coldly, adding, ‘Besides, if I understand the facts, it was your officer who put himself at risk; your team who got stuck driving their van into a mud-wallow. Don’t you teach them ground-reading skills anymore?’
‘Gentlemen.’ The voice of the third person in the room cut off Nolan’s intended retort, leaving him fuming impotently. ‘Let’s press on, shall we?’ Marcella Rudmann, chair of a Joint Intelligence Subcommittee overseeing security operations, flipped open a folder in front of her. ‘This business is appalling by anybody’s standards. Which is why this meeting involves just the three of us . . . so far.’
The subtle warning did not go unnoticed by the two men. They were in session with one of the most powerful women in Whitehall, against whom arguments were like light rain on a metal roof. She had the Prime Minister’s confidence and the support of senior cabinet members.
‘Two civilians dead – one the daughter of a local VIP, we believe – a courageous firearms officer killed and one dead drug-runner. I couldn’t care less about the last one, but the other three are going to keep the press on our collective necks for months to come. What are you doing about it?’
‘Doing?’ Paulton raised an eyebrow, although he knew perfectly well what Marcella Rudmann was alluding to. A head had to roll and, more importantly, had to be seen to roll. More than that, any source of embarrassment had to vanish quietly, beyond the reach of the press. He felt for a moment the spectre of blame settling around his neck like an icy collar. If anyone had to take the fall, it should be the weasel in uniform across the table from him; it had been his men who had thrown the drugs bust into disarray after many months of work, leaving the MI5 operators and the on-loan firearms officer to deal with the ensuing firefight. There was also the manpower cuts forced on them at the last minute by the Home Office; cuts meaning that resources were tailored to the threat level involved. Intelligence reports had advised that the threat level of the operation in Essex was likely to be low, and therefore required minimum personnel on the ground.
It had been a bad decision, but one Paulton himself had reluctantly agreed to. Outgunned and on foot, Tate and the others hadn’t stood a chance. He wondered idly whether senior police officers were issued with swords on which they could fall. Probably not; their health and safety department wouldn’t allow them near anything sharp.
‘About Tate.’ Rudmann was in her fifties, attractive and poised, but possessed of an aggressive approach which belied her looks. She had a reputation for caring little about individual sensibilities or rank, evidenced by several big-gun civil service carcasses littering the ground behind her.
Paulton forced himself to remain calm. Was it really going to be this simple? Had she just given him a clear, unambiguous signal that the man on the ground was to take all the blame? He sighed; he’d be stupid to toss it back in her face. Tough on Tate, especially at his time of life. Forty-something, he seemed to recall.
Better for himself, though. If he was careful.
Nolan wasn’t slow to pick up the inference, and snickered in triumph. ‘Tell me, Paulton, what do you do with security types you want rid of? You can hardly send them down to the local job centre, can you? Or have them spilling their guts by writing their memoirs.’
Paulton shot him a look of genuine loathing and resisted the instinct to mention the Stockwell tube shooting in 2005, by a police marksman. Instead, he replied, ‘Actually, we execute them. Saves time and paperwork. We could always extend the practice to your lot, if you like. Care to be the first candidate?’
Nolan’s face paled and he began to protest. But Rudmann’s hand came down flat on the table, the rings on her fingers giving the sharp, flat echo of a gunshot.
‘Your solution, George.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘You mean here and now?’ He was damned if he was going to give her an answer in front of this jumped-up traffic cop – not when it meant admitting he was surrendering the head of one of his officers. It would be tantamount to admitting that he had the guts of a slug. He slid a glance at his watch.
Tate’s flight should be taking off anytime now. A few hours and he’d be beyond reach. For good.
Rudmann’s hand drifted ominously towards a phone at her side. ‘Make it quick, George. Time’s running out.’
He gave in, convincing himself he was fighting his corner but battening down on the tiny worm of self-contempt seeping into his bones.
‘It’s taken care of,’ he said with feigned reluctance, aware that Nolan would practically soil his pants hearing what he was about to say. ‘We have a place . . . a posting. It’s a recent innovation. It will put Tate beyond the reach of the press, or . . .’ he hesitated, eyeing Nolan, ‘. . . anyone else who goes looking for him.’
‘What sort of place?’ Rudmann had been fingering her watch, no doubt late for another meeting. But she stopped at this latest revelation.
‘A branch office. I don’t want to disclose the precise location, but it’s not in this country.’
Nolan’s eyebrows shot up to join his receding hairline. ‘How? Five doesn’t have jurisdiction out of the country.’ He looked at Rudmann for support.
‘Actually, you’d be surprised where we have jurisdiction.’ Paulton gave him his nastiest smile, pleased to have taken the policeman by surprise. ‘But that’s all I’m saying.’ He waited for Rudmann to insist. This one should be a definite no-go area, even for her.
She nodded. ‘Very well.’ She closed the folder before her and stood up. ‘That’s all, gentlemen.’
Nolan looked crestfallen at being frozen out, but hurried away, no doubt eager to begin spreading tales. Paulton watched him go, determined not to share even the same corridor space with the man in case he was tempted to do something physical.
He turned and faced Rudmann. Her expression was a mask.
FIVE
‘I wasn’t going to insist,’ Rudmann said quietly after Nolan had gone. ‘Especially in front of that odious little creature. But there are others who will. Is it wise sending Tate to this . . . posting?’
It suddenly occurred to Paulton that she might already know about the place he was referring to. He couldn’t think how, but she undoubtedly had contacts he wasn’t aware of; resources he didn’t know about. It was an unsettling thought. ‘The PM, you mean?’ He caught a hint of perfume and wondered vaguely what it was. And where she daubed it.
‘Probably not. But his office. They will want to be sure Tate isn’t going to pop up somewhere foreign and start talking. That really would be a disaster – for everyone.’
‘He won’t.’ Paulton mentally gagged at the idea; it would be a career killer. The decision to tell her something – anything – was easily made. It might keep her off his back and satisfy others that a head had rolled; that all was well in the world. Most would see it as a classic display of self-defence – a civil service skill customarily absorbed on the first day in the job. Not that Tate would appreciate the subtlety. ‘He’s been assigned to the modern equivalent of Fort Zinderneuf. It’s remote, unpleasant, and he’ll be monitored to ensure he doesn’t go AWOL. It should suffice.’
‘I see.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘You’d planned this already.’
‘I
