Chapter 9 In The Eye Of The Storm

The torrential rain shimmered on the streets of London. Cityscapes rushed past the windows, iconic landmarks blurred by the raindrops cascading down the glass.

Inspector Grey was sat in the back of a private car, tapping his fingers impatiently on the black leather seat beside him. He had been summoned to MI6 to inform them of his troubling suspicions regarding the Grand National sabotage. After a journey cursed with roadworks and an overturned lorry from Liverpool, the car finally arrived outside MI6 headquarters at 85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall Cross.

Grey opened the door, bracing himself against the biting wind, pulling his trench coat tight. He stared up at the curved glass facade in the muted light, taking a moment to recalibrate.

He had frequented this building many times for international terrorism cases. That's when MI6 worked with Scotland Yard over the years. Occasionally he crossed paths with MI5 at Thames House located in Millbank in London.

Once he was through the glass rotating doors. He was ushered through a security checkpoint by a friendly, guard, being led into a warren of corridors.

The clacking of his shoes resounded on the polished marble floors, passing numerous doors, each with a gilded nameplate indicating the rank and position of its occupant. The building's atrium soared above him like a grand cathedral. He smelt the mingling scents of coffee. He heard the the faint hum of servers, powering all this electronic covert activity.

They arrived at a door with a nameplate that read 'The Farraday Room'.

"This way, Detective. They're expecting you."

Grey thanked the guard before taking a deep breath. He pushed open the door, stepping into a room bathed in the warm glow of a crystal chandelier.

The opulent 1930s décor was a feast for the senses, paneled in rich mahogany with a large, polished walnut table dominating the center. Elegant velvet upholstery covered the chairs, and oil paintings of the English countryside cluttered the walls. Grey couldn't help but be impressed by the luxurious surroundings; his attention was quickly drawn to the people seated around the table.

There was the head of MI6, a woman he didn't recognize. A foreign-looking man, and, to his surprise, the Prime Minister herself was seated at the head of the table.

The Prime Minister broke the silence.

"Inspector Grey, glad you could make it. Have a seat."

Grey watched the Prime Minister's eyes boring into him like two lasers cutting through his soul.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?"

He could understand why Aurelia Ironheart was on the brink of losing the next election. She looked even more intimidating in person than she did on TV. She had the softness of a prison bed.

The Prime Minister began the introductions.

"Inspector Grey, allow me to introduce Detective Chief Superintendent Maya Khan," she said, gesturing towards the lady seated next to her.

"Tomorrow morning, we will publicly unveil her as Chief Inspector Sanderson's successor as the new head of Scotland Yard."

Grey's tried to place the name, but it eluded him. He made a mental note to find out more about her later.

She switched her focus to the foreign-looking man.

"And this is Viktor Petrov. Special envoy tasked with improving trade relations between the UK and Russia."

Grey took in the diplomat's stoic expression and classic Russian features. Finally, the Prime Minister shifted to the man seated at the head of the table.

"And last but certainly not least, we have Roland Blackwell, the esteemed head of MI6."

As the introductions concluded, an orderly approached the table and placed a cup of black coffee in front of Inspector Grey. A pang of unease passed through him, realizing that someone had taken note of his preferred choice of drink.

"You know how I take mine, black," Grey remarked, with a hint of surprise.

The Prime Minister smiled knowingly.

"This is MI6, Inspector Grey. We pay attention to the details. Shall we get down to brass tacks? Before we discuss such sensitive information, some formalities need to be attended to."

Reaching down beside her chair, the Prime Minister produced a manila folder and slid it across the glossy table to Grey.

It was a standard non-disclosure agreement, outlining the strict confidentiality requirements that governed all of MI6's operations. Grey perused the dense legal jargon detailing penalties for unauthorized disclosure, including fines and potential imprisonment for violations under the Official Secrets Act.

Blackwell spoke up, sensing Grey's discomfort.

"Standard procedure, I'm afraid." His clipped tone betrayed little emotion as he passed Grey the pen.

For MI6, confidentiality agreements were routine, the first layer of security in their armory of secrets. But for Grey, entering this world marked the point of no return in more ways than one.

With a steady hand, Grey picked up the pen and affixed his signature to the document. Then he handed the Parker pen back to Roland Blackwell.

Blackwell collected the signed non-disclosure agreement.

"There now, that wasn't too difficult," Blackwell said with a reassuring smile.

He gave Grey a firm handshake.

"We appreciate you coming here and bringing this urgent matter to our attention."

"Of course," Grey said.

"I only wish to do my part in serving the security of our nation."

The Prime Minister stared intently in his direction.

"Inspector Grey, do you realize that the information you have provided could have serious implications for national security?"

"I had not considered that angle, Prime Minister," Grey said.

"My job is to find the truth!"

