Seven May Days

By Nicolas Lalaguna

Seven May Days is a fast-paced political thriller set in the seven days following the 2001 May Day rally in London.
Nicolas Lalaguna’s latest novel follows a small group of political activists who unknowingly find themselves targeted by a transatlantic counter-intelligence program. Caught between the machinations of competing intelligence agencies and a burgeoning hacktivist network, the novel hurtles at pace as the activists find their everyday lives dragged into the maelstrom of an international secret war played out in the shadows and online. 
Seven May Days will appeal to fans of political and legal thrillers as well as those interested specifically in the political climate in the UK and how this tension manifests itself. Readers will be taken on a fast-paced journey through the chess match being played out on the streets of London between the intelligence agencies and the political activists in the early 21st century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Apr 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781788031837

Nicolas Lalaguna

Born and raised in London, Nicolas Lalaguna has worked in the commercial and not-for-profit sector as well as writing essays. His first novel, A Most Uncivil War, received widespread praise.

Book preview

Contents

14:21, Tuesday 1st May 2001

16:27, Tuesday 1st May 2001

16:47, Tuesday 1st May 2001

17:49, Monday 7th May 2001

08:51, Wednesday 2nd May 2001

09:19, Wednesday 2nd May 2001

17:21, Wednesday 2nd May 2001

18:47, Wednesday 2nd May 2001

19:24, Wednesday 2nd May 2001

17:59, Monday 7th May 2001

10:37, Thursday 3rd May 2001

12:25, Thursday 3rd May 2001

17:15, Thursday 3rd May 2001

18:25, Thursday 3rd May 2001

20:12, Thursday 3rd May 2001

23:19, Thursday 3rd May 2001

18:09, Monday 7th May 2001

04:45, Friday 4th May 2001

10:03, Friday 4th May 2001

12:57, Friday 4th May 2001

18:27, Friday 4th May 2001

18:42, Friday 4th May 2001

21:38, Friday 4th May 2001

22:27, Friday 4th May 2001

23:25, Friday 4th May 2001

23:52, Friday 4th May 2001

18:19, Monday 7th May 2001

09:26, Saturday 5th May 2001

09:52, Saturday 5th May 2001

12:47, Saturday 5th May 2001

14:38, Saturday 5th May 2001

15:24, Saturday 5th May 2001

21:52, Saturday 5th May 2001

18:29, Monday 7th May 2001

07:15, Sunday 6th May 2001

09:51, Sunday 6th May 2001

12:47, Sunday 6th May 2001

15:49, Sunday 6th May 2001

16:07, Sunday 6th May 2001

17:22, Sunday 6th May 2001

18:12, Sunday 6th May 2001

20:24, Sunday 6th May 2001

21:45, Sunday 6th May 2001

21:54, Sunday 6th May 2001

22:36, Sunday 6th May 2001

22:57, Sunday 6th May 2001

23:22, Sunday 6th May 2001

23:49, Sunday 6th May 2001

18:39, Monday 7th May 2001

00:02, Monday 7th May 2001

04:09, Monday 7th May 2001

05:39, Monday 7th May 2001

06:37, Monday 7th May 2001

08:42, Monday 7th May 2001

16:17, Monday 7th May 2001

18:49, Monday 7th May 2001

19:02, Monday 7th May 2001

Also By The Author

14:21, Tuesday 1st May 2001

Oxford Circus, London

Conor Casey is sitting on the pavement with his legs crossed, leaning against the boarded-up windows of the global sports brand superstore. The ligaments pulled tight in his knees are starting to fire shooting pains up his thighs. The cold paving stones beneath him press hard against the sitting bones in his pelvis. The buttons on the keyboard click under his guidance, but are unable to climb above the rhythmic pounding of the samba band in the middle of the crossroads. He notices a drop of rain on the laptop screen, sighs in exasperation and looks up at Emma, who is holding the umbrella.

