by Mark Sennen
Birmingham was forty miles to the west so Itchy’s guess was probably right.
‘The limo.’ Silva refocused. The chauffeur had opened the door to the car and a man ducked out and straightened his jacket. ‘That’s Jonathon Walker, Secretary of State for Defence.’
‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam, but if you say so.’ Itchy tapped Silva’s shoulder. ‘I do know him though.’
A man in a pale suit had followed the minister out of the car. A pasty face, glowing blond hair, a roman nose like his sister’s.
‘Brandon Hope.’
Brandon was an awkward figure, a shambling man hardly in control of his own body. He had nothing like the presence of his sister Karen. Walker placed his arm at Brandon’s back and guided him along the red carpet to greet a couple of military personnel. A photographer was walking backwards taking pictures; beside him a woman with a video camera on her shoulder swung round to keep the men in shot as they passed.
‘This is all wrong,’ Silva said. ‘This isn’t clandestine.’
Her mother had mentioned something about secrets at RAF Wittering, but there was nothing dodgy going on here, not with all the soldiers and the truck drivers, not to mention the photographer and the camerawoman.
‘What the hell was the postcard on about, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ Silva pulled away from the binoculars and returned Itchy’s tap on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. There.’
She pointed to the east where a star hung incongruously in the late afternoon sky. There was a low hum and the brightness moved lower. Now they could hear a roar and make out the silhouette of a large aircraft.
‘You’re right. Not clandestine at all,’ Itchy said. ‘Not in a jet of that size.’
The aircraft glided in. The body of the plane was windowless and a logo of a golden palm with crossed swords adorned the tail fin. A screech of rubber on tarmac came as the jet touched down and the aeroplane rolled along the runway. It turned onto a taxiway and slowed to a stop.
‘Saudia,’ Silva said. ‘The national airline of Saudi Arabia.’
Ground crew were busy moving a set of steps into position at the front of the plane and then the door opened and a man in Arab dress descended the steps.
Walker moved forward to shake the man’s hand, Brandon Hope close behind. Walker gestured to his left where there was a woman in a Royal Air Force uniform. Silva had her as the base commander. Next came an American general. An angular face and a severe haircut. Stars on his shoulders, a host of colours on his left breast. After him, a man and a woman in suits. As Walker introduced them, each received a handshake from the Saudi.
‘Who’s he?’ Itchy said.
‘No idea.’ Silva tried to remember the photos Fairchild had shown her of Haddad. In some there had been other Saudis, but she didn’t recognise the man from the plane.
As the introductions were going on, a pair of forklift trucks appeared and the tailgates of the lorries came down. Each lorry now disgorged pallets of equipment which were picked up by the forklifts and ferried across to the aircraft and lined up. A single pallet was taken to a point a few metres in front of the stage and somebody draped a Saudi flag in the centre, while a Union Jack was placed on one side and the Stars and Stripes on the other.
‘Exports,’ Silva said. ‘This is nothing more than a ceremony to mark a trade deal between American Armaments and the Saudi government. In this case the weapons have been manufactured in the UK at the factory in Birmingham, hence the trilateral nature.’
At the end of the line of dignitaries there were two more men in suits. For a moment the binocular lenses were full of the backs of Walker, Hope and the Saudi. Silva pulled right and the pudgy face of Greg Mavers slipped into view. Standing next to Mavers was a very sober-looking Sean Connor.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time the Excelsior had docked and the container had been unloaded it was early evening. Straddle carriers roved up and down the rows of containers and moved them onto waiting lorries. Holm and Javed sat in their car on the ring road and waited. At eight o’clock Holm’s phone buzzed. It was Cornish.
‘The container’s on a lorry and it’s leaving now,’ she said. ‘Index Tango Alpha three, four Lima X-ray. White cab.’
‘Thanks, Billie,’ Holm said. ‘I owe you.’
‘Forget it, Stephen. Just stay out of trouble and keep us safe, OK?’
‘Will do.’