"Do you really think that I could present this evidence to Parliament? Come on. Russia conspiring with the Royal Family to sabotage a fucking horse race? They would laugh me out of the chamber and demand my resignation."

Grey squirmed in his seat, feeling like a schoolboy in a headmaster's office. His evidence seemed silly now, under the scrutiny of MI6 and the Prime Minister herself.

Her voice took on an edge of irritation.

"Such fantastical accusations would destroy whatever credibility I have left. Not to mention the diplomatic crisis it would cause with Russia."

She got up from her chair and began pacing the room emphatically.

"Horse feed supplements? Performance enhancers? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that will sound? The public will think we've gone mad!"

Roland Blackwell leaned forward.

"Inspector, the public implications of the Russian government conspiring with the Royal family to sabotage the Grand National would be disastrous. The stuff of fairytales. It would shake the world!"

Petrov watched silently, stroking his beard in a pensive manner. As the discussion turned to covering up any Russian involvement, Petrov chuckled silently to himself.

"These stupid English politicians," he thought.

"So easy to manipulate for the good of Mother Russia."

It was time for Grey to speak up.

"With all due respect, if this situation is not investigated thoroughly, there could be another incident on your watch, Prime Minister."

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Grey, faced the Russian diplomat.

"I do not wish to cause any offense, sir, but if the supplement was indeed given to the horses from a Russian source, it would be an act of international terrorism on British soil."

The room fell deathly silent. Blackwell and Khan gave one another a blasphemous look, in a I can't believe he just said that kind of way. The Prime Minister's lips thinned in displeasure.

"That is a serious accusation, Inspector. I assure you, the Russian government would never stoop to such sabotage or terrorism!"

Grey held Petrov's attention.

"With all due respect, Mr. Petrov, based on your country's history and ongoing conflicts, I would consider your statement to be completely untrue."

Petrov eyed Grey coolly, smirking slightly.

"You have much to learn, boy," he said condescendingly.

"Enough." The Prime Minister's voice cut through the tension.

"Inspector Grey, I did not ask you to come here today to wear your political hat, keep your opinions to yourself is that clear?"

Grey bristled at her imperious tone but nodded. "Clear, ma'am."

"Your accusations against Mr. Petrov's country are politically insensitive. I apologize on behalf of the United Kingdom for Mr. Grey's unwanted outburst, Mr. Petrov."

The Russian Ambassador barely nodded in acknowledgment, silently conveying his understanding of the situation.

Grey couldn't believe the words that had just escaped from his lips, especially in front of the Prime Minister and the head of MI6. It was as if the pressure cooker had finally boiled over. The sleepless nights of the investigation. The absence from home away from Julia and the twins. The weight of Sanderson's death had taken its toll.

Inspector Grey took a lengthy, lungful breath and turned to face Petrov again.

"Mr. Petrov, I apologize for my inappropriate and unfounded accusations earlier. That was completely unprofessional of me."

"We live in a world of dirty geopolitical games. Your country has it. So does mine. We are but players. Do not hate the players; hate the game, Mr. Grey."

His English was crisp, and his tone was even more condescending.

"If your inflammatory evidence was brought before the United Nations, it could spark conflict between our nations. Maybe destabilize Europe itself. Who knows. It is a delicate balance."

Petrov took a sip of brandy and leaned back in his chair.

"And this company, VitaVyx, is nothing but a dummy. A shell. An empty facade."

Grey's jaw toughened, but he remained silent. Things were not going as well as he had hoped.

"Inspector Grey, what do the English say? It is best to let sleeping dogs lie, yes? Some mysteries are better left alone. Like bears in winter, da? Let them sleep."

Blackwell calmly swallowed a sip of brandy, observing the tense exchange unfold. His expression remained impassive, betraying no emotion. Inwardly, however, he felt impatient. This whole situation could derail negotiations with the Russians that he had spent months setting up. Petrov's goodwill was crucial to securing a weapons contract for MI6.

Still, Blackwell knew he had to play the part of the congenial bureaucrat, offering Grey just enough latitude to seem cooperative.

As long as MI6 maintained control of the official narrative, they could contain any fallout.

Blackwell walked over to a cart in the corner. It held various decanters of liquor. He picked up a cut-crystal decanter filled with amber-colored brandy, pouring a generous amount into a snifter glass, and then he brought the drink over, placing it in front of Grey.

Grey saw a muscle twitch in the MI6 chief's cheek, the only sign of his impatience so far.

"Damage control is needed here to contain the narrative. That's what we need," Blackwell said.

The stiff brandy was no doubt meant to loosen Grey's tongue and dull his senses, but he had no intention of cooperating with their plans to conceal the truth.

Blackwell rubbed his chin, then clicked his fingers like a light bulb had gone off.

"I've got it," he said.

"We could blame it on faulty veterinary practices. Or we could claim that it was a radical animal rights group, like the No More Oil protesters. They were at the Grand National. We can say that they did it as a protest against the cruelty of horse racing."