She is moving in time with the band, her cotton summer dress swinging with her hips beneath the black waterproof jacket. Faded ox-blood red fourteen-hole boots stamp the wet pavement in time with the drums and her dirty blonde bunches swing in counterpoint to her hips. She looks down and smiles at him. Her piercing blue irises are perfectly outlined in a navy blue limbal ring, which in turn floats in a flawless sea of white. Her simple black eyeliner punches up the contrasting colours in her eyes against her freckled cream skin. The corners of her eyes crease slightly and her lips part to reveal a pearlescent smile. He shakes his head, looks back down at the screen and continues typing.

A man walks up to her. He is in his fifties and is dressed in tired, ageing clothes. He licks his thumb and forefinger and loosens a leaflet from the pile in his hand, before offering it to her. She smiles at him and takes it gratefully. The warmth of her face lights his up. He looks down towards Conor, gesturing with his head as he starts to take another from the pile. She smiles again at him, this time shaking her head.

We’re together. We can both read this one, she shouts across the din of the crowd, waving the leaflet in front of her.

Thank you, the man says in a broad Cornish accent, as he turns and makes his way to the next person.

She looks down momentarily at the leaflet. It has been printed on a home computer and then photocopied. The photograph of human rights abuses is barely decipherable in block black-and-white print. With one hand, she folds it in half and puts it into the pocket of her jacket, along with all the others she has collected today. Her focus goes back to the crowd and slowly her hips begin swaying in time with the whistles and drums. Out of the corner of his eyes, Conor can see the hem of her dress swinging. A small smile teases the corners of his mouth.

A few metres away, Liam goes down on to one knee and frames Conor and Emma in his viewfinder. His peroxide blond hair is plastered to his head from the recent rain. The widow’s peak pronounced by the receding hair reveals sun-reddened skin across his high forehead. He runs his hand across his hair, pushing it towards the back of his head. The promenade of hair in the middle of his forehead springs back up and forward like a developing Mohawk as soon as his hand passes by. He watches her body writhing as her senses drink in the world around her, in direct contrast to Conor’s focused and closed-off stillness as he taps at the computer on his lap. Liam allows himself a moment to watch them. Conor looks up at Emma. Liam smiles and clicks the button. In a split second, the moment is both captured and gone.

Liam stands up as the phone in the knee pocket of his black combat trousers starts vibrating. He takes it out and starts walking back towards his friends. He pauses and listens closely to the voice on the other end of the phone. He looks across the morass of protesters and through the clouds of monopoly money being flung into the air. His gaze stops on three people with black hoods and scarves masking their faces. Just beyond them, he can see crowds of police building up. He hurries across to his two friends, putting the phone back into his pocket and the camera into the courier bag on his back.

We’ve got to get out of here now, he says.

Conor looks up at him.

What’s the problem? he replies, saving the document and pulling the screen closed.

Emma never tires of watching the two old friends interacting. For the briefest of flashes, she feels a pang of jealousy at the unquestioning trust they have for one another. But as soon as she recognises it, it is almost immediately replaced by warmth towards them both. She closes the umbrella and lets her gaze scan the crowd.

The bill are going to close the roads. If we don’t get out now, we’re not getting out, Liam says, holding out his open hand to Conor.

What makes you say that? Conor responds, accepting his friend’s hand and pulling himself up.

Fuck’s sake, Con. We just need to go he says, impatiently.

Sensing his friend’s tension, Conor picks his jacket up from the floor and puts his hand on Emma’s shoulder to gently turn her. She obliges, turning her back on him. He puts the laptop into the open rucksack behind her and zips it closed.

Good, let’s get out of here then, says Liam, as he leads them north up Regents Street, alongside the boarded-up shop fronts and through the protesting crowd. As they hurry past the massing ranks of armour-clad police watching and waiting for their orders, Conor puts on his jacket. The rain increases to a light shower. The summer sunlight hides behind the collecting clouds high above. The smell of fast food pulses like veins through the competing smells of diesel fumes, tobacco and refuse.

