CHAPTER TWELVE
DEATH OF A KILLER
Dusty Miller was in something of a dilemma.
His instructions were clear enough - get photos of the switch, and both men. Use the mobile phone camera, from outside. Let Jarvis go - he can be picked up later. Or words to that effect. Sounded easy enough. The switch was to take place at St. James’ coffee bar in Piccadilly, about eleven this morning, so they said.
But he was working on his own. Not that he minded that. It was just that he wasn’t quite used to working in this urban environment. Belfast and Basra were one thing, but somehow London was different. And anyway, the last time they said where Jarvis was going, he went off in exactly the opposite direction. Suppose they were wrong this time, too? The only way to be sure would be to follow Jarvis from his home, but if he did that, Miller couldn’t be at St. James’ coffee bar before Jarvis got there. Jarvis was sure to go by Underground, but there was no way Miller could watch him get on the train, and then get on the one ahead of him, to arrive first.
No way.
The nearest station was Green Park. Leave by the Piccadilly north side exit, turn left, and there was St. James’ coffee bar. There were lots of places like that near there. Costa Coffee, Prêt a Mangé, and Starbucks. If you wanted real coffee, try the Ritz or Fortnum and Masons further on, but the Russians had picked St. James’ for some reason. Only Americans and people who didn’t care about coffee went there. That obviously included Russians. It was a sort of upper-class greasy spoon, Miller said later.
Miller’s problem, though, wasn’t about whether he would like the coffee when he got there – he knew he wouldn’t – but how he was to get there before Jarvis.
So he rang Clayton.
“’Morning, Colonel.”
“’Morning, Miller.”
“How did you know it was me, Colonel?”
“Never mind, Miller. What’s your problem?”
“I just wanted to be sure that Jarvis wasn’t really important this morning,” he said, “and that you were more interested in the handover, and who takes the briefcase from him.”
“Correct.”
“In that case, I need to get to the RV before Jarvis, rather than follow him to it. So I wanted to be sure it was still the Piccadilly St. James’ coffee bar at 1100 hours.”
“Right again.”
“In that case, I’ll slip back to your place and swap my bike for one with all the despatch rider’s kit. I can park that in Piccadilly without attracting too much attention.”
“Get on with it then, Miller. Just get pictures of the switch, and leave Jarvis to me.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
So Miller was there well before Jarvis arrived. He had left his replacement bike, complete with panniers and chattering radio with its loudspeaker between the handlebars, on the double yellow lines, almost outside the coffee shop, and was standing next to it pretending to be in earnest conversation with his despatch-rider control room. In fact he was taking photos of a very Russian-looking customer inside.
Miller decided he would get better pictures without the reflections on the window, so went in for a take-away Cappuccino. He had rather expected the Russian to be the same chap that gave Jarvis the gun in St. James’s Park, but it wasn’t. They all seemed to look alike anyway, Russians, but Miller was sure this was a different bloke, sitting there with his coffee. Miller got a couple of good shots of the man, and went back outside with his cardboard mug. The cardboard added nothing to the taste of the coffee, either.
It wasn’t long before he spotted Jarvis, complete with briefcase, walking towards him along the crowded pavement from the Underground station. Miller had removed his crash helmet to go into the coffee shop, but put it back on now – he needed both hands, and the built-in phone in case of an emergency.
***
Jarvis had not been looking forward to this.
Yesterday had been an absolute nightmare, and he couldn’t believe what he had done, or even, really, why he had done it. What an idiot he had been. At the time there hadn’t seemed to be any other option open to him. In all honesty, there really wasn’t one. He was being blackmailed, and that was that. He had given in, and now would have to live with the consequences for the rest of his life. His mind had been in absolute turmoil and he simply hadn’t been able to think clearly.
He was pretty sure that the murder of Jack Barclay in his Battersea flat could not be traced back to him. Certainly not once he had got rid of the weapon and its wretched briefcase. He had taken exceptional care to leave no clues behind, had worn latex gloves, wiped the area clean so that no powder marks from the gun would be found, and so on. He had also taken special precautions to ensure that, first of all, he hadn’t been followed to Battersea, and then that nobody had seen him enter or leave the flat across the car park from Barclay’s block. His main concern now was that the Russians might attempt to use him again for some other job they wanted done, but once Donald was safe, they would have nothing on him. He had meant to phone Barbara last night to ask about the boy, but had been in such a state he had completely forgotten. He was sure she would have rung him quickly enough if Donald had not been returned safe and sound as promised. He would give her a ring later.
