16
George Fincham stood in his office, cradling a delicate, bone-china cup in both hands and staring out through the window, upriver towards Parliament.
He never tired of this view, his personal picture of the home of government, the seat of all power. Power which he had long ago pledged to protect and maintain. Fincham had worked tirelessly and ruthlessly for many years to achieve his own position of power and influence.
As head of the security section, he was an important figure within the Firm. And if he hadn't risen quite as high in the set-up as he believed he deserved, there was still time. As long as there weren't too many repeats of last night's botched operation to be rid of Fergus Watts.
Watts was an irritation, like a fly buzzing around Fincham's head. But soon the fly would be swatted. Squashed. Killed. The cover story would be that he died trying to avoid capture. No fuss. Cleanly and efficiently over, just as Fincham liked it. He prided himself on the efficiency of his section.
He could depend on the loyalty of all his operators, particularly the four assigned to the Watts operation. They had been with him for a long time and he had selected them personally for this job. They knew his methods and never questioned them, and they took pride in the reputation of the section.
And then there was Marcie Deveraux, the latest recruit to the section, but already invaluable. Fincham could depend on Marcie too. She was like him. Ambitious. Ruthless. And she knew that he was her route to the top.
Fincham finished his coffee, turned away from the window and sat at his desk. He was an intensely private man who never revealed even the smallest detail of his personal life within the Firm. Only his few close acquaintances – Fincham had acquaintances rather than friends – knew that he was a collector of things of rare and exotic beauty. His bachelor flat contained his small but stunning collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings as well as many exquisitely bound, first edition antiquarian books. They were rarely seen by anyone but their owner.
There was a knock at the door. 'Come.'
For someone who had worked throughout the night, Marcie Deveraux looked incredible. Fresh and totally unruffled. She took the seat on the opposite side of the desk. 'We have the identity of the runner, sir.'
'Tell me.'
'Eddie Moyes. Freelance reporter, bit of a has-been. Hangs around the Victory Club quite a lot looking for SAS stories, which probably explains how he latched onto young Danny. We've pulled old stories he did about Fergus Watts off the Internet.'
Fincham nodded. 'And?'
'The team followed him to a pub. He stayed there for a while and then got a taxi back to civilization. Then a train home. He's there now – sleeping, I would imagine.'
Fincham looked at the plasma TV churning through its Ceefax list of news headlines. 'I do not want anything appearing in the press, Marcie.'
Deveraux shook her head. 'I don't think it will, sir. He's only got half a story, and being a freelance he's got to make the most of his information. Once he files his first report he'll have the whole of Fleet Street chasing this.'
'So what do you suggest?'
'Surveillance, sir. His phones, his PC. And a CTR on his flat. I went there at four this morning and carried out a locks recce. Let's find out what he knows and use it to our advantage.'
Fincham stood, went to the coffee machine that sat on a small side table and poured more coffee into a fresh cup. 'Excellent, Marcie. Moyes will never get to file this story.' He glanced over at her. 'Coffee?'