The peer lifted the internal telephone and dialled zero.

Malcolm picked up the old fashioned looking telephone that was in keeping with the decor. “Front Desk,” he said, sounding bored.

Feigning breathlessness and inflecting his voice with pain, the peer stuttered.

“This is Lord Hickstead……..chest pain……..can’t breathe……..help me!”

With that, he hung up the phone.

As anticipated, Malcolm raced up the stairs to the apartments with his mobile to his ear, yelling “Paramedics to Number two Parliament Street immediately! We have a suspected heart attack.”

Lord Hickstead smiled to himself as he let himself out of the glazed internal security doors and out of the original wooden doors onto Parliament Street. No doubt they would review the CCTV footage and realise they had been tricked, but by then he would be long gone.

Chapter 8 6

Thames House, Millbank, London. Monday, 6:30pm.

Until the 1980s Thames House had been occupied by ICI, for whom it had been constructed in the 1930s. MI5 had moved into the building in the early 1990s, and it was then officially opened by the Prime Minister John Major in 1994. Used as a backdrop before being blown up in Skyfall, the most recent James Bond film, the impressive building overlooks the Thames and Lambeth Bridge. Tourists often visit the office block looking for the entrance familiar to them from the BBC TV series ‘Spooks’. Sadly they are disappointed, because the BBC uses Freemasons’ Hall for their external shots of MI5’s offices.

Timothy Madeley stood in his second floor office looking out over the Thames. His office was neither as ornate as M’s office in the Bond films, nor as high tech as the offices depicted in Spooks. The carpet was beyond office quality, and the furnishings were custom built, not assembled. On the wall was a fabric wall hanging from Afghanistan and an impressive oil painting, on loan from the National Gallery.

The phone rang and he walked over to his desk to pick it up. He stated his surname.

“Sir, this is Malcolm, at the cubby hole. Lord Hickstead has gone.”

There was no hint of fear in his voice, nor was there any expression of surprise from his superior.

“Excellent. Did he escape on his own, or did you have to intervene?”

Malcolm then explained how the peer had hoped to draw Malcolm away from his post, and how Malcolm had played along, pretending to call an ambulance.

“Excellent. So if another agency manages to pick him up he will be convinced he escaped. He is entirely unaware that we allowed him to go?”

“Yes sir, that is correct. Sir, are we running a sweep on this one?”

“We are, Malcolm. We’re guessing which country he runs to. Do you want in? It’s a tenner entry fee and we draw lots on Friday. If he doesn’t make it out of the country, all stakes are refunded. If he settles in a country we hadn’t considered, it goes to the nearest geographically. Agreed?”

“That’s fine, sir. I think he’ll make it across the Channel, that’s child’s play, and after that Europe and Scandinavia are open to him without him even needing a passport.”

“Malcolm, did I ever tell you that I spent a couple of years in the “cubby hole” when I was Liaison with SO12?”

“You did, sir,” Malcolm confirmed, but it made no difference. Tmothy Madeley told his funny story anyway, pausing at the appropriate points for Malcolm’s forced laughter.

Chapter 8 7

City Club Lounge, City Wall Hotel, London: Monday 7pm

The journey across London had been uneventful and now Lord Hickstead was sitting in the club lounge at the City Wall Hotel, giving instructions to the concierge. The concierge disappeared briefly, to return a few minutes later with a briefcase and a holdall.

While he was waiting for his guests he slipped into the leisure club changing room and switched from his suit and tie into a more casual travelling outfit. He placed the discarded clothes carefully in the holdall.

Back at his seat and sipping complimentary champagne which had never seen France judging by the taste of it, the concierge appeared.

“Your guests, Your Lordship,” he announced, distaste written on his features as he ushered the Iraqis into the hallowed surroundings.

The two Iraqis sat down opposite the peer and gawped at their surroundings before their client could attract their attention.

“You have the papers?”

“Yes, here they are.” Faik, the young Iraqi whom Hickstead had been championing for residency, handed over an envelope.

Hickstead looked at the papers. All were genuine; the passport had his photo and carried the name Martin Wells. Even the next of kin section had been completed with the epithet ‘Janine Wells, Daughter’. In addition to the passport he also had a birth certificate, marriage certificate, library card for Hounslow Public Library, a National Insurance Card and an E111 EU Medical Card.

The Iraqis had done well. Hickstead had given them a good start but they had done most of the work. Martin Wells had served in Northern Ireland under Hickstead and had taken a sniper round to the head. He was now in a half-way house for psychiatric patients in Camden. Martin had turned up at a public meeting where the peer was speaking, and to his credit he hadn’t asked for anything, he had simply wanted to greet a familiar face.

Hickstead had bought him a meal and listened to his terrible story. This was four months ago, and Hickstead spotted an opportunity to provide himself with a completely new identity without the chance of being caught with fake documents.

He said that he needed Wells’ documents so that he could raise his case in the House and hopefully save other soldiers from suffering the same indignities. Wells cooperated fully, handing over dirty, tattered and torn certificates and an old driving licence.

Fail and Ali had set to work obtaining new copies of all the certificates and applying for a passport and a new style driving licence. With the photos of the new Martin Wells, authenticated by a Lord, the applications were successful and Lord Hickstead was now looking at his photo in Martin’s passport.

Hickstead asked if they had everything in place. They said that they had, but there was a small problem. Their contacts wanted ten thousand pounds, not five thousand as previously agreed.

Lord Hickstead was livid, but his two guests were insistent that there was nothing they could do. Reluctantly he opened his briefcase and paid them half the money he had in there.

“If your friend isn’t there when I land, the two of you will be back in Basra by the weekend. Understood?”

They nodded and left.

Time was tight, and he needed to move quickly if he was to make the ferry.

Chapter 8 8

Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Monday, 8pm.

I could have stayed the night, and I wanted to stay, but tomorrow I had to show my face at the office and clear my desk, ready to start work again. With that in mind, we reluctantly agreed that I would go home and that we would talk more tomorrow. We had plans to make and now that Hickstead was out of our lives for good, we could move on. I was on the verge of leaving for the night when the bedside phone rang.

Dee answered it, and listened intently before saying, “Send her up, by all means. We would be pleased to see her.”

Jayne Craythorne walked into the room with an elegance and assurance that spoke volumes about her status. She was dressed elegantly but casually. She was every inch the multi millionaire’s wife that Jason Craythorne had married. I looked into her face as she approached Dee, and fancied that I could see some resemblance to her late father, Sir Max Rochester.

“Dee, I’m so sorry. I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t asked you to pursue Arthur Hickstead you wouldn’t be here. I never imagined so much violence would intrude into my world so quickly.”