At least his wife knew nothing about it. She believed that, after a couple of ‘sick’ days off, he had been back at work. She knew the sort of work he did, and also knew better than to ask questions. He kept odd hours – always had – so it wasn’t too unusual for him to leave home a bit later than normal this morning. He had walked to the station as usual, with his new briefcase, and she had no idea that he had gone to Green Park instead of Vauxhall.
It was a busy station, Green Park. Popular with tourists, and a major inter-change, but Jarvis had made his way to the Piccadilly north side exit, and turned left. He soon found St. James’ coffee bar, and went up to the counter to order his coffee. Nothing fancy. Just a straight filter, please, black. Sugar was on the table, they said.
He found a seat, leant the briefcase against the chair, tipped a file of sugar into his mug and opened his newspaper. He knew it would be a different Russian embassy man – he had been given a coded message, which would have been unnecessary if it was to be the same fellow who had given him the briefcase in the park.
Almost at once, a man from a nearby table pushed his coffee to one side and walked across to where Jarvis was sitting.
He leant across Jarvis, and pointed to an article in his paper.
“Interesting story, that,” said the man.
“It’s old news,” replied Jarvis, as he had been instructed.
“The old stories are always the best,” said the man, completing the message as he walked away. Jarvis noticed that he had picked up the briefcase.
Miller had noticed as well, and had photographed the whole thing from outside. The man with the briefcase hurried into the road, hailed a taxi and was gone.
Jarvis stirred his coffee as he also watched the man disappear into the traffic. An immense sense of relief flooded over him. Getting rid of that briefcase, and in particular its contents, was like getting rid of a rotten tooth. He felt quite euphoric. Now, perhaps, he could get back to something approaching a normal life, in spite of having to live with the memory of what he had done. He folded his paper and finished his coffee, deciding to wait for a moment before he, too, would leave the coffee bar.
In the end, it was half an hour or so before Jarvis left, and that was in the back of an ambulance.
***
It had never occurred to Jarvis that he was going to die.
At least, not yet anyway.
It was all so totally unexpected, although he should have known, really. He should have realised that the Russians would not let him survive to tell the tale. The man must have slipped something into his coffee as he leant across to point to the newspaper article. That was it. The coffee. He should never have drunk it, but how was he to know? Too late, now. It had tasted funny, somehow, even by St. James’ standards.
But now he knew he was going to die.
It was all happening so quickly.
He suddenly felt very ill indeed, and was already breaking out into a hot sweat, so at least it would be quick. Not like Alexander Litvinenko. When they killed him, it took 3 weeks for him to die from radiation sickness. They had given him a dose of polonium-210. No. Jarvis knew this would be quick, but also knew he could do nothing about it.
He wondered what it was the man had slipped into his coffee. But he couldn’t think of anything much, least of all the name of any poison. Like instant Alzheimer’s, it was. He was feeling quite light headed, and he wasn’t quite sure where he was any more, but thought he ought to try to get home. God, he was hot – the sweat was pouring off him. He felt very dizzy, and a bit out of breath, although he knew he hadn’t been running or doing anything much except drinking coffee. Bloody coffee. He thought he should try to stand up, ready to head for home, but somehow his legs didn’t seem to work properly. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t really see the door any more either. For some reason, his eyes wouldn’t focus. He was very perplexed and bemused. His head was spinning, and he felt tired and somehow weak, as if his strength was ebbing from him. He decided he’d leave the briefcase where it was and come back for it tomorrow when he was feeling better. He didn’t want the newspaper, anyway. But he couldn’t remember where he’d put the briefcase, or even where he was. In spite of his confused state and the most awful raging headache he’d ever had in his life, he somehow realised that there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. He was dying. No doubt about it. He made a huge effort to stand up, determined to get a taxi. His head rolled back with the effort and he toppled into the table next to him, tipping it over and everything on it. The two girls sitting there screamed as he slumped to the floor.
Not that Jarvis heard them.
***
Miller did, though.
