Collusion: Chapter 15

A realisation dawns... but a front page story blows relationships apart

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: The threat is now clear, but Ashton gets an unpleasant shock when he is bitten by his own profession

Chapter 15 Headline act

Once again they ate takeaway. Chinese this time. Ashton recounted the events of the day and Orlanda was relieved. “At least we know the building is not going to explode beneath us. At least not as a result of terrorism.”

“What do you mean?” Ashton said.

“The structure is falling apart,” she replied. “It was built in a different age by architects whose ideas have not endured the test of time. Have you heard the knocking in the walls?” He had, and wondered what was making the noise.

“The steel pipes are encased in concrete,” she said. “When they expand because the heating is on, they make banging sounds. There was a musician living in one of the other houses who was almost sent insane by it. It became like a metronome in her head. They couldn’t fix it. I know all there is to know about the pipes and water supply here.” She laughed.

He waited for her to carry on and explain.

“Oh, God, it’s so dull. The first flat I had here had a flood. Water soaked through all my clothes. It turned out that the inbuilt wardrobe had a drain of some sort behind it. An internal riser. There was black mould everywhere. The management were far from sympathetic until they found out I was an MP. The advertise this place as luxury living in central London but if a council block was in such a state of disrepair there’d be a national scandal. At least they moved me. The General Manager was an abrasive,” she thought for a while, “prick. Then he found out I was in Parliament. I was moved to a better flat immediately.”

“Slum living for the rich,” Ashton laughed.

“It gets worse,” she said. “It turns out that the entire water delivery and drainage system is a mess. The toilets and sink are always getting blocked and we have to call out maintenance to fix things. At least they’re on site and more or less on 24-hour call.

“One of the workmen explained why. The Square is unusual in that it has its own water supply, pumped from an artesian well to two reservoirs on the roof. Because of aesthetics the architects put all the plumbing and drains on the inside of the building. It was a great idea in the 1930s but almost a century on it’s a mess.”

She sat up, embarrassed. “You know you asked about why I’ve never married or had long relationships? Here’s an example. Things like this interest me. We should be having an intimate moment and I go on and on about the water supply in the Square. I’ve thought quite a bit about it and possible solutions.”

Ashton smiled. “I think it makes you lovable.” He kissed her again. “Very lovable.”

“What are you saying?” she said softly.

“I’m saying I’m in love with you,” he said. He immediately regretted it. Had he gone too far?

“I feel the same way,” she replied, still unable to say the word. It didn’t matter. They kissed deeply. And then Ashton pulled away.

“How many MPs live here? Tell me again,” he said urgently.

“Now that strikes even me as a strange turn of events,” Orlanda said, surprised. “And I thought I was weird.”

“No, no, I love you but I need to know. How many MPs.”

“Lots,” she said. “Probably more than 50. And many more Lords. Senior civil servants, too. It’s just a weekday residence for many of them.”

“Do you think there is any other accommodation in London with such a concentration of powerful people?”

“We’ve established that before,” Orlanda said. “No. At least, I can’t imagine.”

“And anywhere else with its own water supply?”

“No, that is very unusual. The Square boasts about it on its website.”

“‘He’s planning a run to Europe soon. The stuff he’s getting is strong. One sip and it’ll knock you senseless!’”

“What?”

“That’s what the fascist said to me in the Royal Standard of England. I thought Killer was going to Europe to pick up guns. But what if…”

Orlanda was way ahead. “Poison. Terrorists would find it very hard to poison the general water supply. Reservoirs are extremely well protected. I was on a subcommittee that discussed the protection systems. But two tanks in a building where an unusually high number of people with political significance reside? That would be a relatively easy target. It would be a spectacular coup for any terrorist organisation. They would need the sort of biological or chemical weapons that are extremely hard to come by, though. Who could supply such weapons?”

They sat in silence for a moment and then both blurted out: “Russia.”

“Surely not,” Orlanda said. “You do realise that the way we feed off each other’s thought processes and the mutual paranoia suggests we’re not right for each other?” She was only half joking.

“We’re perfect,” he said. “We’ll have beautiful children.” The MP did a double take. “But for now I need to speak to Titch. And not on the phone.” He kissed her hard.

She stopped him. “Call him. Tell him to come here. I think you need my input on this, too.”

*

Titch arrived an hour later with Cathy. She looked very different in leather trousers, a ribbed cotton tee-shirt and an expensive-looking mid-length jacket. Ashton looked at her properly for the first time. She could have been anywhere between 35 and 60 and tonight had the air of an ageing rock chick. When she spoke – it was the first time Ashton had heard her say more than single words – it was in a London accent that had unexpected energy.

