Quorum

By Kristopher MacGregor

British consul general to Hong Kong, Finley Hughes, is at a crossroads. The streets of Hong Kong are awash in protest and Finley is about to play a diplomatic trump card against Beijing that will force the Chinese leadership to back off the city state’s internal politics. Meanwhile, Finley’s journalist brother, Jack, a covert SIS informant, and their godfather, Theo, the head of MI6, have been made aware of a plot against Finley’s life. When Jack dies suddenly on assignment in Mexico, Finley is forced to leave Hong Kong to grieve with his estranged sister in the south of France, where Jack kept a small villa. Danger follows. While they reconnect over their brother’s passing, Theo scrambles to locate Finley’s soon-to-be assassin. Time is ticking and it becomes readily apparent that everyone is playing an angle, not everyone is who they say they are, and not everything is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristopher MacGregor
• Release date: Mar 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995067318

Book preview

Quorum

QUORUM

by Kristopher MacGregor

QUORUM

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Kristopher MacGregor.  All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-329-84632-6

First Published in 2015

by Roguescots Press

Vancouver, British Columbia

Cover art by Kristopher MacGregor

DEDICATION

–––––

To the hungry and the foolish,

both wrong and right in equal measure.

–––––

With many thanks to Justin MacGregor

and Allie Entwistle for many long chats.

PROLOGUE

Standing behind a long boardroom table, Robert Hughes stared outside in fury, his sleeves rolled up, his hands rested on his hips. His salt and pepper coif, usually perfectly cemented in place, gave way to a few rogue strands of hair, half concealing one of his pale blue eyes. He had never felt this kind of anger before, much less toward his oldest friend. A long-time diplomat, he was used to negotiating, hashing out policy and procedure. He understood the rationale being presented to him but his blood still boiled. With the room behind him, he gazed out over another warm Hong Kong evening, lights ablaze. The boardroom they were in was mid-way up the British consulate. When the man behind him had arrived, Robert had taken him aside immediately, rather than heading back up to his own office at the building's apex. The large room felt impossibly small in his mind, its walls closing in. Being consul general was isolating enough as it was. Tonight, it was solitary in its confinement. The reflection of his friend Theo snapped back into focus in the glass before him.

Robert, I didn't force him to do anything he didn't want to, Theo said defensively, the force of his assertion accentuated by his thick Scottish brogue.

Tall and green-eyed, Theo’s dark grey hair beguiled his age. The two men had gone to Cambridge together and became inseparable, and while the conversation at present was heated, both knew its temperature would soon subside. Moments earlier, Theo had arrived at the consulate as requested. He had spent the last week orchestrating debriefs on a failed attack on Robert's life. Summoned by his friend, Theo wrongly assumed that event to be the focus of their exchange. He had no idea that Robert had become aware of something he'd been concealing, something involving Robert's family.

That's not the point, Theo... That's not the bloody point! Robert raised his voice, still facing the window. For the sake of clarity, remind me what happened here last week?

We both know what happened here last week, Theo dodged.

Answer the question, Robert snapped back loudly, enunciating each individual word for emphasis.

Theo walked forward a few steps, placing his weathered hands atop one of the two-dozen or so chairs surrounding the table.

Your motorcade was attacked. You survived another assassination attempt, he stated, compliantly.

And how many times have I done that?

Theo rolled his eyes. Four and counting.

Robert turned around and faced his friend. I'm not a cat, Theo. I doubt I have five more of these misses in me. Very much so. If word gets out that Jack is undercover – that my son is undercover – for MI6... It's bad enough that Finley is being groomed to replace me. I don't need both my sons in harm's way.

He's not a formal agent... or even an officer. He's essentially an information contractor. He's passing on details that his journalism would otherwise have afforded him to begin with.

He has clearance, Robert bristled.

In the most minor of senses, Bobby. An inconvenient practicality!

He has clearance! It doesn't matter the threshold, Theo. Jack has security clearance. He's been issued a weapon. You just told me he was trained for three months!