The three of them stop at the first corner and stare down the street. They see lines of police pouring into the main thoroughfare like ants leaving the nest. Conor zips up his jacket, puts his hand on Emma’s backpack and gently pulls her along with him. They cross the road. Liam stops to take pictures of the wall of riot police building behind them. He shakes his head and then turns back to join his friends. The three of them make their way quickly along the road. They pass the building full of journalists looking the other way and then continue down the terraced opulence of Portland Place, before turning down a side street and into a mews running parallel.

Halfway down the hidden residential mews is the Dover Castle, a picture postcard pub with hanging flower pots, frosted glass and leaded windows. The three of them enter the pub. A couple at a table furtively look up from their drinks and crisps. Assured that the workplace liaison they are carefully nurturing is still secret from their colleagues, they quickly lose interest in the strangers. The couple look back at one another and continue whispering flirtatiously across the table. Emma looks around the room, taking it all in. Liam walks over to the bar while Conor makes his way to a table in the corner by the smoked opaque windows.

Emma follows him. She hands him the backpack and he takes out the laptop, places it on the table and opens it up. He unzips the light bomber jacket and sits down. He taps the space bar and the wake up chime rings out across the room. He scrolls up the article, unaware that Emma is standing watching him. He takes off his gold wire-framed bottle top glasses and starts cleaning them under the table on the black and red checked woollen shirt, squinting to read the words on the screen.

Emma shakes her head slightly and pulls the waterproof jacket up and over her head. As her arms rise above her, the back of the yellow and orange flowery cotton dress is pulled up and climbs her thighs, revealing the fold of her buttock and the seam of her grey hipster panties to the man at the other table. His hungry eyes catch the tantalising glimpse as he stares over the shoulder of the colleague he has uncompromisingly pursued. Unaware of the man’s surreptitious scrutiny, Emma lowers her arms and the dress falls back into place, covering her underwear. The man once again focuses on the woman sitting opposite him. Momentarily nervous that she saw him looking, he smiles at his companion.

Emma throws the jacket over the table, onto the pile of bags. Conor doesn’t look up. She turns and walks across to Liam at the bar. Liam smiles back at her, his ginger moustache and goatee framing his mouth. Emma likes his smile; it seems warm and she likes the way that he is so free with it. She returns the smile and leans against the bar beside him.

You know what he’s like when he’s writing, he reassures her.

I know and I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend, she explains, running her fingers caringly through his clumsily dyed hair, teasing it upright.

Liam smiles at her and starts rolling a cigarette. The barman brings over a tray of instant coffees. Liam counts out the coins, with the unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips like a drumstick marking time. Emma takes the tray back to the table and sits down. Liam picks up an ashtray from the next table, sits down and lights his roll-up.

Without looking away from the screen, Conor places his hand on Emma’s thigh, squeezes it gently and then goes back to tapping quickly at the keyboard. Liam watches Emma to see how she responds. She looks back at him, smiles knowingly and nods her head. For a few moments, the two of them sit in silence and watch Conor typing. Emma breaks first, taking her purse out of the rucksack, getting up from the table and crossing the room towards the toilets at the back of the building.

Once the door to the toilets closes, Liam asks his friend, Did Emma say that she would be leaving soon?

Without looking up from the screen, Conor nods his head and replies, She’s going as soon as she proofs this. I should only be a couple of minutes.

He looks at the time in the corner of the screen and then looks up at his friend. She’ll be gone in about half an hour.

You’re still ok to stay, right?

Course, Connor replies.

Liam stands up, takes the mobile phone out of his pocket and walks across to the bar, looking for a text. When he finds what he is looking for, he pulls the phone on the bar towards him and takes out the change from his pocket. Conor glances up from his screen for a moment to see what his friend is doing, before quickly resuming his focus on the article he is editing.