Javed flicked the sun visor down and peered into the little vanity mirror on the back.
‘Here we go,’ he said a couple of minutes later. ‘Tango Alpha three.’
There was a grunt of diesel engine and a rumble as the truck drove past. Holm waited a couple of moments and pulled out. Before long they were rounding Ipswich and heading west.
‘Where do you think?’ Javed said.
Holm shrugged. To be honest, he had no idea. The truck could stop anywhere. All it took was a couple of minutes to open the back doors and Mohid Latif and his companion could scramble out and be off.
After an hour the lorry was at Cambridge, and as the road bent to the right Holm settled in for a long drive. They were closing on the A1, the main trunk route to the north, the destination surely either northern England or Scotland. However, twenty miles up the A1 Holm was surprised when the lorry abruptly turned off the main road into a small industrial estate. Dim lights on low poles glowed in the dusk. Beyond the estate there was a succession of identical buildings and a tall chain-link fence.
‘What the hell is this place?’ Holm said. The lorry had stopped at a barrier next to a security box. Beyond was an area of hard standing and a large warehouse. Inside the box a solitary figure stood in a blaze of yellow light. To the right of the box a number of shipping containers were stacked two high. After a moment or two the barrier hinged upwards and the lorry drove in.
Javed was head down over his phone. ‘RAF Wittering.’ He looked up. ‘At least the bit behind that fence. This looks like some kind of business park attached to the base. Probably aerospace industries related to the airfield.’
‘This is crap. We’re going to get spotted here.’ Holm turned his head. A few car lengths back they’d passed a gate to a field full of head-high maize. He reversed the car, relieved to see the gate was open. He drove in and parked behind a hedge. ‘Have to do. Come on.’
Holm was out of the car and making for the warehouse on the field side of the hedge.
‘Boss.’ Javed was right behind, stumbling in the now near darkness. ‘We’ve got to be careful. We could get shot if we venture onto the base.’
‘Forget the base.’ They’d reached the corner of the field. Through the hedge they could see the truck backing up to the warehouse. Huge double doors stood open, blackness within. The truck inched inside, its reversing lights illuminating pallets and wooden crates and some sort of racking system. In the security box the guard had returned to reading a magazine. ‘This has nothing to do with the military. Now give me a bunk up.’
The fence was a couple of metres high but there was no barbed wire. The barrier was a deterrent rather than an impediment. Javed cupped his hands and Holm stepped onto the makeshift step. He grasped the top of the fence and hoisted himself up. The edge of the fence dug into his stomach and ripped his shirt, but he swung over awkwardly and dropped down the other side. Javed pulled himself up and over in one smooth movement.
‘Show-off,’ Holm said. A strip from his white shirt hung down towards his knees and when he put his hand to his stomach his fingers found a warm sticky liquid.
‘Man down?’ Javed said.
‘I’m fine. It’s just a graze.’ Holm pulled the strip of linen free and dabbed the cut. He tucked the remains of his shirt back in. ‘Come on, we need to get closer.’
The security was minimal. There didn’t seem to be any cameras, and shrubs dotted the grassy area round the warehouse, providing plenty of cover. They reached the edge of the building and moved along until they came to a door
set into the metal cladding. From inside came the revving and idling of the truck’s diesel engine. Holm tried the door but it was locked. He gestured back towards the front of the building and as he did so he heard the engine rev again. Seconds later the truck cab rolled out from the warehouse and drove to the gate. The guard raised the barrier and the truck drove off.
‘He’s dumped the container,’ Javed said. ‘Should we try and get inside?’
Holm considered the terrain. A multitude of shrubs would allow them to make their way to the front of the building undetected, but they’d have to cross the open tarmac to get to the doors. It was now dark and floodlights illuminated the whole area. If the guard turned, he’d spot them.
He tapped Javed on the shoulder, made a circling motion and set off along the wall of the warehouse. At the rear there was a small strip of land and beyond that a fence which marked the edge of RAF Wittering. The runway was lit up and a series of lights dotted off into the darkness. A large jet waited on an apron of concrete, a door near the cabin open and a set of steps in place. A glow shone from a cargo hatch and a fuel bowser stood near the aircraft.
