by Angus McLean
The friend, another well-connected girl from old money, had promptly offered to cover for her and the plan was in motion. A reservation in a Cotswolds B&B had been booked and paid for on one of Melinda’s credit cards, and a night full of promise awaited the star struck lovers.
Problem was, Melinda’s cell phone was last polling on the way up the M40 heading north before suddenly dropping off the net. It was likely that she and Imran were heading to Birmingham where his family was known to have contacts.
Whether Melinda was consenting to that or not was a different story. Given a choice between a cosy B&B in Cirencester and a night in Birmingham, Sarah knew what she would have chosen. Sure, Birmingham had its own appeal, but it was just so, well, Brummy.
Enough alarm bells were ringing for the boss to authorise not only overtime but extra staff from other offices, and the last twenty four hours had been manic. Sarah didn’t remember when she had last eaten anything other than a Mars bar or a peppermint from the stash in her drawer.
The only other person she’d seen in the last hour was Kevin, a night shift security guard doing his rounds. He’d stopped to chat but left quickly when he got the cold shoulder. Ever since she found out he got caught twanging his wanger over a girly mag at work a few months back, she’d found it impossible to talk to him. The fact he still had the guts to keep working there was incredible.
The bosses were aware of the intel from the Kiwis and Aussies and a smidgen of what the Americans had, and it all added up to a huge pile of trouble. Not only that, but the ears at GCHQ had picked up reference in the electronic chatter to a “spectacular.”
In intelligence terms a spectacular was anything but, and generally meant a large number of innocent deaths in a high-profile attack. The 9/11 attacks were a classic, with the 7/7 bombings closer to home.
Sarah sighed and rubbed her temples. Her eyes hurt, her back ached and she needed to pee. Maybe she had a tumour.
A vibrating from her top drawer broke the hum of her computer. She opened the drawer and checked which phone it was – she had four. One personal, one for normal work, one for an agent she had been running – not needed for the next two years as the hopeless bastard got himself nicked in another stolen motor – and one for her contacts.
It was the contacts phone, with a number she didn’t recognise. It began with 30, which she was pretty sure was the country code for Greece. She answered with a simple ‘Hello?’
‘Locky, we need to speak.’
Sarah felt her spirits lift at the sound of Rob’s deep voice. It was like an oasis in a desert of eye strain and headaches.
‘Yes, I’m fine thanks,’ she replied with a smile in her voice. ‘You obviously want something and of course I’ve got nothing better to do.’
She waited for a laugh that didn’t come. Clearly the Kiwi had his serious pants on today. She checked her watch. Quarter past one, which made it just after eleven in Greece.
‘I’m in Crete,’ Moore told her. ‘Things are happening fast but we’ve got some big gaps in our intel. I need some help.’
Sarah leaned forward and grabbed a pen. ‘Go ahead, caller.’
The buzz of his phone brought Pat back to consciousness, and he fumbled in the darkness for it.
Bringing it to his ear with his eyes still closed he cleared his throat and tried to sound compos mentis. ‘Yeah?’
There was a crackle in the line before he heard a vaguely familiar voice. ‘Pat, it’s Rob Moore. Sorry to wake you.’
Pat sat up in his cot, rubbing his face. ‘Oh hey Kiwi, how’s tricks buddy?’
‘Mate, I need some assistance.’
Pat swung his legs over the side of the cot and reached for the light. His watch told him it was midnight. Getting called at this time by a foreign officer was not unusual.
‘First off buddy, how’d you get this number?’
There was a momentary pause before Moore replied.
‘You know how it goes, Pat. The important thing is I’ve got you on the line, and there’s something you will be very interested in.’
Pat stood, scratching his balls as he listened in silence for a full minute. At the end of the minute he licked his lips and hunted round for his pants. It was time to get to work.
‘You’re right,’ he said, pulling his pants up one leg then hopping on the other foot as he struggled to dress himself. ‘I’m interested.’ He checked the screen of his phone. ‘Gotcha number buddy, I’ll call you shortly.’