Liam dials a number and waits with the coin between thumb and forefinger resting against the slot. As the phone rings in his ear, he taps the coin gently against the metal. Somebody picks up and he pushes the coin into the phone. It rattles noisily and the barman looks up from drying pint glasses with a contemptuous flash across his face. Liam leans on the bar and cups his mouth and the mouthpiece in his free hand.

Yes, it’s me. No problem, of course I will. Okey-doke. Well, give us an hour and a half then. Yes, we’re where I said we would be. OK, I’ll see you then. Be careful.

He puts the receiver back into its cradle and checks the returned change hole. It’s empty. He returns to the table, snatching a glance at the couple. They seem to be unaware of everything around them. He puts his mobile phone down on the table.

Without looking up from the screen, Conor asks, So who was that then?

Liam looks back over his shoulder towards the toilet, before turning back and saying quietly, It’s a friend I want you to meet, but she insists that no one else knows about the meeting.

Conor looks at Liam over the top of his glasses, rubbing his short beard along the bottom of his jaw with the backs of his fingers. His face doesn’t register a response to the information his friend has just given him. He sees Emma coming out of the toilet over Liam’s shoulder. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and goes back to his typing without responding.

Emma sits down and watches Liam take out his laptop from the courier bag, start it up and plug it into his mobile phone. She puts her purse back into her own rucksack. Liam takes the digital camera out of the bag and plugs it into the computer.

I’ve got a great picture of you two, he says to her, with a smile on his face.

She gets up, makes her way around the table and sits down next to Liam. As the images start uploading to the computer and stacking on the screen, she looks across the table at Conor. She focuses on his milk chocolate brown eyes staring intently at the screen and then follows the line of his thick eyebrows to the neat, brown hair combed into a side parting. Her eyes trace the line of his jaw under the short, thick, brown beard to his Adam’s apple and down his neck to the opening of his shirt. He saves the document and looks at her over the top of his glasses. She smiles back at him.

Are you done? she asks.

He nods his head and pushes the laptop across to her. She moves back to her original seat, pulls the computer in front of her and starts reading the article. Liam turns his laptop around, so his friends can see the picture he took of them. They look at the picture and then at each other. Emma sees the warmth in Conor’s eyes that she has become so used to. Even so, just for a moment, it still feels like a blanket wrapping around her.

Liam turns the laptop back around and says, What do you think? I want to use it with the others. It’s got a real naturalness to it. I won’t put your names against it.

Emma looks at Conor and shrugs her shoulders. Inside, she hopes he says no. Still concentrating on the article, Conor doesn’t give it much thought. He takes a mouthful from the cup and tries to look out of the frosted window.

Whatever. I’m not bothered, he says, nodding his head.

Liam starts working on the pictures of the protest to make them ready to upload to the site. Emma looks down at the screen and starts reading the article. Conor’s mind goes back to the protest, as he stares vacantly at the wood of the table.

16:27, Tuesday 1st May 2001

Oxford Circus, London

Above the lift doors, the green number five flashes and the bell rings its warning. The doors slide open and Terry steps out onto the top floor of the building in the north-east corner of Oxford Circus. A man in painters’ overalls greets him.

Sir, the man says, pointing down the corridor towards the room at the end.

Terry looks the man up and down and makes a series of judgements: late thirties, ex-special forces and probably now a private security contractor.

The man gestures down the corridor again. They are expecting you, sir.

Nice one, Terry replies.

He hasn’t been back to Dagenham in over forty years. The life journey that brought him to this building had taken a great many things from him, but his accent wasn’t one of them. He made sure of that. He walks down the corridor and turns into the final office. It is the only one with the door open.

Decades of experience has made it an almost unconscious reflex to take in a room in its most minute detail with what appears to be only a cursory glance. As he enters the room now, he finds himself doing it. Two of the windows have men in overalls, looking through the viewfinders of long lens cameras on tripods balanced on trestle tables. The cameras are linked to laptops on the tables beside them. The blinds have been angled so as to afford a degree of cover to the men behind the cameras. Along the foot of one of the internal walls are a line of long black kit bags.

