Shades of Loyalty

by Paul Stretton-Stephens

  Marti pulled up a small box and sat at the makeshift table. “Tell me all about it then?”

  Jed distributed the food.

  “Chicken jalfrezi with pilau rice, and a king prawn bhoona with rice. Shall we have half each? You okay with that?”

  “Yeah, sure. And this? Is this the naan bread?”

  “Yes, take yours. I’ll get mine later.”

  “You haven’t said anything yet. Come on, tell me. I’ve been cooped up in here all day. I need to hear something from a fellow human being.”

  “You’re so impatient sometimes. The good news is that we’re all set.”

  Jed stopped to continue eating.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, that video from the fly-on-the-wall camera. You know, those micro drones are brilliant, they are. The footage we got of our man and his bit on the side is priceless. It will destroy him.”

  “I saw it coming in. It’s not the bit on the side that’ll destroy him, it’s the fact that she’s dead, and it looks like he’s done it.”

  “Marti, how’s it going with Detective Inspector Small and his family issue in sunny Yorkshire? Is his eye well and truly off the ball yet?”

  “Oh yeah, a fine piece of work, even if I do say so myself. His good little boy has been found in possession of Class A drugs in full view of college in the main corridor. There were so many people around at the time, it can’t possibly be hushed up.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Wait for it. The best part is that the kid is in a York City custody suite and Daddy’s frantically trying to get him out. He’s so busy that he’s passed all of his ongoing cases to his next in line. She’s some overworked tart on secondment from the Met. It looks as though she hasn’t got a clue or the time to get a clue. So, we’re good there.”

  “What about the train?”

  “Mmm, nothing going on there really. They’ve stopped all future departures, and our man is still there every weekend, looking after his beloved steam locomotive. Why didn’t you go for the engine? Are you going soft or something?”

  “Soft? Nah, maybe a little nostalgic. He was a good commanding officer back in the day. He deserved to be rattled, not roasted.”

  “How do you know he was rattled?”

  “He’s still got clearance. He’ll know what was used and how, and he’ll be rattled, alright. Mind you, he might not know why and that’ll give him some sleepless nights.”

  “What are we going to about Dr Dean?” Marti asked. “Are you sure he knows that the package was for him? But apart from feeling sorry for the secretary, it seems that nothing much is affecting him. He’s carrying on as normal.”

  “I think that we’ll have to arrange another visit to Dr Dean. We’ll need to plan that one out more carefully.”

  “And what about our lovely donation from those bastards at Orenid?”

  Marti paused before answering; he knew that his response wouldn’t sit well.

  “It’s tricky, Jed. We need to make sure that the paper trail doesn’t lead to us. It’s going to take some time. There are limits on transfers, and if we go over at any time, it sets off an alert. If we do them too often, they also set off an alert. So, little by little, it will get done.”

  Jed fixed his gaze on Marti.

  “Then we need to prioritise more. Anyone in more need gets the donation first. It’s only right. Can you tap into the charities to see who has made applications for funding?”

  “Yes, I can go in and have a look. How about those who are too proud to ask but are still in need? What about them? How do we get to them?”

  Jed swigged his beer down.

  “Access the records of those discharged and find out their medical status on discharge. Then compare them against the charity applications. That should just leave the rich Ruperts, and most of them can fend for themselves. If there’s any left, we can share the love.”

  “So, what’s next, Jed?”

  “Let’s think about Dr Dean, our illustrious military psychiatrist. How can we cause him pain? What are his weak points? Where can we inflict the most suffering on that bastard? I’ll teach him to meddle in military affairs.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Jed, we know. But what shall we do with him?”

  “He’s single, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  What does he do in his spare time? Where does he go? What does he spend his money on? Who does he spend it on? I want to know everything.”

  It was 23:00 hours, and Jed was putting on his jacket to go out.

  Marti was sat at a computer.