He was just about to get on his bike, ready to head for Clerkenwell with his camera. He glanced sideways into the coffee shop for the last time, just as Jarvis fell headlong into the table next to him. Miller dashed back inside and knelt over the sprawling body. He felt for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. Jarvis was dead.
One of the staff rushed over.
“Get a plastic bag, quick,” commanded Miller. “One that you can seal, if you’ve got one.”
Miller carefully picked up what was left of Jarvis’s mug of coffee. He could see crystalline grains still in the bottom of it. Could be sugar, could be something else. Forensic would find out.
While the girl hurried away, Miller first rang 999, and then Clayton, who thankfully replied immediately. Miller didn’t beat about the bush.
“Jarvis is dead,” he announced, “probably poisoned with something that acts very fast. I’ve got his coffee cup and will make sure it’s given to the police when they arrive, unless you want it. I’ve rung for an ambulance, so I’ll head straight back to your place with the camera. I didn’t see his drink being spiked, but it might just be in one of the shots I took. Tell the garage my bike will need new number plates when I get back.” He rang off.
The waitress arrived with the plastic bag.
“The man’s probably been poisoned,” said Miller to the astonished girl, as he put the mug into the bag and sealed it. “Make sure you give this to the Police when they arrive, and no-one else. Understand?”
The girl nodded, with her hand over her mouth.
Miller dashed out, and swung his leg over the bike. He switched on the headlights and the previously hidden flashing blue lights, and with the siren going full blast, made off at high speed, leaving Jarvis for the police to sort out. Nobody thought to try and stop him. He drove far too fast down Piccadilly, swerved round the Circus and into Shaftsbury Avenue. He wasn’t altogether sure, thinking about it afterwards, how he got across the traffic at the Charing Cross Road junction, but eventually made his way into Theobalds Road and then Clerkenwell Road. Left into Farringdon Road, and he was nearly there. He swerved right into Bowling Green lane, switched off his lights and siren, and spent a useful couple of minutes pottering about the back streets to make sure he wasn’t being followed, before making his way into Clerkenwell Green and the Section 11 garage. They were expecting him.
Clayton took Miller’s mobile phone, slipped out the memory stick, and inserted it into his computer.
“That’s the bloke,” said Miller. “I took that shot before Jarvis arrived. There’s Jarvis, with the briefcase. And that’s him with the Russian leaning over him, pointing at something in the newspaper. That must have been when he slipped something into Jarvis’s coffee.”
“Let’s blow it up a bit,” said Clayton, manipulating the computer programme to enlarge the image.
“Hey, look at that,” said Miller. “There’s something in his other hand, near the mug. Looks like glass or plastic – a tube of some sort.”
“Very small, whatever it is.”
They looked at the next photo Miller had taken.
“Gone!” said Clayton. “Looks as if he’s just put it back into his pocket, judging by where his hand is.”
“Pity this isn’t a video.”
They flicked to the next shot.
“And there he is, picking up the briefcase.”
The next frame showed the man walking towards the door, briefcase in hand.
“Well done, Miller,” said Clayton. “We’ll get the experts to work on these photos to see if they can intensify the images a bit, but it looks almost certain that he fixed Jarvis’s coffee with something or other, and put the empty phial or packet into his pocket before grabbing the briefcase and leaving.”
“I made sure his empty coffee mug was secured and told one of the waitresses to give it to the police when they arrived. Forensic people should be able to find out what killed him.”
“Pretty damned quick, whatever it was. I think I’ll have a word with the Secretary of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and e-mail these photos to him straight away. Hang around if you will, Miller, in case something else crops up.”
“OK, Colonel. I’ll nip down to the mess room for a coffee.”
He paused.
“On second thoughts, perhaps I’ll have tea, just for a change.”
***
Head of ‘S’ got through to Sir Robin Algar quickly, on the secure phone.
“I have news,” said Clayton. “You must decide whether it’s good or bad, but Alan Jarvis is dead.”
“What? An accident or something?”
“No. He has been murdered. He met a Russian agent, as arranged, to hand back the gun he used last night, and the man spiked his coffee with something or other. Very quick acting, whatever it was. Jarvis was dead within a minute or so.”
“How do you know all this?” demanded Algar.
“One of my chaps was there and witnessed the whole thing. Nothing he could do – it was all too quick, and he didn’t actually see the substance being put into Jarvis’s coffee. But he’s got photographs.”