“We were partners for a long time,” Titch said to Orlanda, explaining their relationship.

“I’ve kissed him more than I’ve kissed any other man,” Cathy said happily. “On operations. We were often girlfriend and boyfriend, wife and husband. He was never very good at the kissing. I pitied his boyfriends. And he tried to get me killed lots of times.”

Titch rolled his eyes. “She’s also more acquainted with the GRU and poison than I am,” he said.

Orlanda explained about the Square’s water supply. Titch deferred to his companion. “Putin loves poisoning!” Cathy spoke as if she was recounting details of an entertaining night. “My favourite was the drop of chemical agent on a lightbulb in a Berlin hotel. When the dissident switched on the bedside lamp, the heat turned the liquid into a gas that caused a fatal heart attack. Classic GRU.”

Ashton and Orlanda glanced at each other. The delivery was much more enthusiastic than the content warranted. “There’s two ways they work,” Cathy continued. “The first is the surreptitious hit. They tried to do that in Salisbury and screwed it up.

“They also have a great sense of theatre and like to send out a message. You’ll remember Alexander Litvinenko. They put radioactive material in his tea and it took him three weeks to die. His family, friends and political allies watched his slow death – as did Russia’s enemies.

“What you are suggesting here is a third way, somewhere between the two; a deadly, destabilising spectacular but they can’t afford to have their fingerprints on it. So, they need to have a patsy.”

“That makes sense,” Titch said. “What are they trying to achieve?”

“A terrorist ‘spectacular’ would inflame public opinion and probably force a hard Brexit,” Orlanda said. “It could be used to strengthen the ‘taking back control’ narrative, especially if, like the Manchester bombing, there’s a guilty party with asylum-seeker or Islamic links. But what’s in it for Russia?”

“Political chaos.” Cathy said. “The undermining of democracy. Widening the gap between NATO allies. Breaking up the European Union.”

Ashton chipped in. “For ExSat and FLAG, Dolphin Square is the essence of the metropolitan elite. There’s even a child-sex scandal that’s swirled around it. Very QAnon.”

“OK when?” Cathy said.

“We must assume,” Titch said. “That Killer has had the chemical weapons – if that’s what they are – since you went to Belgium. So, any time now. You would think it would happen on a big day in Parliament, so the maximum number of MPs would be in situ.”

“If the Government lose the meaningful vote against the Prime Minister’s Brexit deal on Tuesday, then it’s likely that there will be an extension of Article 50 by the end of next week,” Orlanda said. “That will mean we will not leave the European Union at 11pm on March 29. The hardcore Brexiteers are furious at a possible delay. If an outrage occurred after the Government were defeated, things might turn out differently. Depending on the result of the vote, and I’m pretty certain the Prime Minister will be defeated, an attack on Tuesday night going into Wednesday morning strikes me as the optimum time.”

They sat there digesting this thought. “We have very little time, then,” Titch said. “I’ll try the Ukrainian end tomorrow. There must be a link. I’ll also get a list of employees here at the Square and see if that throws up anything.”

“I saw this man ‘Killer’ talking to one of the Square’s employees,” Orlanda said. “But he’s a lovely young man from Eastern Europe. Certainly not a Muslim.”

Ashton’s phone dinged with a text. He picked up his handset and looked at it. The message was from a friend who was the night editor of a national newspaper. It read: “The first editions are in. Have you seen The Sun?”

That surprised him. His mate knew that he avoided the tabloid because of its Hillsborough coverage. He replied “No,” with a row of question marks and waited for the response. At that moment Orlanda’s phone rang. She excused herself and left the room. Ashton’s friend messaged again with the words, “check tomorrow’s papers on twitter.”

“Something’s going on,” he said to Titch. “I just need to have a look.”

“I can leave, dear boy, there’s little more to say. You young people need your time together.” He smirked.

“Shit,” Ashton said. “Oh shit.”

He held the screen of his phone for Titch to see. It showed the front page of the newspaper. The headline was: ‘Brexit blocker MP’s lefty lover.’ The subdeck said: ‘Tory beauty’s head turned by radical Scouser.’ There was a grainy photograph of the two of them arm in arm in the Square.

Orlanda walked into the room. She was pale.

“We know,” Ashton said, getting up to hold her. “Pierce. It’s his declaration of war. It was always coming when I didn’t give him Titch’s address.”

She shrugged him off. “I knew it was going to get dirty but my private life?”

Titch and Cathy rose. “You two need to talk,” the big man said. “I’ll head home. Call me if you need anything. It’s clear these people will go to any lengths. You are both collateral damage. Remember that. Neither of you have done anything wrong. Do not blame each other.”

