Inspector Grey sat in the back of a private car watching the torrential rain shimmering on the streets of London. After a journey cursed with roadworks and an overturned lorry from Liverpool, he arrived outside MI6 headquarters at 85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall Cross. Grey opened the door, bracing against the biting wind. 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 Millbank. After passing through the rotating doors, a guard ushered him through a warren of corridors. The clacking of his shoes resounded on the polished marble floors as he passed numerous doors, each bearing a nameplate with the rank and position of its occupant. The building’s atrium soared above, the faint buzz of servers powering the covert electronic activity. They arrived at a door with a nameplate that read ‘The Farraday Room.’
“This way, Inspector. 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 present. Seated at the table were the head of MI6—a woman he didn’t recognize—a foreign-looking man, and, to his surprise, the Prime Minister herself. The Prime Minister broke the silence.
“Inspector Grey, glad you could make it. Have a seat. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Grey watched the Prime Minister’s eyes boring into him like two lasers cutting through his soul. 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, gesturing towards the lady seated next to her.
"Inspector Grey, allow me to introduce Detective Chief Superintendent Maya Khan. Tomorrow morning, she will be officially announced as Chief Inspector Sanderson’s successor and the new head of Scotland Yard."
Grey 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 Victor 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 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. 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; sliding it across the glossy table to Grey. It was a standard non-disclosure agreement, outlining the strict confidentiality requirements, governing 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.
Roland Blackwell spoke up, sensing Grey’s discomfort. “Standard procedure, I’m afraid.”
His clipped tone betrayed very 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 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.”
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, your evidence could have catastrophic implications for our national security.”
“My job is to find the truth. That is all.”
“Do you think I could present this to Parliament? Come on—Russia conspiring with the Royal Family to sabotage a horse race? They’d laugh me out of the chamber and demand my resignation.”
Grey squirmed in his seat, feeling like a schoolboy in a headmistress’s office. His evidence seemed silly now, under the scrutiny of MI6 and the Prime Minister herself.
“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 this all sounds? 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, stroking his beard, inwardly chuckling to himself.
“These English politicians,” he thought with quiet amusement. “So eager to preserve their image. So easy to manipulate.”
“With all due respect, Mr Blackwell, if this situation is not investigated thoroughly, there could be another incident on the Prime Minister’s watch.”
Grey faced the Russian diplomat now. “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 exchanged a look of disbelief, as if saying, I can’t believe he just said that. The Prime Minister’s lips thinned in displeasure.
Petrov eyed Grey coolly, smirking slightly. “That is a very serious accusation, Inspector. The Russian government would never stoop to such sabotage or terrorism!”
“Mr. Petrov, based on your country’s history and ongoing conflicts, I would consider your statement to be completely untrue.”
“You have much to learn, boy!”
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The Prime Minister’s voice cut through the tension. “Enough. I didn’t 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 what he just said, especially in front of the Prime Minister and the head of MI6. It was as if the pressure cooker had finally boiled over. Sleepless nights, absence from Julia and the twins, and the weight of Sanderson’s death had taken their toll. Grey took a lengthy, lungful breath, turning to Petrov again.
“Mr. Petrov, I apologize for my inappropriate and unfounded accusations. 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 a conflict between our nations. Maybe destabilize Europe itself. Who knows? It’s a delicate balance.”
Petrov took a sip of brandy and leaned back in his chair. “And this company, VitaVix, 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, as the English say, let sleeping dogs lie, yes? Some mysteries are better left alone. Like bears in winter—da? Let them sleep.”
Blackwell swallowed a sip of brandy, observing the tense exchange unfold. His expression remained impassive. 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 storyline, they could contain any fallout. Grey saw a muscle twitch in the MI6 chief’s cheek—the only sign of impatience so far.
“Damage control is needed here to contain the narrative. That’s what we need,” Blackwell said.
Blackwell walked to a cart, poured brandy into a snifter, and set it in front of Grey. 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. We could blame it on faulty veterinary practices. Or we could claim it was a radical animal rights group, like the No More Oil protesters. They were at the Grand National. We can say 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 the election season.”
The Prime Minister turned to Grey. “Inspector, let’s cut through the noise. What other legitimate reasons could there be for poisoning that don’t drag us into the quagmire of geopolitical conspiracies?"
“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. Maya, you’ll address the press tomorrow as the new head of Scotland Yard. You know. Pay tribute to Chief Inspector Sanderson and the victims, of course. That sort of thing.”
The Prime Minister nodded in approval. “We need a veterinary expert to legitimize things. Inspector Grey, do you have someone in your investigative unit we could use?”
“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 for a great distraction!”
“Roland, please, that is far 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 up a British equine supplement company to take the fall for this mishap?”
“I’m certain I can arrange something suitable.”
“And what about my investigation at Aintree? Am I to abandon it for the sake of perception?”
Blackwell reasoned. “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.”
“In other words, go through the motions?”
“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.
“I’ll do the investigation however you want me to, but I make no promises where it may lead.”
“All we ask is that you report anything important through the proper channels.”
“Naturally, through the proper channels,” Grey echoed.
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 the most honorable career.”
“My career isn’t over yet!”
“I think an OBE is in order for your diligent work, and if you follow the company line. I can ensure that you will get a great promotion within the force. Maya could see to that.”
“An excellent idea,” said the Prime Minister.
“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.”
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.”
“Your instincts, Inspector, while no doubt compelling to you, are irrelevant to me. We have the situation well in hand.”
“But, Ma’am—”
“Shhhhhsh! Inspector, you are becoming dangerously close to treason. I suggest you keep that civil tongue of yours in check—before you lose it!”
She smiled thinly. “You look tired. 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.
