The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

was worth a dozen cameras in the air, and once those hellfire missiles launch, then the die was cast. A man with a gun can not only eliminate a single threat without collateral damage, but can choose not to fire as well. King had asked Amherst how well he would sleep at night if his decision to launch an airstrike killed women and children, put there to act as a deterrent, human shields. He had then asked if he’d lose sleep knowing a terrorist leader took a bullet to the back of their head in the middle of the night and the children sleeping in the next house still had the chance to grow up. It had given the director something to think on, and King noted that drone strikes were less common since Amherst had taken over MI5 and ran joint intelligence operations with MI6 and military intelligence.

Director Amherst was a young man for the role, in his early forties, but he was an experienced mandarin, having served in the MOD and several prominent civil service roles in Whitehall. He wasn’t an intelligence veteran, but his speciality was in streamlining government departments with remarkable success. MI5 was receiving the streamlining treatment, but the rebuilding of Thames House was rumoured to have cost almost ten-million, mainly because of the use of the depleted uranium rounds used in the terrorist attack and the subsequent fire damage caused by phosphorous incendiary ammunition. There had been a great deal of HAZMAT clearance, and further security precautions put in place to prevent a similar attack.

Amherst looked up at both King and Caroline as they entered. He looked impassive, but made a show of looking at his watch. It was ten-o’clock. Caroline looked uneasy, but King nodded a confident acknowledgment and headed for the chair nearest the wall.

“Well, I believe this means we can start.” He looked King up and down, then adjusted his own silk neck tie. It was tied in a Windsor knot. King noticed the handkerchief matched and was poking rather a long way out of his breast pocket.

King eyed the other people in the room, the cups in front of them. He looked up expectantly and caught Mereweather’s eye. “Point me in the direction, Simon. I could do with a cup of tea,” he paused, looking at Caroline. “Coffee?” She looked up at him, her face flushed, her eyes wide. They seemed to say - sit down! but King winked at her and looked back at Simon Mereweather.

Amherst shook his head as Simon Mereweather went to stand, and buzzed through his intercom. He ordered tea and a coffee and looked back at King. “I believe you have had an eventful couple of days. What are your thoughts?”

King looked at the people seated in the crescent in front of Amherst’s desk. Simon Mereweather was closest to him and he was seated next to Neil Ramsay, the MI5 officer who had taken the body of the gunman away from King’s cottage. Sir Hugo Hollandrake, the Home Secretary sat cross-legged, slightly effeminate, his legs almost wrapped around themselves, his foot swinging rhythmically up and down. He hadn’t looked up. He was clearly disgruntled at having to wait for King and Caroline to arrive, and King’s insistence upon having tea and coffee served before they could commence. King looked past Hollandrake and felt a surge in his stomach. Amanda Cunningham sat on the end of the crescent, a folder resting on her lap. She was looking straight ahead, apparently not wanting to catch King’s eye.

King sat back in his seat. His heart rushed, his pulse surging. He knew it had been a mistake to invite her over to the cottage. A bigger mistake not to tell Caroline what had transpired. It had been innocent, with no intent, but in omitting telling Caroline, he had made it something more. Now the woman was here, and one thing he had discovered about her, was that she was far from predictable. With a drink or two inside her, she was downright unstable. He had expected to see her at some point, as she deliberated her findings, but the fact that it was today, in this meeting had unsettled him.

“There’s more to it,” King said. “Much more.” He looked up as Amherst’s secretary walked in with a tray and placed it in front of King and Caroline on the low coffee table. He looked up at her and nodded a thank you.

“Well, obviously,” scoffed the Home Secretary.

“So, what are your thoughts?” King asked amiably. “If you don’t mind, Home Secretary.”

“Well,” Hollandrake paused, looking flustered. “I just mean there’s more to it than we think. That much is obvious.”

“Is it?” King asked. “The newly formed terrorist group, Anarchy to Recreate Society, who have sworn to eradicate world poverty and redress the balance of wealth, has made good on their promise. They said they would kill the five wealthiest people on the planet, and apart from one man, they have,” King paused. “What more to it do you see?” King poured some milk into his tea and spooned in a sugar.

“Well, I…”

“Agent King,” Amherst interjected. “Tell us your thoughts. Now that you’re here and have your refreshments, I don’t think we should waste any more time. The Home Secretary is here to receive a briefing, not give it.”

King shrugged. “Well, Sir Ian Snell didn’t die from a gunshot wound.”

“Absurd!” Amanda Cunningham snapped. She leaned forward and looked at King, then glanced at everybody in turn. Her expression ranged from anger to bewilderment. It was like turning an expression dial. She knew how to work an audience. “I performed the autopsy and Sir Ian Snell died from a massive head trauma. Caused by a gunshot wound. You had your reservations back at the house, but I can now confirm they are unfounded.” She looked past King and caught Caroline’s eye. “I’m Amanda Cunningham, by the way.”