By the book, Robert. He was given some field training, told what to look for, where to listen, how to probe better. Yes, some target practice and corporal combat training, but the bare minimum. He's not operational. He's not being sent on missions. He's doing his job, as he always has. He's just looking behind the curtains a little more whilst doing it! You're blowing this right out of proporti–

Robert cut him off with a swift coldness. I don’t want to hear about proportion. This has been going on for a year, and you didn't bring it to me. This puts him at risk, Theo, to say nothing of the conflict of interest it creates if he's snooping around dark corners here in China. Do optics mean nothing to you? Christ!

Theo stepped back and paced the boardroom floor before turning around slowly.

Do you trust me?

What?

Do you trust me, Robert?

Don't distill this, Theo. I’m not one of your suspects.

In his capacity as head of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), or MI6 as it is better known, Theo Gleeson knew much about calming people. He knew about conversational pressure points. He knew about cadence measures. He knew about linguistic leverage. He knew about tactical instigation. But he also knew all of this was insurmountably useless here. He had concealed something paramount from his oldest confidante.

When he'd approached Jack, Robert's youngest of three, just over a year prior about a pending interview the young Hughes had with a Nigerian government official, he knew it was left-field. The official in question was thought to be involved with a secret international arms ring with ties to a terrorist cell responsible for a recent London bombing. Jack's editor at the Guardian was sending him on a two-month assignment to uncover military corruption in Nigeria's oil industry. Theo saw an opportunity for access of a different kind. Asked to snoop around the edges, to keep his eyes on certain peripheral players, Jack was able to catch drift of an arms transfer supposedly taking place near a small fishing village on Lake Chad, along Nigeria's northeastern border. The intel proved accurate. Three S-75 Dvina surface-to-air missile systems were changing hands in the dead of night when a British Special Boat Service regiment, along with their American Navy Seal counterparts, plunged into action. Three terrorists were captured, another half-dozen killed, and the arms ring suffered a tremendous setback. When Jack's small prop plane touched down in London following the assignment, Theo was waiting for him on the tarmac, with more than a proposition.

I'm not trying to distill. I'm trying to frame this out, Theo clarified.

I broke my family apart, Theo. In my haste to protect them leading up to the Handover, I sent my wife and two of my children to Canada and allowed Finley to work here at the consulate with me. I realize you understand that, that you know that already, but let me frame this out for you. My whole life has been dedicated to public service, to entrenching the way of life us Britons built here in Hong Kong. So dedicated was I that I lost sight of why I left government and veered into diplomacy in the first place: to spend more time with my family. Well look where the years have slipped. My wife won't speak to me. My daughter blames me for everything. My eldest, naively, wants to be just like me. Jack is the only one who doesn't dwell on the past, who doesn't hold a grudge, who sees a future for himself un-entwined from my actions. He's primarily a war correspondent, yes. And that puts him in harm's way to be sure. But it isn't harm of my doing. It isn't harm by proximity. Covert intelligence is, Theo. Or it very well could be. And while I can't stop what's begun, I do trust you. But that scares me, so allow me to make this point sterling: that trust is very fragile right now. Very fragile, indeed.

Rare to form, Theo remained still, his jaw rigid, not quite sure what to say. Luckily, Robert saved him from his speechlessness, plainly aware that there was nothing more to be said on the matter, nor gleaned from its dissection. Robert picked up a manila folder tied with red string, 'CLASSIFIED - 001A' stamped on its cover in red ink. It had been lying at the end of the table since Robert had taken it from a dossier and placed it there when they'd walked in. He tossed the folder across the desk and it slid just shy of Theo.

Queen and Country, Robert said succinctly, sitting down in the leather chair at the head of the table.

How do you have a copy of this? Theo asked, confused.

Queen and Country was a high-level security protocol being devised by Britain's Home and Foreign Offices. It was intended for senior ranking officials whose security was considered 'Sufficiently Averse to Standard'. In 1982, Michael Fagan, an unemployed former steel worker breached the walls at Buckingham Palace and found his way, unimpeded, into the Queen's bedroom. The incident spurred a series of regulatory security precautions and an active protocol was developed to isolate ranking officials in the event of a threat to their person. Amendments were endless and the project was shelved repeatedly over several decades before it was brought back to surface in recent years, where it continued to languish in bureaucratic minutia.

