Chapter XXXVII The Secret Entrance

 

 

The main entrance to the Civic Centre, which was directly underneath the tower, was blocked by angry placard-waving crowds. From within the police car in which I was sitting I could hear them shouting “Sheremovsky out!” and “No Kremlin in Claybury” The crowd was baying for the blood of any Nafta Ural officials. They would probably be equally hostile if any Councillors other than Melanie Sheldrake turned up. My name, for instance, was still associated in the minds of the public with support for the project. If I had stepped out of the car and walked towards the front entrance, I could have faced a jostling angry crowd, fired up by the public meeting organized by Melanie and the Pinkerton Plaza Residents Action Committee the night before. For this very reason arriving Councillors had been tipped off to avoid the main entrance under the tower and to enter the building by a remote side entrance.

Yet the reason for my police protection had nothing to do with the angry jostling crowd. It was to protect me from any assault from the side of the Russian developers and their hired thugs. Roger and I had discussed the matter in great detail when he visited me in hospital where I had been kept overnight under observation after my adventurous Sunday evening, before I was whisked off to a police safe house for the next twenty four hours. A news blackout had been kept on my whereabouts, on my ordeal and on my current aim to refuse planning permission. That blackout was extended to cover the arrest of Ludmila and the three Ulster gangsters. It had also applied to the state of health of Sir William Tallis who was now on the way to recovery from his car accident. For this reason I was potentially public enemy number one both to the residents and the developers.

The idea of this cloak and dagger shadow boxing was to mislead Nafta Ural officials into a false sense of security. Roger and his colleagues were playing on a hunch. They had been informed by their insider in Sheremovsky’s staff that the Big Boss had flown to Moscow with Professor Denisov in his private jet late on Sunday night, possibly, as he had suggested to me himself, immediately after he had spoken to me through Ludmila’s mobile phone. Roger was sure that Sheremovsky alone kept contact with William Casey (or Billy Casey to his friends and victims), who was a notorious torturer in the Shankhill Road area of Belfast in the 1980s and through whom he was arranging to supply rocket launchers and assault rifles to young ex UDA fanatics later in the year. Consequently, nobody would notice that the Ulstermen were missing, nor what information they had elicited from me. There was therefore a fair chance that the remaining supporters of the scheme were unaware that I had changed my spots. Not unless Sheremovsky had told them from Moscow.

However the curious thing was that a radio silence had been maintained from Moscow ever since Sheremovsky’s return. That was two days ago. So we were all a bit in the dark.

It was only on Tuesday afternoon that I had returned with Roger and a police escort to my flat to change into a fresh shirt, suit and tie, gather my committee papers together and check my messaging service. I had no mobile telephone now. Casey had indeed taken it and checked it for messages and contact numbers while Ludmila had been “entertaining” me. In the subsequent fight with the police the telephone had been irretrievably smashed.

On my home phone there had been last minute calls of encouragement prior to the meeting from both the good and the bad. Roger had been fascinated to listen to messages of support from Ted Grayson, Bill Kitson and Donald McClintock urging me to approve the scheme. I realized that as a result all three of these stalwart senior councillors had effectively cooked their goose. Even more revealing was a cheerful message wishing me luck from Lord and Lady Smallbridge and asking me if Ludmila was still with me, as they had lost contact. Perhaps Roger’s hunch was right. They were also all still in the dark, just like us.

Time to switch on the light and reveal all on Tuesday evening at the Committee meeting!

I made short personal calls to Noel, to Meena and to Angela Craven. The remaining messages I left unanswered. Then I got into the police car.

The police car drove round the side of the Civic Centre and pulled into the parking bay normally reserved for the mayor’s car. Half-hidden behind a small wall was a small side-entrance normally used by security staff and cleaners and which served also as an emergency exit. Today it was manned by a council security officer and a policeman. I looked at my watch. It was just 12 minutes to seven o’clock. I picked up my brief-case and waited for the SB officer who was accompanying me to radio in that all was clear before I could use the side entrance. A voice at the other end asked us to wait.

