Shadow Line

by Stephen Edger

  ‘Someone on board the plane that night is a friend of one of my officers, and she told him that the pilot hijacked the aircraft and attempted to crash it. She also told him that all the passengers were interviewed by unidentified men in suits once they were away from the plane. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’

  ‘Me? No. Why would I know anything about it?’

  ‘The witness described the interviewers as ‘spook-like’. I just wondered what the Security Services might have been doing at the airport on Thursday night. Were you in Southampton at the time?’

  Smart laughed out loud.

  ‘My team and I were on a surveillance operation in Brixton until Sunday night. We would probably still be on it if we hadn’t been ordered to come down here and babysit your bomb suspect.’

  ‘Still, I suppose there are other teams working for your branch of the civil service who could have been here?’

  ‘There are various operatives that work for Her Majesty’s government, Jack, some here in the UK, some abroad. You can’t expect that I can know the whereabouts of each and every one of them. Is it possible that the men at the airport, that supposedly interviewed the passengers on that flight, were Security Services? Yes. Is it likely? No. Bear in mind, Jack, the flight went down around six o’clock. That’s rush hour. It would have taken a team of agents at least two hours to have made it out of London and down to Southampton, if not longer, given that the M27 was closed off following the crash. Besides, a standard plane crash is not something we would get involved with, unless we believed it posed a terrorist threat to this country, and there was no reason to suspect that this crash did. I’m sorry, but I think your theory is a bit far-fetched. These men in suits could just as easily have been airport personnel, or even AAIB investigators.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s worth pursuing then?’

  ‘Are you kidding? You want to go public and accuse the AAIB of doctoring their report to cover up the truth, based on the ramblings of a passenger? They’ll have you in a strait jacket before you hang up the phone, Jack.’

  He knew she was right; he was still questioning Nina’s motive for coming forward.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ she continued. ‘You know witness testimony is pretty shaky when they’ve suffered a shock or trauma. This woman was on board the plane when it crashed; she must have thought she was going to die. Can her version of events really be trusted? Did she really see men in suits at the airport? Did she really witness the pilot trying to hijack the plane? I mean, if any of it is true, why hasn’t anybody else come forward to report it? There were eighty-something passengers on that flight, yet only she saw what happened? It’s hardly conclusive, Jack.’

  He eyed Smart suspiciously. Although he knew she was probably right, there was something about the AAIB report that just didn’t ring true. He nodded his understanding at her and decided he just wouldn’t share any further findings on it; at least not until he had stronger evidence.

  ‘When are you next interviewing our bomber?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s under constant surveillance, I can assure you, Jack. We aren’t quite as restricted in our handling of terror suspects as you are, if you know what I mean?’ She winked as she said this. ‘We have him in a locked room and wake him every couple of hours to ask questions.’

  ‘That’s inhumane!’

  ‘No it isn’t. He gets fed and watered regularly, but it is important we break the subject as soon as possible. Sleep deprivation is just one way to achieve this.’

  ‘I want to see him!’ Vincent demanded, although he knew he had no right to.

  ‘To what end? What do you hope to gain?’

  ‘You said you think he has links to other cells, right? Well it would be useful intelligence for us down here to know what cells are in operation. I’m sure we probably have a handle on some already, but there’s no harm in understanding the bigger picture.’

  ‘Alright,’ she said suddenly as if an idea had just dawned. ‘Out of courtesy, I’ll take you to him if you want. You won’t be able to speak to him but you can observe the next round of interviews.’

  He was surprised by how readily she had agreed to the request having expected a bureaucratic response including the words ‘national security’.

  ‘Go and wait for me downstairs, will you? I’ll need to phone ahead and advise you are coming. My car is in the underground car park but I’ll ask the valet to bring it around to the front. I’ll see you in reception in ten minutes.’

  Vincent left the room.

  23

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Smart said into her mobile phone. ‘I’m bringing him to you. On a plate.’

  The man on the other end of the line couldn’t hide his anger as he barked his displeasure at this most recent piece of news.

  It had been five minutes since she had ushered Vincent out of the room. She had watched him leave, and had even checked that he hadn’t doubled-back to potentially eavesdrop on her private call.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave London on Monday morning as she found life outside of the capital too slow for her liking. She had spent too many years abroad to relax. She was considered a real asset to her bosses, and at only thirty years old, she was the youngest team leader in her department; but she was good and her temperament just seemed to demand respect and fear, which is how she had risen so quickly in the division.

  Lauren Smart had been a precocious teenager, and having left school at sixteen to pursue what would turn out to be a short spell in the armed forces, her appetite for war had ultimately shaped her non-military career choice. She had passed her initial army training with flying colours and was being lined up for a glittering career when she was shipped out to Kuwait to help maintain peace. A friendly mortar shell had struck her jeep on the way back from a routine intelligence gathering mission, leaving her two comrades dead, and her with a collapsed lung and fractured collarbone. She had spent nearly twelve months recovering with several breakdowns during her rehabilitation. By the time she was passed fit enough to resume duty, there were just too many who thought she would struggle to undertake her previous frontline actions. In truth, she knew they were right and, although she had managed to overcome the physical impact of the mortar shell, she was still recovering from the psychological damage caused. Her self-confidence dropped and she began to doubt her own abilities. Not wishing to see a promising soldier leave the forces, her commander recommended her for a desk job. He promised she would still have the opportunities for promotion up the chain, but that it would likely come at a steadier pace.