Holm turned to the building. There was a set of double doors, a mirror to the ones at the front. He moved across. There was a standard-sized door set into one and he was surprised to find it was unlocked. He eased the door open and stepped into the dark of the warehouse.
‘Fuck.’ Holm smashed his ankle on something low down. ‘We should have brought a torch.’
‘Here.’ Javed’s face lit up in the glow from his phone. A bright light on the back blinked on and Javed moved the phone to illuminate the area in front of them. Dozens of lengths of scaffolding lay in a metal rack; it was the corner of the rack that had connected with Holm’s ankle.
Holm bent and rubbed his foot and moved forward. The cavernous space appeared almost empty, but in the centre was the container on its trailer.
‘There,’ Holm said. The rear doors were closed, but there was no seal. ‘Let’s open it up.’
Holm winced at the noise as Javed shifted an empty pallet box over to the container. Holm clambered up on top of the box and worked at the handle. Metal squeaked on metal as the rods top and bottom sprung from their holes and Javed helped Holm pull the door open. Inside were a number of wooden crates, each labelled with the words ‘Genuine Volvo Penta Marine Parts’.
‘These are similar to the ones we saw in Naples,’ Javed said. He began to undo the metal ties holding one of the crates closed and then lifted the lid. ‘Looks legit to me.’
‘Right.’ Holm moved his attention to the rear of the container where there was something odd about the back wall. He tapped the metal and glanced down the side to the open doors. ‘Too short,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘The inside of the container. There’s something beyond this.’ He tapped the metal again. ‘With these boxes loaded you wouldn’t notice if you glanced in from the rear.’
‘But anyone taking their time would realise.’
‘Yes, but remember this container never left UK jurisdiction. If it was ever checked the inspection would be cursory at best.’ Holm moved to one side where the seam of a weld looked rough and badly made. He grasped at a couple of bolt heads. ‘Here, help me.’
Javed came across. He flashed the light of his phone at the corner, placed it on a crate, and moved to lend a hand. By gripping the bolt heads they were able to lift a section of the wall. Something clicked and the wall swung open on invisible hinges. Behind was a small compartment the width of the container and a pace deep.
‘They’re not here.’ Holm looked round, trying to conjure something from the bare metal. ‘The men. They should have transferred over from the container Kowlowski loaded onto the boat.’
‘I told you, boss. They got off somewhere in mainland Europe, or else they switched to another container. Some kind of trick.’ Javed picked up his phone and shone it round. ‘You know we could work in here. It’s not much smaller than our office.’
Holm wasn’t listening. He’d fucked up. Latif was home free. Somewhere in the UK. Before long he’d begin to prepare for the next attack. People would die and it was all Holm’s fault. Stephen Holm, no longer a name that would be associated with the capture of Taher, but rather one that would go down in the training manuals under the heading of how not to do it.
‘A trick. Right.’ Holm tapped the side of the container. ‘Damn.’
He bit his lip. Something didn’t make sense. If this was a clever ploy then what exactly was the container doing here empty? It could simply have been left at the SeaPak depot at Felixstowe or even outside the warehouse with the other containers. Why bring it inside?
‘Take a couple of pictures,’ Holm said, backing out to allow Javed more space. He moved past the crates and clambered down from the container. A glow now came from the door they’d come through and there was the noise of a vehicle heading their way. He walked across the warehouse, careful to avoid smashing his ankle again, and approached the door. He edged closer and peered out.
* * *
The ceremony had only lasted fifteen minutes. There had been a speech from the stage, a folding and exchanging of flags, and the cutting of a ribbon which had been stretched across the aircraft’s cargo doors. As soon as it was over the dignitaries disappeared onto the air base, presumably to a reception of some kind. A group of soldiers dismantled the stage and rolled up the red carpet. The forklifts began to load the pallets onto the plane, an air maintenance crew appeared and a fuel bowser was brought alongside. Loading and preparing the aircraft seemed to take forever, but eventually the last pallet was hoisted up and disappeared inside the cargo hold.