  “Right, I’m on it, Jed. I’ll let you know when I have something.” Marti looked up. “Where are you going?”

  With one hand on the open door, Jed replied, “I need to prepare some more kit for the next phase. Our decision-maker extraordinaire needs something special. He needs to experience something bloody awful and something that’s very public. He is going to hurt so much when we’ve finished with him. That bastard signed away the lives of so many with the stroke of his pen, and I’m going to top him. I’m going to top him for all of the boys and girls that he’s shit on. And I’m going to love every minute.” He started to walk through the door but popped his head back round. “I might even get you to video it, and we can distribute it, or put it on YouTube or something.”

  He closed the door behind him, and Marti listened to his footsteps getting more distant.

  Marti sat at his central computer and started accessing the vetting databases for information on Dr Dean. It wasn’t long before he reached the doctor’s vetting forms and interview transcripts. He read that both the doctor’s parents were dead, he’d never been married and, for the last ten years, had had an on-off relationship with an American professor from the University of Maryland Psychology Faculty, USA. The woman’s name was Professor Jean Beck. He played golf twice a week and enjoyed the theatre and opera. He lived in a luxury apartment and employed a woman to clean and shop for him three times a week. The rest of the time he worked and this involved assessing servicemen and ex-servicemen for PTSD.

  ***

  Jed arrived at the closed black-door entrance to the Club Paradiso, a seedy establishment on the Tottenham Court side of Soho. He rang the bell, and a head height slide opened to one side. A pair of green eyes set in an olive-skinned face looked him up and down.

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell Jacobo that J is here. He’ll know who I am.”

  Jed knew that it would take a little while, so he perched on the low wall of the pathway leading to the entrance. As the black cabs passed, he was relaxed, confident in his ability, his current activity and its purpose. He could hear the echo of thumping music from the basement on the other side of the black door. The music wasn’t to his taste, but it didn’t bother him. The door opened, and a hand beckoned him inside. The guard motioned for Jed to lift his arms to be searched. He found the holster and removed the Glock. He also swept his body with an electronic countermeasures scanner for devices.

  “What else do you have?” asked the guard. “There’s always something else.”

  Jed placed his foot on the first stair of an ascending staircase, lifted his trouser bottom and produced a small calibre pistol. He handed it to the olive-skinned man.

  “Don’t you have a knife?”

  Jed produced a short-handled combat knife from his waistband and tossed it over.

  “That’s better. He’s down below, the second door on the right. You’ve got twenty minutes. Oh, and J, I’ll need your mobile.”

  Jed reached into his pocket, ensured that his phone was locked, and reluctantly handed it over.

  Multicoloured lights swirled across the dimly-lit vinyl-covered walls of the stairway. The tread on the stair carpet was almost as bald as the guard at the door, and the sound of the grunge-type music blaring out drowned out everything around. Jed turned right, entering a shabby room without knocking. The awkwardly placed shade on the lampstand in the far-right corner was crimson
with a floral border. It was at odds with its otherwise bleak surroundings. The two sturdy black leather chairs and teak table positioned in the centre were also incompatible with a white garden chair and a bar stool.

  A voice sprung from one of the chairs. “Hey, what the hell! Don’t you knock? Hasn’t anyone got manners anymore? Shut the door and keep out that godawful noise! We’re soundproofed in here. It has its benefits, if you know what I mean?”

  Jacobo was a stocky, slightly overweight Latino whose command of the English language was average. He wore a vest and shoulder holster, allowing visitors a view of his sleeve tattoos on both arms and his pearl-handled Smith & Wesson. The ripped jeans and Nike trainers seemed out of place on a middle-aged man.

  Sitting quietly in the other chair was an older Latino. He was smartly dressed, wearing light slacks, a dark open-necked shirt and a beige jacket, along with some fancy, shiny, laced shoes. He appeared relaxed and attentive yet remained silent.