Robert Hughes was one such person whose dalliances with danger reinforced the need for such a protocol to be active. His meddlesome relationship with Beijing as Britain's consul general to Hong Kong proved quite the foil for the Politburo's desire to impose stricter policy in the special administrative region (SAR), something the Handover's treaties, a series of bi-national agreements that returned Hong Kong from Britain’s jurisdiction to China’s in 1997, explicitly forbade until at least 2047: the fifty-year arrangement. It was long suspected, though never proven, that Beijing was orchestrating the assassination attempts on Robert's life through contracted third parties, unaffiliated with the government. Interestingly, the attempts were never successful, missing their mark by moments every time. The car bombing the week before was no exception. Robert's SUV had been rigged with explosives wired for remote detonation, yet curiously, the vehicle was blown apart as he and his detail were walking toward it rather than once he was inside. The near misses were seen by many as not-so-veiled threats for Britain to temper his commentary and involvement in Hong Kong politics. Scare tactics rather than overt acts of war.

Queen and Country was of the utmost secrecy and very few people had adequate clearance to even know that it existed. Robert had been one of the original drafting authors when he was Home Secretary, but Theo didn't understand how his friend had acquired the most recent copy, as evidenced by the code number on its face. '001A' designated only the prime minister, the reigning monarch, the secretary of state for defence and a handful of others, himself included, had access. The protocol had only been upgraded to that clearance level a week before, after its advancement had been reestablished following the failed car bombing that Robert had so narrowly eluded.

Privilege of the pen. Pays to have been one of the architects, I suppose. The defence secretary surprised me last night. Brought me a copy. He was en route to Guangzhou. They want my consultation on amending the protocol. Evidently, the struggle continues.

Theo paused before speaking. Your little automobile incident has prompted a new review. But I imagine the defence secretary told you as much.

And you're pushing for it, I gather?

With every breath. Stronger precautions. Increased security details with better-trained agents. Enhanced localized intelligence gathering. Lock down isolation procedures. Temporary or prolonged quarantine whilst maintaining positional interoperability.

Robert inserted, "Yes, that's new. Quarantine."

The idea is that officials with high-profile posts that require continuity under duress or in crises can maintain as much. Officials like you, essentially. In ideal circumstances, that lock down is achieved on the ground, locally. In other words, if an attack on your life was deemed imminent, you would be isolated somewhere here in Hong Kong, rather than removing you from the territory. This way, covert meetings could still be facilitated, you could deal with your counterparts and the public more directly, and, theoretically, the substance and import of your post would be preserved both in perception and in action, Theo detailed.

More fight, less flight, as it were.

As it were.

Robert stood up as he furthered, We were pushing for more bunkers and safe-rooms at strategic locales before I left the Home Office. The conversation is much progressed, I see. I can't say I look forward to more of an armed entourage but then I do so enjoy not being blown apart. Close to activation then... at long last? Secretary Welton seemed rather in the dark.

Not close enough, I'm afraid. Although your renewed involvement might spur some movement. No doubt Welton suspects that to have brought you back on board. Doesn't hurt that the PM is keen this time 'round either.

I'll submit my recommendations after the summit then, said Robert, taking the folder back from Theo’s hands and neatly tying the red string back around the dossier’s clasp.

I'm sorry, Robert. That I didn't tell you about Jack.

Robert put his hand on Theo's shoulder.

I suppose I'm not allowed to be mad at a man whose job it is to deal in secrets... for keeping a secret, he said, smirking cheekily. But that doesn't mean I'm not still furious. Also, you should probably tell the defence secretary that letting secrets about active agents slip over a late night scotch, though titillating, is not advisable.

Welton let Jack's status slip in conversation? I just assumed Jack had told you himself… Theo said, deeply surprised.

Said he was curious why I'd authorized it, as if I’d have had a say. Man couldn't keep a secret if he was tortured with a feather. Surprised he doesn't fight our wars the old fashioned way by calling up the opponent and setting up a battlefield and a lunch hour in advance, he paused. Not to worry, old boy. I rarely stay upset for long. And I won't be telling Jack that I know. I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same. Plausible deniability and all that. How long are you staying for?