He disconnected abruptly and jerked the pants up, slipped his feet into flip flops and headed for the door.
It was an hour later before Moore’s phone rang. He jerked upright in the chair and had the phone to his ear before his eyes opened.
He glanced over to where Katie was stretched out on the sofa, her dark hair fanning out over a cushion. She stirred as he spoke.
It was Locky. Moore listened intently for a minute, giving just the occasional uh-huh. When Locky ran out of breath he stood and walked to the window, looking out at the town lights in the velvet darkness.
‘I see,’ he said quietly.
Locky talked some more before he thanked her and disconnected. He turned and saw Katie sitting up, looking at him expectantly. She brushed her hair back from her face. He thought she looked pretty with her hair loose.
‘Tristan’s story isn’t checking out,’ he said. ‘There is no record of him even existing before twenty two years ago, when he was about seventeen – if he’s even using his real date of birth.’
‘How the hell…’ Katie trailed off, still processing the though.
Moore knew what she was getting at.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Apparently he came to New Zealand as a Serbian refugee from Bosnia. His parents were academics, and he was the only surviving child. His two sisters and his grandparents were killed in the war – some good old fashioned ethnic cleansing.’ Moore stood and took a draught of water. It was still warm in the hotel room despite the hour. ‘The village they lived in was accidentally hit by a NATO bomber. The family went to Aussie first then on to New Zealand a couple of years later. The real family name is Stefanovic, but the Dad changed it by deed poll to Stevens. Presumably to be more Westernised.’
Katie listened intently, and he could see she had her cop face on, all business now.
‘They had no papers so got taken at face value like all refugees. Grew up there, went to school, and on to uni. Mum and Dad died in a house fire eighteen years ago, ruled an accident.’
‘Really?’ Katie arched her eyebrows. ‘Not an arson with him bumping off the olds?’
‘Officially ruled an accident. A clothes rack was left too close to a gas heater and the whole place went up. They were the only ones home that night and died in the fire.’
‘Where was Tristan then?’
‘At a meeting with some uni friends.’ Moore’s mouth hardened. ‘A support group for Muslim converts.’
Katie’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus.’
‘All non-Arabs. Mostly white kids.’
‘Let me guess,’ Katie interrupted. ‘They were known as the White Lambs?’
Moore nodded grimly in the darkness.
‘How the hell was this not picked up on earlier? How did he get a job in a Minister’s office?’
‘Equal opportunities, Katie. That all sounds suspicious as hell to us, with what we know now, but he was obviously vetted and cleared.’
She shook her head in amazement. ‘There was nothing criminal there, I guess,’ she said, ‘and you can’t pre-judge someone on their political beliefs. I guess there are plenty of good Muslims around.’
‘Exactly. The problem is the radicals, and I’m only presuming that the White Lambs group were exactly that.’ He checked his watch. ‘I need to wake up Jedi. This shit’s going to blow up.’
Chapter Fifty Two
The Cathedral of the Angels was an impressive, 16th century Catholic church in the heart of Chania.
During the war it had been a place of r
efuge for many, and was still a central place of worship. Topped by an impressive roof of spires with a tower bell which now only chimed for special occasions, with plenty of stained glass windows, the walls proudly bore bullet holes as battle scars of the town’s history.
Moore and Katie approached the cathedral from the direction of their hotel, walking down a narrow cobbled street amongst the usual flow of tourists. The crowds had thinned out now with the heat of the day driving many to the beaches or inside for shade. The cathedral sat on a raised corner, dominating an intersection of busy streets.
The high wooden doors were open and a red carpet flowed from inside and down the stone steps like a river of blood.
Sharply dressed members of the Allied militaries milled around at the front, waiting for the start of proceedings. An elderly priest with a long grey beard stood at the top of the stairs, a prayer book in his folded hands as he chatted to an Australian soldier in a traditional lemon-squeezer hat.