By then dusk had fallen and the plane stood in darkness, only the lights from its cockpit bright against the flat grey of the airfield.
‘That’s that, then,’ Itchy said. ‘Whatever’s going on here is totally legit. Your mother might not have liked the fact the Hopes were selling arms to the Saudis, but there’s nothing illegal about it.’
He began to rise from the undergrowth, convinced their surveillance operation was over.
‘We wait,’ Silva said. ‘For the plane to take off.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Silvi, how do we even know it’s going to leave tonight?’
‘The cockpit light is still on. If the crew were going to go to stay over they’d have shut the plane down.’ Silva turned to Itchy. ‘Look, we might as well see this through. When the plane’s gone we can scarper. Tomorrow I’ll meet up with Sean in Cambridge and try to find out what this is all about.’
Itchy sighed and lowered himself down.
Half an hour later it was fully dark. Lights on the runway stretched into the distance while over on the base arc lamps lit up the roads and buildings. The plane was but a shadow.
‘There,’ Silva said. A couple of ground crew had appeared. They were walking beneath the plane, making a visual inspection. Chocks were removed from the wheels.
‘They’re off,’ Itchy said.
‘Not with the side cargo door still open they’re not.’
Just aft of the flight deck a whole section of the fuselage had been hinged up so the crates of equipment could be loaded. Earlier a high-reach forklift had raised the crates to the door; they’d been manoeuvred inside and slid into the depths of the plane one after another. Now there seemed to be a last-minute alteration to the cargo manifest because the forklift was back. It approached the aircraft and picked up a pallet from inside. Down the pallet came and the forklift wheeled round and headed for the industrial estate which bordered the airfield. There was somebody down there waving a torch near where a set of gates stood open. The forklift crossed a taxiway and went through the gates and into a large warehouse. Within a few seconds it was back out again without the pallet. The figure with the torch swung the gates closed and the forklift drove back towards the main airport buildings.
‘Bloody hell,’ Itchy said.
‘Yes, bloody hell.’
> Silva could feel her heart beating fast. All the build-up, the ceremony, the preparation of the aircraft, the loading of the cargo, the long wait, had taken several hours. In less than a couple of minutes the forklift had pulled a pallet of weapons from the plane, deposited it in the warehouse, and whizzed off. If anyone was watching then they’d either been paid off or been given an excuse as to why a single pallet had to be unloaded. Perhaps it was too heavy, perhaps it was the wrong pallet, perhaps the cargo was damaged and was too dangerous to transit.
Now the jet was preparing to leave. The cargo hatch was shut and the engines started and throttled up. The aircraft taxied round, paused for a minute at the end of the runway, and then was accelerating away and lifting off, the lights on the wingtips flashing as it roared into the distance.
‘Glass the warehouse.’ Itchy motioned at Silva’s binoculars. ‘Fifty metres to the left at the intersection of the fence and the cornfield.’
Silva raised the binoculars. That part of the airfield was unlit but there was enough ambient light so she could trace the line of the fence until it reached the field.
‘Do you see them?’
She did. Two figures hunched down in a hedgerow watching the proceedings just as Silva and Itchy were. She zoomed the binos. A solitary lamp at the corner of the fence cast a pale glow illuminating the two men. One with a youthful face, jet-black hair, brown skin, the other with much older features, balding and white.
* * *
Holm had grabbed Javed and they’d legged it back to the fence as the forklift zoomed towards the building. No sooner had it disappeared inside than it was out again, sans pallet. The guard they’d seen round the front swung the gates to the airfield shut, and closed and locked the warehouse doors. They crouched behind some shrubs until the guard drove off in a small white van and then they climbed the fence and hid in the dense maize. After they’d watched the aircraft take off, Holm pushed up from the ground, brushing mud from his trousers.