I have to fly back to London tomorrow. Was only here to clean up the mess your little bomb friends cooked up for you last week.

Robert laughed. Well don't put your broom away just yet, chap. I'm sure I'll have another mess for you to sweep up soon enough.

I sincerely hope not.

The two old friends hugged, a gesture that was warmly received by both men.

Hinc lucem, Robert muttered as they embraced.

The two first words of the Cambridge motto parsed away, hence light was a running inside joke of sorts from their days at school. One would say it to the other on the way to an examination – good luck, in essence. It had become something of a parting phrase between the two, an investiture of good will or fortune. As Theo rode away from the consulate in the back of a waiting SIS car, it was his turn to look out the window with glazed eyes, his focus elsewhere. Something was telling him that light was not henceforth. His instincts were rarely faulty, a trait that came in most advantageous in his line of work, but a trait he hated nevertheless, particularly when those closest to him were concerned. Hinc lucem. Hinc lucem... Not tonight, he thought. Not tomorrow either. And perhaps not for a while after that.

CHAPTER ONE

The priest continued, ...for the first heaven and the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God. And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, 'Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them…

Finley Hughes rolled the pale blue eyes he had inherited from his father. He couldn't help it. Reverend Swinton had been droning on for nearly half an hour and it was all he could do not to stand up and scream. The Lord this and God that. He'd seen this man of the cloth put on this show before. He'd watched him baptize his brother Jack at that very altar. He'd spent many a Christmas service bored by Swinton's drawl.

…and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away...

Finley wondered what people would say if he simply took to his feet and walked out of the church. The press would have a field-day. Best he stayed put... and besides, he hadn't delivered his father's eulogy yet. Not that Swinton was in any hurry to let him. The personable priest was far from coy in his disdain for Finley's atheism.

–––––

Five days prior, Finley had stood by his father and the deputy consul's sides while Robert delivered a prepared statement.

We find ourselves at a crossroads here in Hong Kong, between the failed and the possible. Beijing thinks it can tinker here. The Chinese leadership believes it has the authority to pivot away from its commitments, commitments they agreed to, commitments I helped write. This evening, I'm flying to Guangzhou to discuss new arrangements, to address our current state of affairs, to entertain new ideas. But let me be clear: Hong Kong is not a pet-project and it is most certainly not communist. I intend to tell them that, as I always have. I may no longer be governor of this great city-state, but I remain one of its chief stewards. I intend to carry on my close relations with Hong Kong's leadership to ensure we stay the course. We prosper together. Thank you.

Finley leaned in front of his father at an angle and spoke loudly with one hand up, The consul will not be taking any questions at this time.

Regardless, a flurry of journalists' questions hurled at them from every direction as they walked away. Flashbulbs ricocheted light across the plaza at the base of the consulate, following the three men as they stepped into a waiting limousine destined for the airport. Finley's phone wouldn't stop vibrating in his pocket. In charge of press communications, he was the first point of contact between the media and the two men sitting opposite him now. Robert looked to his right at Deputy Consul Niall Morgan.

Too stern?

Morgan's strong jawline barely moved as his gravelly voice churned. Not stern enough.

Come now, Niall. We've got to show at least a modicum of tact.

Bloody fascists.

Robert had grown accustomed to ignoring most of what came out of Niall's mouth. Behind closed doors and through back channels, Niall was quite the mouthpiece, capable of swaying almost anyone with his prickliness, but in public, he was an impenetrable wall. The media often wondered if he knew how to speak at all.

Robert turned to his eldest son.

Finley, I want our summary statement after the summit to be equally tempered.

I've already prepared two versions. No matter the outcome, Finley confirmed.

