Sands shook his head.

“Please help yourself then, the coffee is very good. It is a Colombian variety.”

Sands watched as the man , although he knew his name, who didn’t? he never used it, helped himself to fruit and cereal. No cooked food, as this man careful with his weight. Sands smiled as he helped himself to a full English Breakfast, he would burn the calories off later. The Tycoon, as Sands thought of him, waited for him to sit down.

“So how are we progressing?”

“The trials have been excellent, all of the monkeys infected with the virus developed the disease within an hour. This is a real breakthrough, a biological weapon where the speed of the disease’s progression is much quicker. It is suddenly a real alternative to a nuclear weapon.”

“You are certain about the safety of the weapon while in transit? I don’t want the weapon to be accidentally activated early.” The Tycoon knew that any accidents would render the weapon useless, in terms of saleability.

“My men have had several dummy runs. The containers are secure.”

“Good. Once the weapon has been demonstrated there should be no shortage of bidders. What about supply of the virus, how are our stocks looking?” The Tycoon needed to know he could meet the demand.

“The laboratory have enough quantities of the virus stored to infect the whole of London. It will also be easy enough to develop more should the demand be there,” Sands replied.

“Excellent. What about the intended target, they do not suspect anything?”

“ No he is far too arrogant to believe anybody can get close to him.” Sands smiled, he could get close to anybody.

“The Commonwealth will be relieved to be rid of him, he has been an embarrassing nightmare for too many years. Publicly they will express horror at his death but privately they will be pleased. The other matter. Are we close to tying up the loose ends? You know how I hate loose ends.”

“Yes MI5 have been sent a cryptic warning and another will arrive today. I suspect they will already be on full alert. They will be providing security for the summit, they tend to tell the home secretary as little as possible, makes the job easier. North is their best officer, he will be at the centre of their security arrangements. By the time the summit takes place they will believe the target is the Prime Minister. Lucas North will be at his side and infected with the virus. Then, as they say in James Bond, it will be goodbye Mr North.” Sands smiled again.

“Well I hope you are more successful than Mr Bond’s enemies. It is a pity he witnessed you assassinate that boy, I hate killing clever men, it seems such a waste. Is it not possible for him to be turned?” The Tycoon poured himself more coffee.

“Eight years in a Russian Prison, my contacts both here and in Russia tell me they never broke him. The man must be extraordinary. No he won’t be turned,” Sands replied.

“Oh well then needs must, I suppose.”

“Who do you think will head up the bidding?” Sands asked.

“I imagine the government will. In 25 years through both Tory and Socialist governments, they have never failed to act in a completely immoral way, especially when they convince themselves it is the country’s best interest. The Americans are the same.”

Sands finished eating.

“You are not a patriot yourself are you sir?” he asked.

“I can sing God save the Queen as well as the next person and I love my Knighthood. My wish is for Britain to be great again and rule the world. As we did in Victoria’s day. It won’t happen though, so I do what I can to manipulate world politics and am satisfied with that.”

“Better you than the Americans, Sir,” Sands smiled.

“Yes quite, well shall we meet again in one week to finalise plans.” The tycoon stood indicating he considered the meeting over.

“Same time and place?” Sands asked.

“No, I will be in Paris next week, meet me at the Georges V.”

Sands left the hotel and quickly disappeared into the melee of people walking to work, just another anonymous face in the crowd.

The Tycoon watched him disappear through his window. The telephone rang, it was reception informing him of his family’s arrival. The door to the suite opened and two young boys ran in.

“Dad!”

He gathered his sons close and kissed his wife.


***************

She stood in front of the mirror studying her reflection, this was the third outfit she had tried on. Why had she not thought to ask what the dress code was for MI5? The three men had all been in suits, while both Ros and Jo had worn jeans yesterday, so she hoped it would be alright for her to wear them as well. She teamed them with a red blouse and short black jacket. She had butterflies the size of elephants in her stomach. She could not ever remember being this nervous. Giving herself a final check over she headed down to the hotel lobby to wait for Lucas.

He arrived punctually and she smiled ridiculously pleased he was on time, she hated poor time keeping. It was the height of bad manners and disrespectful to the people you were meeting. She was also relieved to see he too was wearing jeans today. Her tummy fluttered in anticipation as he crossed the foyer to meet her, she was so nervous. What should she say? How should she act? This was worse than the morning after the night before. Her mouth went dry, she was sure she would not be able to speak.