“Has he, by God!”
“I’ve emailed them to you just this minute. Have a look, and get your technical chaps to enhance a couple if you can. They were taken from outside the coffee bar, so they’re not that brilliant.”
“Can we recognise the Russian?”
“Almost a portrait of the man.”
“In that case, I might suggest the Foreign Secretary has the Ambassador in for a word.”
“Don’t let’s start expelling diplomats, for heaven’s sake, or my cover will be blown,” pleaded ‘S’.
“Don’t worry – we’ll handle it with care. But we can’t have Foreign nationals murdering our people in our own back yard, and then expect to get away with it. I suppose the police are on the case now, are they.”
“They should be. My man rang 999 as soon as he knew Jarvis was dead. He also had the presence of mind to secure the coffee cup, so the Met’s forensic lab in Lambeth should be able to identify what was used.”
“Sounds as if your chap was on the ball,” commented Algar. “I’ll check with the Yard, to see how they’re getting on. It might be helpful if we let the press know that one of our top “spies” has been murdered, and let them work out who did it.”
“Give me a couple of hours first, will you Robin. I’ve one or two loose ends to tie up here still, if you don’t mind. Incidentally, while you’re on to the media, you might let them know too that one of our top scientists has disappeared – nervous breakdown suspected because of over-work or something like that. We want the Russians to think that Jarvis has got the right man.”
“Good idea, that,” replied Algar. “By the way, I should have asked, but is Jarvis’s boy OK – I forget his name?”
“Donald. And he’s OK. We got to him first.”
“Jarvis didn’t know that?”
“No. We let him think the Russians had taken the boy, otherwise the whole operation would have been abandoned. We needed Jarvis in the loop, to confirm who their target really was.”
“The Russians must have wondered what the hell was going on, knowing they hadn’t taken him, but Jarvis continuing to react in spite of that, as if they had.”
“They must have guessed, but didn’t care so long as Jarvis was still prepared to do their dirty work for them.”
“Interesting! I’ve pulled up your photographs on my email now, by the way. Good, aren’t they? I’ll get my chaps working on them, and then I think I’ll get Wilfred Forsyth to pull in the Ambassador Yuri Nevsky, to see what he has to say for himself. Tomorrow give you enough time for your ‘loose ends’?”
“Plenty, thanks, but make sure the Foreign Office demands the return of the briefcase and its contents. They’re not supposed to know that we discovered it was theirs in the first place and that it contained a Kalashnikov. We need to let them think that we believe it belonged to Jarvis, and that it contained documents stolen by him at their request.”
“Good point, Bill. Anything else I should brief the F.O. about?”
“Not so long as they remember that officially we don’t know that Jarvis killed Barclay, or that he’s even dead. Even though he isn’t, if you see what I mean. Let me know what happens.”
***
“Any idea where Nick is?” Bill Clayton asked Barbara.
“Not really,” she replied. “Said he was going out on a case, but would be back later this afternoon.”
“Let me know when he’s back. I need to see him for a chat, but don’t bother getting him specially. It will keep for an hour or so.”
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Please. And see if you can get Doc. Perkins on the phone. He’s at Buscot Park with Professor Barclay. I’d like to know how that’s going.”
Head of ‘S’ spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on things like that, tying up loose ends, clearing paper work, and so on, but all the time he was conscious of a tricky personnel issue he had to deal with later. But he needed to talk to Nick about it first. Nick eventually got back to HQ just after five, and went straight in to see Clayton.
“The little lady next door said you wanted a word,” he said cheerily.
“Close the door, Nick.”
“Sounds serious,” said Nick.
“In a way it is, in that it affects Barbara, but I wanted to talk to you about it before I spoke to her.”
“What’s happened?”
“Alan Jarvis is dead. Murdered by the Russians.”
“Holy smoke!”
“Quite!”
Clayton showed Marsden the photos, and told him what had happened earlier.
“Miller can’t be blamed for Jarvis’s death in any way. He’s done remarkably well, really,” said Marsden.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Clayton. “The point is though, that apart from the diplomatic hoo-hah, which is not for us to sort out, it means that Barbara’s young son Donald no longer has a father. She needs to be told.”
“Quite,” said Marsden. “Of course she does.”
He paused for thought.