The Prime Minister frowned.

"Both seem far too implausible. We must handle this with grace and tact so as not to further damage trust in this administration."

She exhaled impatiently.

"We need an airtight explanation that leaves no room for speculation. We cannot risk another scandal so close to election season."

The Prime Minister turned to Grey.

"Inspector, what other legitimate reasons could there be for poisoning that doesn't implicate geopolitical conspiracies?"

Grey paused to think.

"At this point, we only have suspicions and conjectures. Further investigation is warranted before we can draw any conclusions."

Blackwell interrupted. "We don't have time for that. We need to issue a statement to the press."

He transferred his attention to Khan, who was sitting next to him.

"Maya, you will address the press tomorrow to announce your new role as the head of Scotland Yard. Pay tribute to Chief Inspector Sanderson and the victims, of course."

The Prime Minister nodded in approval.

"We need some sort of veterinary Doctor To legitimize things," said the Prime Minister.

"Inspector Grey, you must have one in your investigative unit at the moment that we could borrow?"

"There is a Dr. Walsh," Grey said.

"Excellent," Blackwell said.

"Dr. Walsh will appear as an expert beside Maya, declaring the horse feed contamination was accidental."

"That could work. The public will move on soon enough," said the Prime Minister.

"We could organize a small terrorist attack. It will make a great distraction!"

The Prime Minister shot the head of Mi6 with a weathering look.

"Roland, please, that is too strong."

"Sorry ma'am!"

Grey was in complete disbelief as they schemed so callously to deceive the public, concocting lies and scapegoats. He lit a cigarette, disgusted at their insensitivity, exploiting Sanderson's death for political convenience. Taking a long drag, he brooded at the hollowness of it all.

Petrov chuckled. "British politics is so amusing to us Russians. Very different from my homeland."

"Roland, can you prop a British equine supplement company to blame for this mishap?"

"I'm certain I can arrange something suitable."

Grey ground out his cigarette in anger.

"And what about my investigation at Aintree? Am I to abandon it for the sake of perception?"

"Officially, the investigation will be continued to avoid suspicion. However, the sensitive lines of inquiry will be redirected to less troubling avenues.

You will have the freedom to pursue any legitimate leads, of course, but with the caveat that you must maintain the preferred narrative," Blackwell reasoned.

Grey stared at him incredulously.

"In other words, go through the motions?"

Blackwell nodded. "Essentially, yes. It must appear thorough for the sake of public transparency, but ultimately point the blame elsewhere."

"Can I rely on your discretion in this matter, Inspector? For the good of King and country?"

Blackwell slid the document across the table to Grey.

"After all, you already signed the Official Secrets Act!"

Grey felt a surge of anger. Blackwell was right—by signing the non-disclosure agreement, he had legally obliged himself to cooperate. For now, he had little choice but to play along with MI6's charade to blackball his efforts.

Looking Blackwell in the eye, Grey said firmly,

"I'll do the investigation however you want me to, but I make no promises where it may lead."

Blackwell's smile widened. "All we ask is that you report anything important through the proper channels."

"Naturally, through the proper channels," Grey echoed.

"You have my full cooperation, sir." The words left a bitter aftertaste.

Petrov, clearly satisfied with the damage control efforts already underway, rose from his seat with a smile. tipping his hat,

"Ladies, gentlemen, Inspector Grey," he said, making his exit.

Irked by Petrov's demeanor, Grey glared at the Russian diplomat's retreating back with barely concealed disdain.

Blackwell extended a hand to Grey in an attempt at conciliation.

"We appreciate your cooperation, Inspector. You have had an most honorable career."

"My career isn't over yet!"

"I think an OBE is in order for your diligent work, and if you play your cards right, I can ensure you get a great promotion within the force. Maya could see to that."

"An excellent idea," the Prime Minister said.

"Roland. Be sure to go over the finer details of Maya's speech tomorrow before the press conference. That will be all for now."

"Of course, ma'am," Blackwell replied.

Khan and Blackwell left together, discussing the conference logistics, leaving Grey alone to confront the Prime Minister directly.

"Ma'am, something is coming that you won't be able to contain. My instincts tell me so," Grey warned.

The Prime Minister eyed him coolly.

"Your instincts, Inspector, while no doubt compelling to you, are irrelevant to me. We have the situation well in hand."

"With respect, you're overlooking key details here. There are forces at play here beyond your control."

The Prime Minister's voice took on a sharper edge.

"Inspector, you are becoming dangerously close to treason. I suggest you keep that civil tongue of yours before you lose it!"

She smiled thinly.

"You look tired, Inspector. Go home to your wife and twin daughters. It would be a shame if their father was sent away for being a traitor."

She swept past him, her heels clicking on the marble floor like gunshots. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Grey alone with his troubling suspicions.