Lucas spotted her as soon as he entered the hotel. She had dressed casually obviously taking her lead from Ros and Jo, the jeans and blouse showing off her slim figure. She looked terribly nervous and unsure of herself, biting her lower lip as she stood waiting. He realised the moment that she saw him, as a blush stole across her cheeks, she was remembering last night. He realised it was up to him not to make her feel uncomfortable about what they had done. He raised his hand in greeting and moved towards her.

“Good morning. How are you? Did you sleep alright?” he asked.

“Morning, I’m ok a little nervous, not sure what to expect I guess and a little embarrassed about last night,” she smiled.

“Well let’s try this first.” He bent and brushed a kiss on her lips. “Thank you for last night, please don’t be embarrassed about something so wonderful,” he continued. “As for today, I know a great place for breakfast and I will talk you through what to expect.”

“What about the others, are you going to tell them about us?” she asked.

“Well not everything,” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Ros already knows, she questioned me about it yesterday. If she’s half the section leader I think she is she will have informed Harry. I expect to be summoned when we arrive on The Grid. I will tell him what I told her, that even the Prime Minister gets to make love now and then. Don‘t worry we are a close team, we lost three colleagues recently, so I‘m sure they will be Ok with it and if they’re not, tough.”

“Lost three colleagues, how?” she asked shocked.

“They died.” He couldn’t tell her any more than that.

She was horrified, three people from one team, how devastating must that have been, how much the British public didn’t know.

“Hey come on don’t be sad, we all know the risks but it’s taught us to value the good things in life and you are one of the best.” He reached for her hand.

She allowed him to take it as they walked out of the hotel, while she digested what he had said. It sounded as if he was not going to hide their relationship.

The café was just round the corner from Thames House. She smiled as once again the waitress flirted outrageously with him. She handed a box done up with a ribbon and then took their orders for breakfast.

“What’s in the box?” she asked.

“Doughnuts, I am trying to gain some weight and so I buy cakes for the team,” he explained.

She looked him over, he was certainly slim, but the grey crew neck shirt was moulded to an impressive set of chest and shoulder muscles. He certainly didn't look unhealthy.

“I noticed the weight loss, have you been ill?” she asked.

“Not recently but I was in a way, a while ago, it’s just taking time for me to regain the weight,” he replied.

She was puzzled by the odd answer, but a look came into his eyes, a warning that the subject was off limits. She turned the conversation to what sort of day she could expect on The Grid.

“Well it will probably seem boring and tedious, it’s not all gun fights and car chases. A lot of it is surveillance and computers. We usually start with a meeting with Harry and then Ros dishes out the work,” he told her.

“Malcolm said you had been an agent a while and Ros said you were the best at what you do. So why aren't you the section leader?” she asked.

“I was away from The Grid for a fair bit so I wasn’t the best person for the job, Ros was.”

She again got the impression there was more to this than he was saying.

“So my illusions about James Bond are about to be shattered then,” she smiled.

“I told you before wrong department, that’s six. They’re based on the other side of the river. Come on we better be going, I hate being late.”


******************

Harry and Ros walked into Thames House together, they had also had a breakfast meeting.

“So are you going to speak to him Harry?” Ros asked.

“Of course I have to, he has to be warned of the dangers. However, I think this is what Lucas needs, the service doesn’t forbid relationships. Lucas has, let’s face it, been alone for too long. I was surprised how easily he accepted Elizaveta’s new life. It sounds as if Kate is the reason for that. Do you think they spent the night together?” Harry asked.

“I know they didn’t, I had her hotel watched,” Ros said.

They entered The Grid. Malcolm, Jo, Lucas and Kate were already there. All were stood round Lucas’ desk.

“Good morning people. Doughnuts must be good this morning,” Harry said.

Lucas turned.

“Harry you need to see this.” Lucas nodded at his computer.

The others parted to make room. Pinned to the computer screen was another note.

Remember Symra!

Jo reached for it, intending to pass it to Harry.

“Don’t touch it. It may be contaminated. In fact we should move out and get a team in to check for contamination,” Kate said.

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