23 hours - the eleventh hour

10.00. The younger man enters a building that is totally anonymous from the street. He presses his palm and fingers against a screen and a lift door opens. Within moments the doors open again and a woman looks up from the reception desk and smiles. “How is he?” she asks with a concerned voice. “OK,” he replies keeping up the pretence that the organisation has nothing to worry about. He goes through to the old man’s office and looks out of the window over the heart of the city.

10.05. We are standing opposite the shop. Faith was quite right it would have never opened at 9am. Indeed it won’t open until 10.30. For Faith this means we have time to plan and rehearse how we are going to get the information we need. I would rather have a coffee and sandwich. She rifles through her bag and finds a badge and card that will give us authority if not checked properly. It is all down to the confidence we exude when we first enter. She checks her watch and says, “Lets get a coffee.” I reply with reluctance in my voice to suggest I’d rather just get on with the operation.

10.10. In the hospital room a dull single note sounds from one of the machines. Within moments it is filled with medics who work without instruction to try to revive the old man. As if choreographed they step away as together as the defibrillator is placed on his chest. After three attempts the leading medic states the time. The room empties leaving two nurses to clear it out and pull the sheet up. “I’ll let the next of kin know,” says the elder as she walks out. The younger nurse strokes the old man’s hand affectionately, she has no idea of his past.

10.15. He sits in the van wedged between two of the suits. No one speaks. He has attempted two conversations and it is clear that they are not going to respond. He has never been to any of their buildings. All his dealing have been done in coffee bars, churches and park benches. Now he is frightened. If they are taking him to a building it cannot be good. The fact that he is still in his pyjamas is not helping him cope well.

10.20. I have a coffee and some form of heated Panini. It has cheese that has been melted to the temperature of the sun and tomatoes that could burn through sheet metal. The success of this cooking process is that any possible taste has been removed. Faith is eating a chocolate brownie with a precision that is surgical. I am increasingly attracted to her. I take a sip of my scalding coffee to cool my tongue. In about ten minutes things are suddenly going to burst into life again.

10.25. The Minister glances at his screen and pager. There are a mass of messages, many of them urgent, to deal with but he just can’t give them any attention. His mind is entirely dominated by the events of the morning. He knows his future depends upon a resolution but he just can’t see how this will turn out well. He closes his eyes and mutters ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” It offers no help.

10.30. He is still staring through the window when he hears the door open. He turns to see a woman who has worked for the organisation longer than he has and has been the old man’s confidente for as long as anyone there can remember. He can see tears in her eyes. He looks kindly towards her and quietly asks “Well?” “He’s gone,” she says and sobs momentarily before pulling herself together. She hands him a folder and a set of keys and fobs. “You will need these,” she says and turns to leave the office.

10.35. We are rehearsed and ready as we cross the road and enter the shop. Faith speaks with directness of voice that will brook no nonsense. A stunningly dressed assistant walks towards us but before she can speak Faith has made her opening move. “Get the manager here, tell her it's the Police and we are in a hurry,” she flashes the card and badge she had in her purse. The shop assistant is suddenly flustered as she explains the manager is not in. Without a break Faith says, “Were you working here yesterday?”

10.40. “I need hardly remind what would happen if this information falls into the wrongs hands,” the Minister shouts. His response to the progress to date is one of anger. No leads other than a geek with lost time and a sword hanging over his head. Once again they rehearse what they know and it doesn’t amount to much. Either one or two agents have gone rogue or a daring operation by an unknown organisation. “What are you going to do about this,” he shouts again. In the outside office his private staff pretend they can’t hear anything.

10.45. The door to the garage glides up as the van approaches. They park and he is bundled from his seat straight into a lift. Still no one speaks as they glide from the basement. He is pushed into a room with a table and chairs either side. One of the suits says “Sit down,” and pushes at his shoulder. There attitude changes when a man and woman walk in. “Hello Ian,” says the man as he pulls back a chair. “Hello,” he says back as he sees the woman eyeing his pyjamas. The man turns to the suits. “Go back to his home and get him some clothes, do a final sweep and then torch it.” He turns back and smiles.

10.50. My god she is impressive. Having ascertained that the assistant was working yesterday. She demands to see the CCTV. At first the assistant explains we will have to wait until the owner comes in this afternoon. In a voice that nearly made me wet myself she says that if we don’t see it now by the time the owner arrives the shop will be stripped empty, shut and being searched for drugs and other illegal dealing. We are now watching the CCTV which, in line with the shop, is high resolution and colour. “That’s him,” says Faith freezing the shot. Print that out.” The shop assistant bloodless face looks quizzical.

10.55. The young man sits behind the desk. Everything about it reminds him of the giant of a man who has been in this chair for as long as anyone can remember. ‘What would he do?’ he thinks to himself, ‘What would he do?”. He answers the question as quickly as he formulates it.  ‘He would bring in the best we have got,’ he mutters and then says it louder, his voice giving him confidence, “Can you contact the Zurich team,” he shouts through the open door. At her desk the woman smiles, ‘the Kings is dead, long live the King’.