52 Petton Cross

52 Petton Cross

On the western fringes of the Gloucestershire town of Cheltenham stands an enormous circular structure that resembles a stranded

alien spacecraft. Known to those who work there as the Doughnut, the building is the home of the Government Communications

Headquarters, or GCHQ, Britain's signals intelligence service. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, its officers eavesdrop

on sensitive communications around the world. Occasionally, however, they are assigned more mundane tasks, such as determining

the approximate location of a mobile phone. This they can accomplish quite easily, provided the device is switched on and

transmitting a signal.

Three veteran GCHQ officers were engaged in just such a search that evening. They were well acquainted with the phone in question.

It was a secure device carried by the retired chief of Israeli intelligence, a man who over the years had worked closely with

his counterparts at Millbank and Vauxhall Cross. As a matter of course, and despite assurances to the contrary, GCHQ tracked

his device whenever it popped onto one of the British networks, though all attempts to penetrate its formidable defenses had

proven fruitless.

In short order the officers were able to determine that the phone had returned to the United Kingdom two days earlier, that it had ventured as far afield as Land's End in Cornwall, that it had spent a night in the ancient Roman city of Bath, and that it had gone dark at 1:37 that afternoon near Greenwich Park in southeast London. But finally, at 11:42 p.m., the phone awakened from its hours-long slumber and reattached itself to the network. Its stay was brief, slightly less than five minutes, but more than sufficient for the three officers to identify the location of the nearest cellular mast.

It was this small but vital piece of data that the overnight duty officer in Cheltenham, at 11:54 p.m., personally relayed

to SIS chief Graham Seymour. Graham, who was still at his home in Belgravia, in turn delivered the news to Amanda Wallace

of MI5. The two senior spymasters were in agreement that, for the time being, at least, they should continue to withhold the

information from both their prime minister and the man who would soon succeed her, Home Secretary Hugh Graves.

They likewise agreed that this was an intelligence matter and not something that could be left solely in the hands of the

police. Still, they could not possibly mount a rescue attempt without first alerting the chief constable of the local territorial

force. It was Graham Seymour, shortly after midnight, who placed the call, waking the chief constable from a sound sleep.

Their conversation was two minutes in length, unpleasant in tone, and characterized by a distinct lack of candor on Graham's

part. He refused to divulge even the barest details about the nature of the emergency and insisted on maintaining full control

of the response. He required no assistance, he said, other than an unmarked car and a driver. Much to the chief constable's

surprise, he requested a specific officer for the job.

"But he's a junior detective with absolutely no experience in this sort of thing."

"If you must know, Chief Constable, we've had our eye on him for some time."

And so it was that, ninety minutes later, Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel was sitting behind the wheel of an unmarked Vauxhall

Insignia, watching a Royal Navy Sea King approaching Exeter from the east. It settled onto the helipad at the headquarters

of the Devon and Cornwall Police at 1:47 a.m., and a single black-clad figure emerged from the cabin with a nylon rucksack

over one sturdy shoulder. Head lowered, he hurried across the tarmac and dropped into the Vauxhall's passenger seat.

"Timothy," he said with a smile. "So good to finally meet you."

***

He instructed Peel to make his way to the M5 and head north. At two o'clock on a rainy Wednesday morning, the motorway was

empty of traffic. Peel was doing ninety, no lights or siren. His passenger was unimpressed.

"Does this bloody thing go any faster?" he drawled.

Peel increased his speed to triple digits. "Mind telling me where we're going?"

"Petton Cross."

It was a nothing little village near the border with neighboring Somerset. "Any particular reason?"

"I'll explain when we get there," replied his passenger, and ignited a Marlboro with a gold Dunhill lighter.

"Must you?" asked Peel.

He smiled. "I must."

Peel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke. "It occurs to me that I don't know your name."

"With good reason."

"What should I call you?"

"How about David?"

"David?" Peel shook his head. "Doesn't suit you."

"In that case, you should call me Christopher."

"Much better." Peel glanced at the rucksack. "What have you got in there, Christopher?"

"Zeiss night-vision field glasses, two Glock pistols, several spare magazines of nine-millimeter ammunition, a couple of secure

phones, and a box of McVitie's."

"Dark chocolate?"

"But of course."

"I'd kill for one."

He fished the tube of biscuits from the rucksack and handed one to Peel. "Cornwall lad, are you?"

"Mostly."

"Which part?"

"The Lizard."

"Port Navas, by any chance?"