From where I was sitting I could see individual councillors from my committee arriving. They showed their councillor identity cards although some of the more familiar faces did not bother. There was old Fred Potts. Then the opposition councillor David Richards. Ahmed Kausar went in talking to Gurcharan Khan. I saw Noel Graham walking in with opposition Councillor Philip Egerton and I was tempted to jump out and join my colleagues. But my escort stopped me. “Hold on, Councillor, we’ve been told a bigger group is going in. Please just hang on for a second.” I was feeling impatient. I was also sick to the pit of my stomach. The meeting, my meeting, was about to start in just over 5 minutes time, and I was sitting here in a police car, supposedly frightened of shadows in my own civic centre. Well, I was frightened but not of shadows. Anxiety ate into me like a giant octopus sucking at my self-assurance and threatening to change me into jelly.

Just then, a larger group came in. To my surprise it was Ted Grayson and Bill Kitson escorting Lord Smallbridge, Valentina, Olga, Polina and a group of 25 Russians, many of whom looked distinctly menacing. Among them I recognized the towering figure of Nikolai. It occurred to me that Sheremovsky had other enforcers available, not just the Ulstermen. I was also appalled that Ted had used his privileged information about the secret side entrance to smuggle in a group of roughnecks who could disrupt the meeting or cause a confrontation with the demonstrators. “I don’t like the look of that,” said my policeman and began speaking to Roger on his phone.

While he spoke I got an even bigger surprise. There was Andy Trosser hurrying as fast as his portly frame would allow him. But he too was not alone. He was accompanied by .… Susan Sweetman! What on earth is the meaning of that?

In the meantime my policeman finished talking on the link phone. “It’s getting rough out there. I’ve been told to wait here another ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes! You don’t understand. I’m chairing the meeting in 5 minutes, I must be there now!”

“I’m sorry, Sir, those are my orders,” he barked back. “We have to wait here.”

“No way! This is my Civic Centre and my meeting! I’m going in.” Overcoming my dread, I seized open the door and stepped out with my brief case towards the entrance. The SB man ran after me to stop me. However I flashed my identity card to the security officer and he opened the door. Suddenly there was a shout as a group of demonstrators had got round the side of the building. They had obviously noticed that apart from their heroine, Melanie Sheldrake, nearly every other councillor had found another way of slinking into the building without giving them the pleasure of getting mobbed.

“Look,” somebody shouted, “there’s Councillor Axtell. Let’s catch him!”

I slipped quickly into the side entrance. My escort was just behind me but at this point he and the other policeman felt obliged to close the side entrance and block it with their persons. Gleefully I ran down the empty private corridor, to which members of the public had no access. It was deserted. I rushed up the first short flight of stairs leading to backstairs area behind the Assembly Hall stage where the meeting was taking place. On the way, behind the stage, was a small one person loo and I was suddenly desperate and taken short. My stomach was churning the mush. I rushed in and let nature take its course. I got up, gathered myself together, opened the loo door and found myself facing the towering frame of a menacing Nikolai. Where were the police, I thought?

“Councillor Axtell,” said Nikolai with his heavy accent. “Greetings. You are still with us?”

I nodded in sheer paralysed terror.

“Really?" Irony coming from his mouth sound like a death sentence. He laid his iron grip of a hand on my shoulder. I wondered if I had left the loo too soon.

“I know, you are betraying us, you little svoloch?" I was not sure if this was a question or a statement. He half-opened his long jacket and revealed a hidden black-coloured object resembling the shape of a baseball bat!

Why had I abandoned my police escort so impatiently? I wailed to myself.

Suddenly from around the corner a small figure appeared. Despite the desperation of my circumstances I was amazed to see that it was Susan Sweetman.

 She took in the scene in silence. So did Nikolai when he spotted her. He loosened his grip of me.

