Newton’s Fire. Will Adams

with the main road. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Pelham.

      ‘I need to find a woman.’

      ‘What have I been telling you?’

      ‘Her name’s Rachel Parkes,’ said Luke. ‘She works at Caius College. But she’s not there this afternoon. I already checked.’

      Pelham slid him a glance. ‘You haven’t turned into some weird stalker-man, have you?’

      ‘Look who’s talking.’

      ‘Fair enough.’ Pelham pulled out his phone. ‘Caius, right?’

      ‘Yes. Why? Do you know someone there?’

      Pelham grinned as he scrolled through his address book. ‘Mate, I know someone everywhere.’

      III

      The man had a Midwest accent, and he sounded to be in his fifties or even his sixties, though Croke had been wrong in such assessments before. ‘You don’t need to know my name,’ he said. ‘But my boss was just called by a friend of yours. A reverend friend.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Croke. So this was the Office of the Vice President calling. Instinctively he set down his glass and sat up a little straighter, only to smile when he caught himself at it.

      ‘We’ll speak only this once,’ said the man. ‘If you ever breathe a word about it, you’ll regret it.’

      ‘I’ll bet it turns your wife on when you talk like that,’ said Croke.

      ‘Don’t get smart with me. You’ve already made a bad impression coming in through the back door like this.’

      ‘Would I have got in through the front?’

      ‘That’s not the point.’

      ‘Maybe not to you.’

      ‘If we’re going to work together—’

      ‘We’re going to work together just fine. You know why? Because your boss just ordered you to help us, or we wouldn’t be talking. So stop wasting my time and get on with it.’

      A rustling of paper. ‘I’m reading your CIA file,’ said the man. ‘Fascinating stuff.’

      Croke took a sip of bourbon. ‘I do my best.’

      ‘Front companies in D.C., London and Hong Kong. I’ll bet they could do with an audit.’

      ‘They’re not front companies. They provide high-level business intelligence and security consultancy services.’

      ‘That’s not what it says here. It says here they’re cover for your arms deals.’

      ‘Is this really what you want to talk about?’

      A page was turned. ‘Your father is Dr Arthur Croke, I believe. The guy who used to run our USAF lab up in Rome.’

      ‘He still runs it.’

      ‘Really?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I thought he’d had to have retired by now. I mean, god, he was getting on when I met him. And that has to be twenty years ago, at least.’

      ‘He’s been running it thirty-three years,’ said Croke, with genuine pride.

      ‘A fine man. A real American patriot. His whole life dedicated to his country.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So despite some of these … startling things I’m reading in your file, we’d have no reason to doubt that you’re a patriot too; no reason to fear you’d ever do anything to harm our nation or bring shame upon your father.’

      ‘Quite right.’

      ‘Good. So the story’s going to run like this: in your work as an arms dealer – forgive me, as a security consultant – you sometimes bump up against people of dubious character. It so happens that two of those people have recently and separately warned you of an attack being planned on our great ally Britain. As a loyal American citizen, you naturally passed this intelligence on to us. It happens to tally with some chatter we’ve been picking up ourselves. We’re therefore about to warn the Brits that we fear some bad guys are planning an atrocity in and around Crane Court. The good news is that your sources are prepared to pass along new info as they get it. The bad news is that they’ll only speak to you. But you’ve agreed to be our middleman, passing that information on in real time.’

      Croke snorted. ‘So if this turns to shit, you can put all the blame on me.’

      ‘Of course. What did you expect? Now, you’re already on your way to England, right? Which airport?’

      ‘Cambridge.’

      ‘We’re shifting you to City of London. One of our people will meet you there. His name’s Richard Morgenstern.’ He gave Croke his cell and other contact details. ‘He’s seconded to a new counterterrorism group the Brits have just set up; but he’s loyal to us. To us personally, I mean. To my boss.’

      ‘Does he know what we’re looking for?’

      ‘He knows what. We had to tell him that much. But he doesn’t know why. My boss just told him that finding it was her number one priority right now. That’s all he needed to know. He’s a true patriot.’

      ‘Another one. Excellent. We can sing anthems together.’

      ‘We’re not going to talk again, you and me. Everything is to go through Morgenstern. And if you ever breathe one word about our involvement in all this, you’re a dead man. Am I clear?’

      Croke smiled. ‘As crystal,’ he said.

      EIGHT

      I

      Before setting fire to Penelope Martyn’s house, Max Walters had flipped through her address book to find out where Rachel Parkes lived. Now he pulled up opposite her front door. There was no sign of life inside, and when he tried her telephone he was switched over to voice mail. He glanced around at Kieran, who was monitoring the old bat’s email account on his laptop. ‘Any reply yet?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Okay,’ Walters said. ‘Let’s do it.’

      They waited for a cyclist to pass, crossed the road. The afternoon had grown sticky, hinting at storms. A communal front path led to a shared front door with buzzers for the top and bottom floor flats. He rang the ground-floor bell. No reply. An elderly couple walking slowly by along the pavement darted suspicious looks at them. Walters smiled cordially and wished them a good afternoon, but it did no good. They kept glancing around as they crossed the road and went inside a house opposite. Then their net curtains began to twitch. ‘Shit,’ muttered Walters.

      ‘Maybe there’s a back way in,’ suggested Kieran.

      They walked to the end of the street, turned left. ‘What about those locks?’ asked Walters. ‘Any problem?’

      ‘The Yale’s a piece of piss,’ Pete assured him. ‘The Chubb’ll be a bit harder. Say a minute for the pair. Plenty of time for those old farts to see us and call the cops.’

      They turned up the next street. An unbroken terrace blocked any hope of breaking into Parkes’ flat through a rear window. ‘Maybe we’d better wait until dark,’ said Kieran.

      Walters snorted. ‘Today’s about the longest bloody day of the year. And what if she opens her email while we’re waiting?’ He took a deep breath. He hadn’t yet reported this mess to Croke, hoping to sort it all out first. But he couldn’t put it off any longer. He didn’t want Pete and Kieran listening in, however, so he walked off a little way before calling