  She accepted the opportunity but was bored within two months. Clearly she had an aptitude for intelligence gathering, and being stuck behind a desk was getting to her. She had known other former soldiers who had crossed over to the civil service and phoned one of them to discuss its recruitment policy. Her application was fast-tracked through the system by the same individual who had since become her supervisor. She had scored highly on the numerical and verbal reasoning tests and showed the key characteristics looked for in a strong agent: questioning, attention to detail, and cool under pressure.

  That had been six years ago, and she had since more than demonstrated her skill and ability on numerous counter-terrorism operations; there were even some mooting she was ready for the next step up, and though she agreed, she was keen to play her cards close to her chest and would wait for the call.

  ‘Listen,’ she said to the barking voice. ‘You want him out of the way, don’t you? I am giving you the chance to achieve that, and all it will take is a couple of phone calls from your end.’

  ‘Okay,’ the voice sighed. ‘I’m listening.’

  She then proceeded to explain her plan to the man whom she trusted as far as she could throw him but whom she desperately needed to trust her.

  ‘You sick bitch!’ the voice concluded when she finished explaining.

  She laughed at what she deemed a compliment.

  ‘He is a d
inosaur,’ she said. ‘You should have seen him up here; he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I’m sure he was picturing us fucking up against the wall while I was speaking, as if I would ever sink to his depths. It was hard not to laugh when he was squirming.’

  ‘Are you trying to make me jealous?’ the voice asked calmly.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be jealous of,’ she teased. ‘Not after last night’s performance.’

  ‘You gave as well as you got.’

  ‘Will I see you tonight?’ she asked, trying to sound just the right side of desperate.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I am back in London now. I will see you on Monday at the club.’

  She confirmed that she would be at the safe house within an hour and then hung up. Picking up her coat and bag, she practically skipped out of the room and down towards the elevator.

  *

  The mobile phone on the edge of the old oak table vibrated violently.

  ‘Yeah?’ Ray grunted into the mouthpiece. ‘I was wondering when we might hear from you.’

  He listened intently to the familiar voice as it gave him instructions. He had no idea if he was speaking to a man or a woman, the computer software doing a good job of disguising gender as well as tone. Two minutes later he dropped the phone back on the table and turned to the four other men he had been shacked up with since they had burgled the depot the previous afternoon. The farmhouse was on Hayling Island, linked to the main land by just a road bridge that tended to disappear at high tide.

  He had first been approached about the job a month earlier. The phone call had come out of the blue, and at first he had assumed it was some kind of police honey-trap: hold-up the Segensworth Securitas cash depository for a forty percent share of the loot. Forty percent had not sounded a lot, but when the voice had explained that he would be provided with all the necessary props and intelligence to get in and out without being caught, and would be given free pass to a foreign country of his choosing to live out his retirement with his share of the forty million pound fortune, he had reconsidered. His bone of contention had been that forty percent was not a high enough stake for the level of risk involved, but the voice had been quite convincing and, in fairness, the level of planning and pay-offs required to get away with it probably did earn ‘The Organiser’ a sixty percent share. Ray had given the voice that nickname; it had seemed only natural to call it something when he referred to it in front of the rest of the crew. Referring to it as ‘the voice’ made him sound uncertain of who he was dealing with, and even though he was, he needed the team to believe he was in control.

  ‘That was The Organiser,’ Ray said aloud. ‘It’s time for us to move.’

  ‘Where we going?’ Danny asked, eager for some fresh air.

  ‘We’re going to the ferry port first thing tomorrow morning. There is a boat to Caen at six for me and Alex and the rest of you will board at ten.’

  ‘Why the different crossings?’ Robbie asked.

  At eighteen, Robbie was the youngest of the crew and this was his first major job. He had spent some time in a young offender’s institute for petty stuff, which was where he had first met Danny.

  ‘Mine and Alex’s mugs are all over the press, aren’t they? The Organiser has paid off the right people for the six a.m. crossing so we can pass unnoticed. Don’t forget, they are looking for a group of five men. If we go separate, we have a better chance of not being recognised. Get it?’

  Robbie wasn’t sure but nodded anyway.

  ‘What if someone recognises us once we’re on?’ Alex asked.

  ‘We’ve got a cabin on board,’ Ray replied quickly, eager to retain control. ‘We board the boat, hide out in the cabin for a few hours, wait till most people have reached their cars and then we drive off with nobody the wiser.’

  This seemed to pacify Alex.

  ‘And what happens to the loot?’ Danny asked.

  ‘We leave it here. The Organiser will send a cleaning crew in first thing to collect it.’

  ‘You what?’ interrupted Danny. ‘We leave it here? When do we get our cut?’