"Hello, Peter," said Susan, "Andy told me there's a toilet round here."

"Just behind me," I blurted out. Nikolai temporarily let go. Relieved by this, I jumped to the side to make off.

 At the last minute Nikolai seized me by the arm and made to punch me. Susan appeared to hesitate for a second and then suddenly thrust her arm forward towards Nikolai's face. I could not understand what happened next.

Suffice to say that Nikolai let out a roar of pain, let go my arm and collapsed forward clutching his face. He stumbled forward behind a curtain. I felt a strange unpleasant smell and my eyes began to water.

"Run for it," said Susan. "That was mace!" She disappeared first, before I could ask anything. I don’t know what I felt most. Anger, fear, astonishment? How did Nikolai get in undetected and what was Susan doing here? Who was she? No time for that now.

 I went up the small staircase to the back of the stage. Then a policeman sprang out of nowhere. I showed him my Councillor’s electronic identification and told him I was about to chair the meeting.

“OK, Sir, when you’re ready. Be careful, Sir, it could be stormy.” I nodded acquiescence.

“Keep your eye out for a big Russian guy who just attacked me. He’s got a baseball bat.”

“What big guy? Sir, let me assure you that there is nobody back of the stage except us. We’ve already combed the place thoroughly. Don’t worry yourself, Sir. You’ll be safe.”

As safe as I felt 2 minutes ago, I thought. I had no time to argue but this was hardly reassuring.

Peeping out from the side curtain, I glanced at the scene in the hall. The Assembly Hall in the Framden Civic Centre can hold up to 400 people. It looked at first sight as if it was filled with a seething crowd of noisy football fanatics as the loud noise was almost unbearable. I was familiar enough with crowds to know however that the unbearable hubbub was the sound of some 400 people talking animatedly among themselves and trying to make themselves heard above the noise around them. The Civic Centre staff, aided by the police, had insisted that nobody carrying a placard could enter the building and people’s cases and handbags had been searched on their way in. As a result people had trickled in slowly through the security filter, excited by the coming meeting, but not to the extent of being overtly hostile. There was tension in the air, a sense of expectation but it was subdued, in contrast to the unruly and disorganized shouting outside.

In the front row on the right side of the central passage I could see Dr Wheeler and PPRAC committee members. Meena was sitting near them. On the left sat Ted Grayson, Smallwood and their entourage. I was amazed to see that the latter looked smugly confident and had a momentary sense of queasiness that perhaps they knew something we did not know. Was it the developers who were over confident, or us?

Round the side were the inevitable TV camera lenses. It was not just the London television and radio stations that were interested; there were the national ones too. Ever since the scandal with the mayor’s chair, Framden continued to generate media interest. We were considered a loony borough where anything salacious or mendacious could be expected to happen. To them our Planning Committee meeting was merely another forum where we could be expected to make an ass of ourselves one way or another. The fact that the issue concerned a development funded by a mysterious and ruthless Russian tycoon and that the local MP had had to resign because of his connections with that tycoon only added flavour to the media hunger. They had their cameras ready and they were looking for villains and clowns. They would certainly find those. Perhaps we could provide them with some heroes too, I thought.

On the stage sat the Committee members around a U shaped table. I noticed that all 13 members were present. So was Stelios Karamanlis as the councillor representing the Claybury Ward. There were officers from different Council departments sitting as experts on education, transport, technical services and so on. At the head of the table nearest my hiding spot sat from left to right the Borough Legal Officer, the Committee Clerk, Noel Graham as Deputy Chair of the Planning Committee, Chris Finneston, Chief Planning Officer, his two deputies and young Philip Marchmont, looking decidedly nervous and edgy. In the middle of the table between Chris Finneston and Noel Graham was an empty chair. My chair!

I looked at my watch. It was already 5 minutes past 7 o’clock. I was uncharacteristically late for my own meeting.

“Showtime,” I said to myself.

I took a deep breath and strove forward purposefully towards the chair.