Killing for the Company

And somehow, it brought no pleasure to Cohen either. He just nodded briefly and watched as Blumenthal walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The priest stood in front of the altar, two candles flickering behind him. He spoke in a strident voice that echoed from the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. ‘The Lord is here.’

And the congregation replied: ‘His spirit is with us.’

‘His spirit is with us.’ Alistair Stratton intoned his response a fraction of a second after the others.

The priest glanced briefly at him, then looked away when he saw a sudden fierceness on Stratton’s face. He continued with his Eucharistic prayer a little more quickly. There was a strange air in the chapel and he wanted the service to be over.

In London, the Director General SIS stared at his most trusted analyst, a small man with balding ginger hair who’d worked for the service for three decades. He blinked in disbelief. ‘Say that again,’ he instructed.

The analyst looked nervously from the DG to the Director Special Forces, who was standing by the window. He’d been working through the previous night and was dead on his feet. He coughed slightly. ‘We’ve monitored all the IP addresses connecting to the Western Wall’s webcam for the period 10.55 to 11.05 Israeli time this morning, sir. One of these IPs is registered to Albany Manor. Alistair Stratton’s residence. We’ve confirmed he was there at the time.’

The DG blinked again. ‘Leave us alone,’ he told the analyst. The little man appeared glad to leave quickly.

There was a long silence.

‘You think there’s a link?’ the Director Special Forces asked finally.

‘Of course there’s a bloody link, man.’

The Director didn’t rise to the DG’s outburst.

‘Look at the critical path,’ the DG continued. ‘An SAS operative thinks he has something on Alistair Stratton. He goes AWOL, then pops up to stop a terrorist plot that Stratton’s watching, in real time, hundreds of miles away…’

‘If you think Alistair Stratton has something to do with this,’ the Director said, ‘I can have him extracted from his residence within the hour. Give me another hour and I’ll have a full confession and no visible signs of coercion.’

The DG appeared to consider the suggestion seriously. But then he shook his head. ‘I’d never get the authority.’

The Director Special Forces, who knew a thing or two about the operations sanctioned by SIS in the past, gave him a cynical glare.

‘Don’t look at me like that, man,’ the DG retorted. ‘If you were sitting where I’m sitting, you’d make the same decision. But I’ll tell you one thing: from now on, Alistair Stratton doesn’t even take a shit without me knowing about it…’

‘But he gets away scot-free,’ the Director interrupted, and his expression made it quite clear how he felt about that.

‘Yes,’ the DG snapped. ‘He does. And I don’t want any of your people getting funny ideas. If they do, I’ll know where it’s come from.’

‘Of course,’ the Director replied with a curt nod.

The conversation was over. With military stiffness the Director Special Forces marched from the room, leaving the DG sitting at his desk, staring into the middle distance, his face — his whole demeanour — quite impossible to read.

In the chapel, the congregation stood in an orderly line down the length of the aisle. Stratton was at its head. The priest stood at the altar, a small silver salver in his hands, and he gave a nod to indicate that Stratton should approach, before taking a Communion wafer between his thumb and forefinger and placing it into the former PM’s hands.

‘The body of Christ,’ he murmured.

As Stratton consumed the wafer, he replaced the salver on the altar and picked up an ornate goblet.

‘The blood of Christ.’

He held the goblet forward, but Stratton didn’t move. He had a blank look on his face, as though his mind were a million miles away.

‘ The blood of Christ,’ the priest repeated, and Stratton blinked. He took the goblet but before he was able to hold it to his lips, it slipped from his hands. Scarlet wine splashed over his shirt and then on to the marble floor of the altar. Stratton stared at it. He barely moved.

‘Idiot!’ Stratton spat at the celebrant, ignoring the fact that it was he who had dropped the cup, not the priest. ‘ Idiot! ’

Neither the priest nor any of the congregation knew what to do.

It was not yet light in New York City. The CEO of the Grosvenor Group was pissed off to be out of bed. Even more so at the sight of Pieter de Lange, his aggressive South African chief financial officer, standing by the exquisite early Picasso line drawings that hung on the wall in the lobby of his enormous SoHo townhouse. The moment he saw his CEO, Pieter started to gabble.

‘Jesus, Nathan… that shit in Jerusalem… it was him, wasn’t it? It was Stratton. You think they’re not going to find out? You think they’re not going to fucking find out? ’

Nathan put a weary hand over his eyes. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Pieter. We’re too well connected. Now come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee…’