  “You knew that I was coming,” said Jed. “Your man told you that. Why should I knock when I know that you’re already waiting for me? Let’s cut the chat, there’s no time for it. You want two brand new Light Anti-Tank Weapons, and I have them, so let’s make a deal.”

  The two Latinos glanced at each other.

  “I like that — a man who’s straight to the point. I assume that the Light Anti-Tank Weapons are brand new and the real deal, not some inferior trial version?”

  Jed nodded affirmatively.

  “Then we need to discuss the price. What do you want for them?”

  “Oh, I don’t want your money. I want to use some of your resources.”

  “Interesting proposition, my friend, but that will depend on the resources you need. They’re not cheap, you know.”

  Jed sat down in the white plastic chair and proceeded to outline his proposal.

  Chapter 11 - The Visitations

  Jago was cruising on his Stealth Hawk motorcycle. He loved the freedom and flexibility a bike afforded him. It was twilight, and the low light reflected on the wet road surface after a recent shower of rain. He glanced briefly at his GPS as he was nearing his target location. He turned off the main road onto Tamworth Road and then right into Frith Road, cursing the GPS as it didn’t register the fact that it wasn’t a junction. It had two yellow bollards barring entry which Jago duly ignored and rode through with ease. Reaching his destination, a single drive entry point in between two rows of terraced houses, Jago rode a little way past the junction and stopped in front of a terraced house. He dismounted and casually walked towards the driveway, halting for a moment. He scanned the property at the end of the drive. It was an ordinary, slightly run-down industrial unit with a blue skip full of rubbish outside. He also noticed that some broken wooden pallets were strewn across the small car park and a cheap single CCTV camera focused on the poorly-illuminated driveway gate.

  Jago turned and decided to remount his bike to continue around the block, searching for a better vantage or access point. A few hundred metres ahead, he came upon a yard with a single-storey building set back from the road. The typical 1970s concrete structure had a fire escape to its right. Jago parked his bike, waited for a moment and vaulted the low, locked gate. He climbed the metal fire escape and, on reaching the top, looked over the target property. Jago fitted his eye lens and set two MPDs to search and report mode, launching them into the air. Within seconds, he was receiving information of two access doors plus one shuttered bay area. The lights were on in two rooms upstairs on the east side, and two vehicles were stationary on the far side of the building, out of Jago’s immediate line of sight. A white Mercedes contained one male, possibly an Arab, who appeared to be reading a newspaper. Jago directed the MPD to a position whereby he could record the registration plates of both vehicles, then called Abi.

  “Abi, I’m sending you some images of two plates and one IC6 Arab male. See what you can find out. I’ll wait until I hear from you.”

  Abi entered the data and retrieved the plate details in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, the facial recognition system busied itself trawling for the identity of the IC6 male. The image presented wasn’t a perfect angle, nor was it captured in the best light conditions, so it was possible that some variations could be created.

  “Boss, the Merc is registered to a company based in Fratton in Portsmouth. Its name is Amir Holdings Limited. I’m just searching the registered activity, here it comes. They’re an import-export company of giftware. Directors are Ahmed and Aziza Fawzi; they are brothers. No records found in any database. They appear legit.”

  “Okay, what about the driver?”

  “I have three partials, I need a better image really, but with the partials, I have one possible associated with the Portsmouth area. He’s an Abdi Hamdi, aged forty-two. He’s a former wheelman and thug for a London-based group of smugglers. He served five years for GBH on a police officer. Seems that he disarmed a firearms officer during a raid on a warehouse and knocked him senseless. It took three people to restrain him.”

  “Okay, I have that. And the other car?”

  “The good news is that the blue Renault belongs to our man Rafa. I guess Rafa has his own goons, so take it easy on them, Boss.”

  Jago attached the silencer to his Sig Sauer P239.

  “Will do, Abi. Is everything okay at The Ranch? Any more developments?”

  “All good here, no developments so far.”

  “Right, I’m off.”