Peel's head swiveled to the left. "How did you know?"

"A friend of mine used to live there. The old foreman's cottage overlooking the quay. An art restorer by trade. A spy in his

spare time."

Peel returned his eyes to the road. "My mother and I lived in the house at the head of the tidal creek. We were neighbors."

"Yes, I know. He told me the story one night when we were holed up in a safe house and the telly was on the fritz."

"Where was the safe house?"

"Can't seem to remember. But I do recall the fondness with which he spoke about the little boy who used to signal him with

a torch from his bedroom window each time he returned to Port Navas. You meant a great deal to him, Timothy. More than you'll

ever realize."

"He made me the person I am."

"We have that in common, the two of us." Christopher lowered his voice. "Which is why I came here tonight."

"What's in Petton Cross?" asked Peel.

"A cellular mast that detected the presence of Gabriel's phone about two hours ago. It is my profound hope that he and his

friend Ingrid are somewhere in the near vicinity."

"What happened?"

"They were abducted in London this afternoon. A car park in Garrick Street, very professional. About an hour before it happened,

Gabriel paid a visit to Lucinda Graves's office in Mayfair. I was wondering if you knew why."

"Professor Charlotte Blake."

Christopher pointed toward the exit for the A38. "You'd better slow down, Timothy. Otherwise, you'll miss your turnoff."

***

It was smaller, even, than tiny Gunwalloe, just a handful of cottages and farms clustered around the intersection of four

small roads. One led due north. Peel followed it for a few hundred yards, then turned into a narrow lane that carried them

up the slope of a low hill. To their right, barely visible over the dense hedgerow, a single red light shone atop a cellular

mast.

There was no verge, and no turnout in sight, so Peel slowed the Vauxhall to a stop in the center of the lane. The immediate

proximity of the hedgerows required him to shimmy sideways from behind the wheel. In the boot was a pair of Wellingtons, a

necessity for police work in rural England. He pulled them on and played the beam of a torch over the hedgerow. It was impenetrable

to light.

"Surely there's a gap somewhere," said Christopher.

"Not on this road, there isn't."

"Then I suppose we'll have to go through it, won't we?"

Christopher slung his rucksack over his shoulder and walked through the hedgerow as though it were an open door. By the time

Peel managed to extract himself, the SIS man was halfway across the meadow on the other side. Peel clambered after him awkwardly

in the Wellingtons and was gasping for air when he finally reached the brow of the hill. Christopher was breathing normally

despite the freshly lit Marlboro jutting from the corner of his mouth.

He pulled the night-vision field glasses from the rucksack and, rotating slowly at the base of the mast, searched the land

in every direction. A few lights burned here and there, but otherwise this corner of Devon was still sleeping soundly.

At last he lowered the glasses and pointed toward the northeast. "There's a rather grand property a couple of miles in that

direction. You wouldn't happen to know who owns it?"

"That's Somerset, sir."

"And?"

"Not my jurisdiction."

"It is now."

Peel held out a hand. "Mind if I have a look?"

Christopher surrendered the field glasses, and Peel scrutinized the property in question. It looked to be about a hundred

acres. The substantial redbrick Georgian manor was in exquisite condition. There were lights burning on the lower floor, and

a Range Rover was parked in the drive. Behind the main house was a collection of farm buildings. There was also another vehicle,

a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter transit van. It appeared to Peel as though someone was sitting in the driver's seat.

He lowered the glasses. "A simple check of the Land Registry will tell us the name of the owner."

"What are you waiting for?"

Peel rang Exeter and gave the duty officer a general description of the parcel of land and an approximate address—a bit north

of the old church of St. Michael in Raddington, west side of Hill Lane.

"That's Somerset," replied the duty officer.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I'll get back to you."

"Quickly," said Peel, and killed the connection.

Christopher was holding the night-vision glasses to his eyes again. "He won't mention any of this to your chief constable,

I hope."

"He's a Cornwall lad, like myself."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Peel's phone pinged with a text message before he could offer a response.

"And the winner is?" asked Christopher.

"The property is owned by a limited liability company registered in the British Virgin Islands."

"Company have a name?"

"Driftwood Holdings."

Christopher lowered the glasses and stared hard at Peel. "Are you carrying a sidearm, Timothy?"

"I am not."

"Do you know how to use one?"

"Quite well, actually."

"Ever shoot anyone?"

"Never."

Christopher returned the field glasses to the rucksack. "Well, Timothy Peel, this could be your lucky night."