Moore and Katie commenced a circuit of the building, moving together with familiar ease as they started a block out from the cathedral and walked the surrounding streets in a full circle. Every parked car, every person, every window was checked. Nothing stood out immediately, but Moore expected that. Any terrorist worth their salt – and ISIS were experienced and very good at what they did – would not leave obvious signs.
What he hoped for, more than anything else, was for the day to go without a hitch. Hopefully the bad guys had changed their plans, hopefully they’d been scared off, hopefully the intel was bad. Hopefully.
A lot had happened in the last several hours, and finally the lines of communication had officially opened up between the various intelligence agencies. The Aussies had confirmed that Tristan had spent a year after uni working for the Parker family as a “manny” – Ingoe had had to ask exactly what the hell one of those was – looking after young Paul, before returning to Wellington and getting on board with the Oldham family.
A clear pattern was apparent, with the Parkers speaking in revered tones of the wonderful Tristan and how much their Paul had worshipped him. Worship was the right word, Moore had mused. They had no knowledge of their “manny’s” religious beliefs and described him as a calm, peaceful sort, although they did recall him firing up once during a discussion over the War on Terror. They had put that down to his family experiences, and thought nothing more of it. There was no doubt he had heavily influenced young Paul, and they had stayed in touch after Tristan had moved on.
There was a gap in the intel as to how he was connected to the American girl, Leanne Sinclair, and the CIA were expressing doubts over whether there was a direct connection at all. It was clear that Tristan had recruited at least Paul Parker and Natalie Oldham to the cause, but whether he had a hand in the Sinclair matter was not known.
MI5’s Sarah Lockwood had come back with a report that a Viscount’s daughter had also gone missing in similar circumstances, but had been located at the Birmingham home of a Pakistani extremist. The cops had hit the place once she had put a push on, backed by the info on the other cases, and found her and her boyfriend packed and ready to go, with tickets for Karachi.
There was, as yet, no known link between them and Tristan.
But there was no doubting the issues with Tristan Stefanovic, who had disappeared from his hotel room overnight. Minister Oldham was aware that he had run but not of the full details – yet. For now the show had to go on, and hope for the best.
But there was no room for hope in a good plan, so they did their circuit. Moore had a heavy knot in his chest and his shoulders were tense. He had a bad feeling, and he knew that Katie felt it too. If he believed in such things he would call it a premonition maybe, but he had no time for airy fairy superstitions. What he did have was a keen sixth sense from years of soldiering, and right now it was dinging loudly in the back of his head.
They reached the end of the street and turned away from the cathedral, boxing round to start a new circuit a block wider.
‘We’ll do two blocks then come back in,’ Moore said quietly, and Katie gave an “Uh-huh.” She had been quiet all morning, pensive.
The nervous tension in each of them was feeding the other, and he forced himself to take a long slow breath, bringing his heart rate down. He rolled his shoulders under the lightweight cotton shirt and heard the crackle of gas bubbles popping in the joints.
They continued walking, trying to melt into the crowd without dawdling. It was fifteen minutes before their official party was due to arrive at the cathedral.
Moore transmitted an update to the CP team as they completed the second box and began to move back down a street that took them to the inner box.
‘Once the party are in the cathedral we’ll still hang outside,’ Moore said.
Katie gave another “Uh-huh” and slowed as they approached a street vendor’s stand. Bottles of water were stacked in the shade of the guy’s umbrella and she gave Moore an enquiring look as she dug out her wallet. He gave a nod and stepped to the side, leaning against the wall of a building as he waited. The sun was hot and he was glad of his shades with the glare from the white bricks opposite. He watched Katie as she cracked the bottle and took a long draught. Despite the thump on the head last night she was doing well.
The bud in his ear gave a crackle and he heard Jedi’s voice, giving everyone on the net a ten minute heads-up.
Moore glanced back to Katie, and as he turned something beyond her caught his eye. A vehicle turning into the street and slowing to a stop on the opposite side of the road, maybe forty metres away.
