Zero Point

9

"John. This is seriously fucked up," I told him as he put the phone to his ear. "We need to do something."

I'd thought of calling SO1 Control about my detention. But there'd be little point. Our remit was very specific: we provided security and protection to ministers; we didn't have jurisdiction to collect or analyse intelligence on terrorism―that was the job of other agencies whom we worked with. And that meant they'd be able to do nothing about my SO15 detention.

John nodded. "I agree. But what? What can we do? Run away? We're coppers, mate. There's nowhere to run."

I shook my head, exasperated. "Don't worry, mate," said John. "I'll hang about until we sort this out, okay?"

We strolled up and down to explore the perimeter of police cordon. One end of the outer cordon closed off the junction between Abbey Road and Circus Road. The other end stretched up to Marylebone Road.

"When on earth are they gonna let everybody out of here?" moaned John.

"Who knows," I replied. "What's the point in being a copper if you can still get detained by bloody coppers?"

John's demeanour had changed. He seemed distant and conflicted. I wondered if he was battling a suspicion that I'd been involved in some way. We knew each other pretty well―John had helped me get this job in the first place. But it's not like we were bosom buddies. So I didn't blame him―if I was in his shoes, the thought would cross my mind. On the other hand, it didn't make sense that I'd been fingered an hour before Carson's assassination. John was right. This was a stitch up. I needed to get out of the lockdown.

My phone rang. I grabbed it from my belt, pulled it out of the awkward leather case, and examined the flashing screen. Julia's picture stared back at me over her name. I'd taken the picture myself when she was thirty-two, although she still looked in her mid-twenties, her long, dark hair crowning light blue eyes.

Julia was one of the few reporters who used to travel outside the Green Zone in Baghdad without an army escort. We'd first met in 2007 when she got caught in a firefight between Sunni and Shi'a militia in Basra. By sheer luck my battalion had been passing through, allowing us to intervene. Thankfully, there were no casualties on our side. We'd quickly become friends, and she'd pick my brain a lot for contacts, stories, and general inside gossip on military operations. We soon became lovers. But things got difficult as frequent travel kept us apart. At the time, I was based in Iraq, and although she was there a lot, she did stints all over the Middle East. After 2009, the British contingent left Iraq, and I was reassigned to Afghanistan.

Then the incumbent Iraqi regime held national elections, and the hope was for the new government to restore a semblance of order and safety to the beleaguered country. But it was not to be. About half a decade ago, the elected government collapsed under the weight of popular protests that turned into a new round of all out civil war, and the Brits were back in Baghdad as part of another US-led mission.

I answered the phone. "Julia?"

"David," she said. I'd missed hearing her voice, but as soon she spoke I sensed urgency. "Dave, are you okay?"