The three men summarized plans for the summit. Robert and Niall were on the defensive this trip. The Chinese premier had been increasingly vocal with Britain's prime minister that the consulate was overstepping its boundaries. The prime minister somewhat agreed. In response, he had set up a summit with Chinese officials to discuss. He was flying out from London himself, having sent the foreign secretary in advance the week prior. The Handover was still something of an oddity for both parties. When Britain's lease of Hong Kong expired in 1997, the world watched with baited breath to see how stringently Beijing would adhere to the promises it had made as part of the fifty-year arrangement. They had been slowly flexing their muscles in the region, however, and Robert's strong tone was becoming a sticking point. Some in the British echelons were questioning whether allowing the former governor to become consul general was a wise decision; they wondered if Robert's now much constrained role was a disadvantage for all concerned. Still, the prime minister had continued to stand by Robert. They were old rowing mates after all, and politics is nothing if not an old boys' club.

The vehicle, led by a police escort, swung through a service entrance at Hong Kong's Chek Lap Kok airport. Diplomats rarely went through the arrivals terminal in any case, but for today's purposes, the Chinese had sent a government Sikorsky S-92. The limousine came to a halt as the helicopter's rotors began whirring to life, a small team of servicemen in green jumpsuits and high visibility vests walking away from the aircraft toward a nearby hangar. A Chinese soldier in formal uniform greeted Niall and Robert as they stepped out of the car, Finley at their heels. Robert turned to his son, fastening his jacket’s top button.

Sorry you can't accompany this time, Finley, Robert said, raising his voice a little to compete with the chopper engines behind him.

Just as well. We've got some PR wrinkles to iron out anyhow. I've got my hands full. Call me tonight and let me know how things are going.

Robert put his hand on his son's upper arm. See you in a few days! he said, pivoting toward the helicopter.

Niall leaned into Finley's shoulder and spoke into his ear sarcastically. I'll try to keep him in line.

Good luck with that! Finley laughed.

The soldier aided the two men into the well-appointed helicopter. Its crimson red leather upholstery blared out through the open door despite the fast-fading light. Even their aircraft were communist, Finley thought, as the doors closed and the rotors began to give lift. Heavy downdraft tussled his dark brown hair, loose strands flashing in front of his eyes. He stepped back into the car to return to the consulate.

–––––

The helicopter had crashed in a band of forested hills just outside the Guangdong capital not long after takeoff. Chinese authorities swarmed the site immediately and all outside investigation was prohibited. Data recorders and other such instrumentation were swiftly collected and quarantined. The official statement was that mechanical failure had downed the aircraft. One of the mechanics Finley had seen walking away from the helicopter before takeoff was arrested in Hong Kong and quickly sent across the Chinese border. He was executed immediately. Cut and dry. Finley wasn't the only one riling in suspicious doubt. There was a gathering consensus that something far more sinister had taken place, but neither London nor Beijing was providing any clarity. Probably for good reason; the assassination of a high-ranking diplomat with close personal ties to the prime minister was the kind of event that could easily have led to armed conflict. Britain was in no position to be engaging China militarily, and neither were her allies. The event was hastily hushed.

In the hours after the crash, Finley received a phone call from the foreign secretary. It was a call he still couldn't believe had happened.

Mr. Hughes, I'm going to be blunt here. I haven't the luxury of sentiment. I'm sorry for your loss, lad, but this government needs to move forward. The prime minister and I would like to formally appoint you as consul general.

Finley stammered, But... I've... Surely there's more qualifie–

Finley. You know that office inside and out. You're better educated on local matters than anyone we could send from London and there's nobody regionally who we feel should be changing posts at the moment. You are the best candidate. In my estimation, you are the only candidate. I need an answer, and I'm afraid I need it right now. Image and continuity are everything at the moment, as you’re more than well aware.

It wasn't every day that a twenty-six-year-old was made Britain's most prestigious foreign diplomat. When he'd become a junior intern for the consulate, he never imagined he'd replace his father. It simply hadn't occurred to him. What he was unaware of was that the possibility had more than occurred to his father. Robert had navigated many conversations with Foreign Office colleagues of his about securing a successorship for his son, a rarity in the modern era. Robert had been grooming his son meticulously, letting him see behind curtains an intern, and later a press relations coordinator would never be privy to ordinarily. He just never imagined his son replacing him so young.

–––––

"Finley... Finley... Finley... Mr.