A plain white Toyota van, no sign writing, standard rims and nothing conspicuous about it at all. Just a plain old van, so unremarkable in fact that its very lack of any features made it noticeable. Moore noticed it, and in the next second he realised that somebody else had noticed it too.
A grey Citreon rolled past the intersection the van had just appeared from and he saw a flare of brake lights. Two seconds later a man appeared around the corner, shades on and one hand self-consciously touching his ear as he moved up the footpath towards the van.
Moore instantly recognised him as the guy in the white shirt who had accompanied Leon the previous day. Even at this distance he could sense the tension in the guy. Everything seemed to go into slow motion before him.
Moore’s eyes flicked back to Katie, seeing her drain the bottle and let out a satisfied sigh as she turned towards him.
He heard the metallic scrape as the van’s side door slid open and saw the vehicle move slightly as its weight shifted. He saw movement through the side window, somebody out now on the far side.
Katie lowered her bottle and looked at him, sensing something.
Leon’s guy kept his head down as he moved towards the van, deliberately paying the vehicle no attention. Moore could see the guy was stuck now, committed to an action which took him right to what was presumably his target. Surely he was doing a walk past? This couldn’t be a direct approach, could it? Nobody was that stupid; such an approach was a job for a fully equipped tactical unit, not a lone intelligence officer.
The person behind the van moved into view now and Moore saw a female figure, long blonde hair under a blue cap, emerge from the cover of the van and head away from it, towards Moore and Katie but on the opposite side of the cobbled street. She wore a flowing blue summery top over white leggings.
Natalie Oldham, Moore thought. Has to be.
His eyes flicked back to the van, seeing the driver now and realising the man was looking at him. Middle Eastern of some sort, short beard and a khaki shirt. The engine was still running. Leon’s guy was barely ten metres from the van now.
Katie stopped still, the plastic bottle in her hands. Moore took a breath and discreetly moved a finger under the flaps of his loose green shirt. He pressed the talk button he had taped to his belt.
‘Don’t turn round,’ he breathed into the mic under the lapel, ‘eyes on me.’
She flicked her eye
brows to signify she understood.
The blonde girl was well clear of the van now and parallel to them.
Moore could no longer see Leon’s man, hidden by the van. The driver’s head snapped round and there was a shout, then gunfire split the thick air.
A loud shot, a shout, the roar of the van’s engine revving, two more pistol shots then a long burst of submachine gun fire.
Moore pushed off the wall and yanked his shirt up, snatching the Sig from the holster there, Katie stepping and turning as she grabbed for the bum-bag at the front of her pants. The van lurched away from the kerb, seemingly towards them, a pistol fired again, the blonde girl began to run, the submachine gun ripped off another long burst, somebody screamed. Another engine behind them.
Tourists and locals stopped and stared.
Moore got the Sig up in both hands and bellowed, ‘Everybody down! On the ground!’
The white Toyota van screeched towards them and he could see the driver’s face twisted in a snarl, both hands on the wheel, eyes locked on them as he bore down. He had obviously clocked them and was presumably, mistakenly, lumping them in with Leon’s man.
Moore stepped sideways, getting distance from the street vendor who had ducked for cover, his focus totally on the driver as he stared along the short barrel of the Sig at him. The pistol rocked in his hand as he triggered a shot, and another, the windscreen spider webbing but not breaking as both rounds ricocheted off into the sky.
His third shot went through and he saw a splash of red behind the crazed glass, and the fourth hit home, making the driver’s body jerk.
He scrambled to the right now, needing space. The van’s front wheels hit the kerb, bounced, then there was an almighty crunch as the van smashed into the wall where Moore had stood only moments before.
Moore could see the sliding door still open and somebody in the back, slumped on a seat, not moving. He stepped forward, pistol up, scanning the interior. The engine was screaming and steam was pouring out the front of it.
Another shot cracked out from the other side of the vehicle. A car skidded to a stop at the back of the van and he spun, seeing two men leap out with pistols. He brought his gun up but they had no time for him – their focus was on something beyond the van on the opposite side of the road.