Leaning against one of the trestle tables is a man in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven with his hair cut short at the back and sides. On the table behind him are files and an open, but sleeping laptop. His charcoal grey pinstripe suit looks tailored, his shirt pressed and his leather brogues shined. There are several windows in the room partially open, allowing in the noise from the protest below.

Terry walks across the room towards him. Once he gets within two metres of the other man, he can discern the competing smells of a citrus-heavy aftershave and the waxy petrol of pomade. As they reach their hands out to one another, one of the men at the cameras glances towards them in time to see Terry’s thumb press somewhat ungainly against the knuckle of the first finger of the other’s hand. The man in the suit grasps the other’s elbow with his left hand. The man at the camera doesn’t see the finger bending inwards and pressing against the palm of the other’s hand.

It is an honour to meet you, Mr Goffe. I have heard good things about your work, he tells him, with perfect enunciation and a very slight Boston American accent.

Terry recognises the nuances of the other’s accent, smiles and frees his hand from the grasp.

Thank you very much, Dr Phillips, but please call me Terry. I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy, he replies through a fixed smile.

The man at the window goes back to his viewfinder and the task of taking pictures of everyone within the police cordon. Through the lens, he sees the anti-capitalists, trade unionists, anarchists and other assorted socialists revelling in a shared carnival-like atmosphere below. The uniformed Metropolitan Police making up the human perimeter look on with mixed emotions; some with disdain, others with questions and there are even a few feeling envious. Dotted among the police and the crowds, the undercover Special Branch officers struggle to absorb every iota of information from each of their senses. Much of this passes the cameraman by. He takes a picture and then minutely moves the camera. He focuses the lens on the next subject, snaps another picture and then the process starts again.

The steady clicking of the cameras creates a quiet rhythmic background noise to the conversation of the two men. They look diametrically different from one another. James is young and fresh-faced, his soft skin suggesting a daily moisturising routine and a regular hot towel and wet shave, while Terry’s hair isn’t brushed and his strawberry blond stubble is patchy and greying.

James looks at the other’s clothes as he pours him a coffee from the flask, all the time making a list in his head: raggedy brown walking boots, jeans, T-shirt and woollen fleece; skin is hard and craggy; brow creates a natural shade to the slightly squinting eyes. The Yale and Oxford graduate muses that the other man looks as though he has been shaped by centuries of being battered by the elements – steadfast and reliable like a lighthouse.

He hands the other man the coffee, saying, Please call me James. We are going to be working together, after all.

Terry looks down at the hand as he takes the coffee. It is soft and unblemished, exactly as he expected.

Thank you, the older man says, as he adds milk and sugar taken from the coffee shop on the street below.

Glancing across the table, he can tell that they are only planning a short stay in the office. There are only enough drinks and snacks for the day, he thinks to himself. James walks over to the window and parts two of the blind’s blades to aid his view of the protesters below. He drinks his coffee. Terry watches the other man and stirs his cup, before putting the mug down and taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Without looking back from the window, James starts talking. We are going to start with Conor Casey. I have had a look at your files and he seems to be the furthest along, he says.

Terry takes a cigarette and a lighter from the box and lights it, still watching the other man as he does so. James continues. I like your work on him so far. But I am worried that GCHQ are missing things, so I have activated the file at the NSA on him last week and got a black bag to recon his apartment. The eyes and ears are ready to go. We’re going in tomorrow.

He turns around to see how the other man reacts to the new information.

Recognising that the other man’s head was beginning to turn, Terry quickly starts looking for an ashtray so as not to be caught watching him. He is just in time. James nods his head slightly and walks across the room, picks up an empty mug and hands it to Terry. James remains standing uncomfortably close to Terry. Terry looks directly into the other man’s eyes.

I have read all of the supplemental files. If things go south, are we going to have a problem? the younger man asks quietly, so no one else in the room can hear him.