It was not so easy. The story was only ten short paragraphs but the detail was ugly. Ashton’s night editor friend took a photo of the inside page and Whatsapped it across. It portrayed Orlanda as an innocent fool beguiled by a dangerous subversive. They had trawled through his social media and the crosshead breaking the column on page four said, ‘Traitorous tweets,’ and reprinted criticism of the British Empire that he had posted in a conversation about slavery.

Both were shocked. “I probably need to leave,” he said. “There may be reporters and even TV crews here soon to doorstep you.”

“And you always gave me the impression you thought politics was a dirty business,” she said sourly. “Journalism.” She snorted.

There was little he could say. “I’m sorry. I never meant … I never thought I would embarrass you. If I was you, I’d…”

“I don’t need your advice, thank you,” she said. “Just go.”

“I will,” he said. “But remember, there’s a bigger issue. We need to stop what is about to happen. You mean so much to me.”

Titch was waiting in the lobby, sitting in a chair watching the lift. “I’ve been expecting you, dear boy. Don’t be disheartened. The enemy has revealed himself. The opposing forces think we are much more stupid than we are. Up until now I was only 90 per cent certain that your friend Pierce was at the heart of this. He thinks this newspaper story will distract you – and us. It tells me that whatever is going to happen will occur soon.

“Now I know I no longer have to tread carefully. It is time to go on the attack again. Back to mine for a celebratory beer?”

Ashton went, but his mood was funereal. He worried about Orlanda sitting alone in the Square with the weight of right-wing misogynist abuse about to be amplified. The worst of it would come from her colleagues at her workplace.

*

Ashton stayed at the mews but not because he was worried about going home. He figured there would be no more attempts on his life after the newspaper story. No, any physical revenge would come later. He stayed with Titch because he got drunk.

The big man had some sympathy for his friend’s predicament but none at all for his hangover. At nine he came into the room on the ground floor and gave his guest a prod. “I am going to meet a friend from Odessa. Stay here and ride out the storm. Give Orlanda a call and see how she is.”

Instead, Ashton went back to sleep. When he woke after midday he drank four glasses of water and turned on the news. There was a short excerpt on Orlanda but the story was way down the agenda, a footnote to the building crisis. He looked online where the storm was at its most intense. Orlanda’s twitter account – thankfully managed by a member of her staff – had been bombarded with abuse. All of Frank Joseph’s virtual acolytes were out, threatening the MP with sexual violence and death. He checked his own engagements and found there was as much obscene salaciousness as insults. The majority of interactions wanted to know what it was like to “fuck a Tory.” And sprinkled throughout were messages from extreme Brexit supporters who substituted traitor for Tory.

He made his account private and logged off. Eventually, after watching the end of Crystal Palace against Brighton – a game that he would normally have ignored – he called Orlanda’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. He left a one-word message: “Sorry.”

Then, angry, he rang Pierce. He was shocked when the PR man picked up. “I know what you’ve done and why,” Ashton said. “I am going to destroy you.”

The easy buzz of a comfortable afternoon in the pub was interrupted by a guffaw as Pierce laughed loud and sinister.

“The reckoning is coming. I can understand you fucking me over, but Orlanda?” The chuckling took on an even more manic intensity. Ashton hung up.

He was angry. He paced up and down and fought the urge to punch the wall. At a loss what to do, he listened to the 3pm kickoffs on the radio. The day dragged. Finally, Titch called.

“Cathy’s found Valtteri,” he said. “He met Pierce’s man. She’s watching him. I’ve learnt a lot about friend Pierce, too. The Ukrainians maintain he is on their side. He has visited the country frequently and been free with his money supporting the anti-Russian forces. Except…”

“What?”

“He mixes with oligarchs. He is overly friendly with the mayor of Odessa, who the Panama Papers said holds Russian citizenship. And a few others who play both sides.

“I also think I’ve found our patsy. One of the Square’s employees is French. From a Chechen background. His brother was active in Ukraine. The youngster here is 20 and has no political inclinations. He’s perfect to take the blame for an outrage. The poor kid doesn’t know what’s coming his way.”

Ashton shivered. “Well, hopefully this will lead us to Killer,” Titch continued. “He is the dangerous one. My main concern is that I need to convince the people in authority that this is a real problem. I get the distinct feeling I’m not being treated seriously after the explosives fiasco. Oh, and how is Orlanda?”

“Not picking up. When are you back?”

“Meet me in the pub in an hour. Now you’re a media star, you’re not in danger. The next few days may be a nightmare. There’s nothing we can do tonight, so let’s drink. And you don’t want to watch Man City stuff Watford. Just accept Liverpool are not going to win the league.”

All in all, it was a depressing day for Ashton.

• Chapter 16: Square off

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a very different story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here