  ‘The Organiser has created a Swiss bank account in each of our new names. Our fee has already been paid into the accounts, he tells me. Once we reach our destination, you can go online and transfer the cash to a new account in whichever country you’ve chosen to live in.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Ray. How can we trust this person? We don’t even know who he is.’

  Although Ray couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female, he was happy for the crew to think ‘The Organiser’ was male.

  ‘Everything has gone to plan so far, hasn’t it?’ Ray countered. ‘He’s already given us enough funds to get to where we need to go and all the necessary identification documents. We can trust him.’

  The look on Danny’s face made it obvious he didn’t agree but he knew not to keep badgering Ray. They had argued once before and it had been several weeks before Danny’s broken nose had healed on that occasion.

  ‘Pack your things, boys,’ he continued. ‘We leave at dawn.’

  Ray turned his back on the group, picked up the packet of Marlboro Reds and headed to the back door. The farmhouse was in the middle of a field with hedges marking the perimeter. He imagined whoever owned the property tended to rent it out to holidaying families. It amused Ray that the owner probably had no clue about who was renting it this week.

  He still couldn’t quite believe how smoothly the job had gone. Everything The Organiser had said had come true. The passwords, the identification documents, even the van’s false plates had all worked well. They had jumped into the van and headed for the car park of the DIY store just five minutes down the road. Once there, they had quickly replaced their jumpers with those that they had left with the getaway vehicles. It had been a brilliant idea: escape in the guise of police officers. The navy blue Securitas uniforms were identical to the uniforms worn by serving constables in all bar the jumpers. A quick change and switch from a helmet to the dark flat cap and the transition was complete.

  They had left the car park in the two mocked up patrol cars that had been waiting for them and had driven away down to Hayling Island; about a thirty minute journey. They had parked the cars in a barn near the house but there they would stay until long after they had caught their ferry.

  Ray put a cigarette between his lips as he stepped out into the cool, crisp air. He knew he would miss several things about living in the UK, but one of them wasn’t the weather. He had always imagined he was destined to live in warmer tropics and now the dream was within touching distance. He coughed slightly as he dragged on the cigarette. The door opened behind him and Danny stepped outside.

  ‘Great,’ Ray thought to himself.

  He despised Danny deeply, but in fairness to the lad, nothing fazed him and it wasn’t a bad thing to have someone in the crew willing to do things others might not. But Danny just moaned about stuff all the time; he never seemed happy, and it was Ray that had to listen to it. All he wanted right now was to enjoy his cigarette in peace, but he knew that Danny wouldn’t have come outside unless he had something to say. He decided to remain silent until the inevitable question rose. He didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘So you trust The Organiser, right?’

  Ray took a drag on the cigarette before saying, ‘Yes I do, Danny. I’ve told you before, he’ll look after us.'

  ‘Thing is,’ Danny continued, ‘I’m not sure I trust him. I mean, it must have struck you as strange, that we’ve never met him, or seen him?’

  ‘It’s the modern way, Danny. The internet and mobile phones have made communication easier. I guess he’s just paranoid or too busy to meet us. I must have spoken to him a dozen or so times and I have no reason to question him.’

  ‘But leaving the loot here while we head off for a ferry patrolled by customs officials and coppers? I just have a really bad feeling about it, that’s all.’

  Ray stomped the cigarette out on the floor with his foot.

&
nbsp; ‘And what would you have us do, Danny? Take the money with us? That’ll be easy to explain to customs won’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Ray. What I was going to suggest is we hide it somewhere, then when we are safely abroad and we’ve got our share, we reveal where it is.’

  Ray shook his head in dismay.

  ‘We’re not twelve years old in a playground, Danny. These are serious fucking people we’re talking about here. We can’t fuck around with them. If the loot isn’t here when the cleaning crew turn up then questions will be asked and there’s every chance we won’t get paid.’

  ‘So you think it’s better to hand it over and take the chance?’ Danny argued back. ‘That’s mental!’

  Ray hadn’t shared the rest of The Organiser’s message with the group, but it had been made crystal clear that any messing with the plan or decision to take any of the cash with them as a bonus would end with their deaths. The Organiser had told him they had contacts across the globe and would have no difficulty executing them if he was crossed. The truth was that Ray shared Danny’s misgivings, but the way The Organiser had spoken scared him.

  ‘You trust me, don’t you, Danny?’

  The younger man nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Good,’ he continued. ‘Trust me, then, when I say it will all be okay. Now let’s go pack our stuff up ready for the morning. There’s a few bottles of Jack Daniels in there that we didn’t manage to drink last night, and I’m determined not to repeat that mistake tonight.’

  Danny smiled and the two men walked back into the farmhouse.

  24

  Vincent glanced at the large clock on the wall behind the café bar. It had now been fifteen minutes since Agent Smart had ushered him from the room. He had been waiting by the bar since exiting the elevator as he had thought she would follow him down shortly afterwards. He assumed she was probably busy fussing over her make-up, although, as this morning’s welcome had demonstrated, she wasn’t the type to overly worry about her appearance.