Terry allows the smoke to escape from his nose as he answers. If you’ve read my file, you should already know the answer to that. He pauses for a moment before punctuating his response, Sir.

He taps the ash into the mug before taking it out of the other man’s hand.

James furrows his forehead and forces a smile as he steps back to a more comfortable distance, out of range of the initial smoke plume.

Of course. I had to ask, though, and please do call me James. I don’t go in for all this ceremony you people are so obsessed with, he says, picking up a file from the table and handing it to Terry.

Have a look at this. It’s the profile the NSA have put together.

Terry sits back against the table and puts the mug down. He takes his reading glasses out of his chest pocket and puts them on. He opens the file and starts leafing through the papers. The other man continues talking.

We’re tracking and tapping his mobile, tapping all his fixed lines. We’re mirroring his internet traffic and, of course, all of her comms as well.

Terry looks up at him and nods his head. Good. He takes his phone out of his pocket and reads a text. He’s left the cordon and is in a pub not far from here he says, putting the phone back into his pocket.

James draws his finger across the trackpad on the laptop and a line drawn map appears on the screen with a single red dot pulsing.

James raises one eyebrow as he responds, Like I said, we’ve been on him for over a week.

He nods towards the file in Terry’s hand, If you go to the last section, you’ll see that the data is feeding a profile of predictable behaviours. As more data gets collected, the profile is updated. As it becomes more refined, the predictions become more accurate. As you can see, after one week he already has all the signifiers of potentially becoming a real problem. Well done for picking it up so early.

The man’s comments start to take on a more obvious air of condescension.

Terry puts down the file, folds his glasses back into their case, puts them in his pocket and picks up the mug of coffee. James walks back across the room and looks out of the window. Terry looks around the room at the operation. There is a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. In these last few months, it has become an all too familiar feeling; he feels old and emasculated. Unable to control his inner emotions, he recognises the anger starting to build. Every time he has to meet with a superior, he finds himself having the same conversation he has had a hundred times before. As the ranking officers get younger, his déjà vu becomes more regular.

Knowing that his anger will start to manifest, he makes an excuse. I’ll be back shortly, I’ve just got to make a secure call back to the office.

James looks at him. Terry feels the other man’s eyes grasping for clues. Believing that the younger man has no real field or combat experience, Terry thinks he won’t give anything away to him – which, in turn, only makes him angrier.

He continues the lie. I need to let them know that Casey will be the first target.

James nods his head. Of course, he says.

Terry drains the mug and puts it back on the table and makes his way to the lift. He leaves the building by the back entrance and makes his way west up Oxford Street, away from the police lines. He leans against a boarded-up shop window and puts on his glasses. He lights a cigarette and pretends to dial in a number. He turns his back to the street and waits for thirty seconds with the phone pressed to his ear before putting it back into his pocket. He pushes his glasses onto the top of his head and looks around the street as he stands smoking. He glances up through his beetling eyebrows to the building where the surveillance team is. In less than three seconds, he locates the windows and the blinds. He looks back down at the pavement beneath his feet.

Thirty metres away, the police line is four-deep and holding the protesters cordoned within Oxford Circus. Behind them are a few senior offices and television news teams. Behind them are bemused tourists staring aimlessly, while trying to make sense of the situation and formulate a plan in a foreign city.

Terry stands watching them all with disdain. He knows exactly why he is angry. As he paces up and down, he starts muttering under his breath, Un-fucking-believable. Are we going to have a problem? The little prick.

He feels the anger coursing through his veins as his insecurities start bubbling up to the surface. He crosses back over Oxford Street, drops the cigarette butt into a drain and lights another. He looks up and down the street and tries to regulate his breathing. With his free hand, he starts massaging his temples.

16:47, Tuesday 1st May 2001

Weymouth Mews, London

She’s a good girl, Liam says.

Conor sips at the pint of orange juice and soda water, but says nothing.

Liam continues. She does a huge amount for you. She cares, understands. Oi, are you listening?

Conor looks up from the