  Jago directed the MPDs towards the edges of the windows to peek through the little slither of light where the louvre blinds didn’t quite meet the side of the windows. All he could see was the shoulder and back of a head of a seated man and a bottle of whisky on a table. The other MPD swung around the building where one blind was only half closed. From this position, Jago could see that Rafa was stood facing a seated Arab, and near the door stood a suited Arabic man with his arms crossed. Jago expected a fourth person, someone on Rafa’s side. He shifted the MPDs back and forth and came upon a tall male leaving what appeared to be the bathroom. He joined the others, and they all seemed to be getting along well. Jago retrieved his MPDs and waited until darkness fell. He sat on the stairway, listening to the reduction in traffic noise. A couple of dogs barked intermittently and not necessarily at each other. Families in nearby houses arrived home from work, and he could hear cooking preparation, voices and music in the surrounding neighbourhood. He found it somewhat calming, yet strange, to be so still in a city while all around him so-called normal life continued. He often thought how normal people would react to some of the stuff that he had to deal with. Would they be more fearful that these things happened in the background of their lives, or would they be all for meeting it head on and supportive of his role?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an engine. He looked over to the far side of the building from where the sound came. There were beams from headlights. Someone was getting ready to go. The white Mercedes slowly emerged, parking by the main entrance, and a shadowy figure alighted. He opened the passenger door, illuminating the interior for a few moments. The passenger came into view and entered the rear of the car which then exited the yard and out of sight down the driveway into the ever-diminishing traffic.

  It was time. Jago scaled the wall and leapt over to the other side where he deftly climbed the single-storey building, using the window frames and protruding brick structure for hand and footholds. He was nimble and alert. Once on the roof, he walked carefully around the edge. Partly so that he could see if anyone emerged but also because it should be an area that was more structurally sound.

  Jago launched the three MPDs in protection mode. They immediately covered him on three sides, continually scanning for threats. He checked his lens, adjusting his eyes, and descended as soon as they were in position, moving to the ground beside the doorway. He repositioned an MPD aloft to check where Rafa and his friend were. They were sat at a table drinking. Jago slowly opened the door under the cover of a dog
barking. He’d got halfway up the stairs when the dog had finished. Jago waited to see if the dog would start up again. There was no noise so he decided to ascend the stairway. He reached the door at the top of the stairs, with his Sig Sauer at the ready, and entered the room. The two startled men reached for their weapons.

  “Now, now, you don’t want to be doing that. Leave them alone and put your hands on the table. I only want to talk.”

  The two men complied and placed their palms flat on the table. Jago pointed his pistol at Rafa.

  “Rafa, move your chair further under the table. Use both hands. Do it slowly.”

  Rafa reluctantly complied.

  “Now, toss me your gun using one hand only.”

  Rafa moved slowly, released his pistol from its holster and tossed it onto the table. Jago stepped forward, picked it up and stuffed it into his waistband.

  “You,” Jago indicated to the other man. “You do the same, chair under the table first and then the pistol.”

  The man did as he was told.

  Jago collected his pistol and also placed it into his waistband.

  “Rafa, keep your hands on the table, and you, sit on your hands and don’t move.”

  As soon as they were both where Jago wanted them, he pulled up a chair and placed the back against the table. He sat astride the chair, looking deeply in Rafa’s eyes.

  “I want to know why you’ve been buying explosives?”

  “I haven’t—”

  “Tut, tut. Now, don’t lie to me from the outset, as I’m likely to get hacked off. We both know that you have. I just want to know what for.”

  “You’re not a cop, are you? And you’re not going to arrest me, because you can’t,” replied Rafa cockily.

  “No, you’re right, I’m not going to arrest you. I’m not going to do anything with you, just yet. But I will shoot your friend here if you don’t stop wasting my time.”

  The man who was sitting on his hands started to fidget.

  “No, don’t even think of moving. Stay put.”