“Tricky one, this.”
“Quite,” agreed Clayton. “Shall I tell her, or will you, or shall we have her in and tell her together.”
“Together might be best,” suggested Marsden.
“Why?”
“Well, we both know that Jarvis is Donald’s father.”
“Was.”
“Pardon?”
“Was Donald’s father. He’s dead now.”
“Quite.”
“I don’t much fancy telling her on my own, to be honest,” said Clayton.
“Quite. Neither do I, to be honest,” agreed Marsden.
“Together, then.”
The two men sat looking at one another.
“How do you think she’ll react, then?” asked Clayton. “You probably know her better than I do, what with having been here longer, and going out with her now and then.”
“Well,” began Marsden. “Well. She may not be too upset, since she didn’t really like the man, after the way he’s treated her recently. On the other hand, she may feel upset that Donald no longer has a father. Not that Donald liked him much either,” he added.
“Never quite understood who he was, as I understand it,” said Bill Clayton.
“Quite. He never seemed very happy in the man’s company, somehow.”
There was another pause.
“Well. Let’s get this over then.”
“Should we have a bottle of wine open or something?” asked Nick Marsden.
“She might not feel like celebrating,” Bill reminded him. “But I think there’s one in the fridge if necessary.”
“I’ll ask her to come in, then,” said Nick.
Nick fetched her from the office next door.
“Come in Barbara, and take a seat,” invited Bill. “We have something to tell you.”
“I’m not getting the sack, am I?” She looked worried.
“No, no. nothing like that at all.”
“That’s a relief, I must say. It’s getting more and more expensive looking after Donald these days, as he grows older.”
“How is the boy, by the way,” asked Bill.
“Pleased to be home again and back in his old routine, but he really did enjoy his few days with you and Catherine, Bill. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“No problem at all,” replied Bill.
“In fact, he rang only a short time ago, wanting to come in to show you both his latest drawing, which apparently got first prize at school today. Very proud of it, he is, and very disappointed I wouldn’t let him bring it round.”
“I could drop by later to see it, if that would help,” suggested Nick.
“I’d like that, too,” said Barbara. “But what did you want to see me about?”
“Well, I won’t beat about the bush, Barbara, but we thought you should know straight away. It’s about Alan Jarvis. I’m afraid he died earlier today.”
“Oh dear,” said Barbara. “An accident or something.”
“Not quite. He was murdered. Poisoned. By the Russians we think.”
The girl looked shocked.
“Why would they do a thing like that?”
“They had blackmailed him into doing some work for them, and then wanted him out of the way.”
“Oh dear,” she said again.
“I hope you’re not too upset,” said Nick, even though she didn’t seem to be in the least.
“I suppose I should be,” she replied, “but I’m afraid I’m not. I never really cared for the man. In fact, if I’m honest, I hated him lately.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked Bill clumsily, feeling rather as though he could do with a glass himself. “To settle the nerves.”
“There’s a bottle in the fridge – I’ll get it.”
When she had poured them each a glass she said, “You know, I really feel more sorry for Donald than anyone at the moment.”
“Why’s that?” asked Bill.
“Well, he’s never really had a father, and now he never will. And he’s getting to the age when he could really do with one.”
“Well,” said Nick. “Perhaps I could help a bit there. From time to time.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“What I mean is,” Nick blundered on, “we do seem to get on quite well together, and I’m quite good at train sets and that sort of thing. I can punt a rugby ball about and we could play cricket if he likes.” Nick was getting ever more enthusiastic. “And I’ve got a small boat at my place near Portsmouth – I could teach him to sail, and even go fishing off the beach, and catch crabs in the rock pools, and …”
“Hang on, Nick!” said Barbara. “Don’t get too carried away! But if that’s the craziest proposal of marriage I’m ever likely to get, then I accept, on Donald’s behalf of course.”
“Good grief, Barbara. Really?” Nick looked stunned. “If only I’d known, I’d have asked long ago.”
Bill Clayton saw his chance, and took it.
“Look here, you two. Finish off that bottle of wine, but I must get home if you’ll excuse me.”
He made for the door and left.
Nick took Barbara’s arm. “Come on, old thing,” he said. “Let’s get a bottle of bubbly on the way back to your place, and have a look at Donald’s drawing.”
***