by Seb Kirby
Miles shook his head. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was for having brought so much trouble into her life, for ever having made a connection between her and the Landos, but this wasn’t the time. “Julia, there’s nothing I can say to make this sound any better. He didn’t show.”
She was about to cry when she stopped herself. She reminded herself to stay strong to help find James, to stay strong for their child. “Then we have to find him.”
Miles moved closer, as if about to comfort her, but her look told him not to come nearer.
He drew away. “Tell me everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, beginning with why you’re here in London.”
When she’d finished she felt no clearer herself about how she and James had been propelled with such haste into this new situation. “Something’s triggered this whole thing. And we’re on the wrong side of it.”
Miles listened in silence. He began to place the events into the kind of framework he used with his investigations for the newspaper. Establish the facts. Corroborate the facts. Make the connections. Draw the conclusions. And right now there was an absence of corroboration that he found worrying.
“Julia, I’ve not seen anything in the media about an Agent Franks being killed.”
She understood what he was implying. “So, you think there’s a cover up? I did check when we could still use the iPad. It was reported online on the site of the local Weymouth newspaper.”
“And not reported again?”
“You’re saying we’ve been fools to come here.”
“I’m not saying that. Just give me time to corroborate this. In my business, I know people who can help find information like this. There’s not much information out there that can’t be obtained if you ask the right questions.”
Julia wasn’t impressed. “It didn’t help us last time.”
“Please don’t say that. Let’s make our peace with each other some other time. The important thing is to find Jim.”
She knew he was right. “OK. How long will you need?”
“Give me an hour.”
“I’m still not convinced I shouldn’t go to the police.”
“Believe me, after what you’ve told me, I need to tell you I agree with Jim. It’s the last thing you should do.”
“Then I have to wait here?”
“Trust me. I’ll get help as soon as I can.”
No matter how hard she tried Julia knew trusting Miles was something that would not be easy.
When Miles left she locked the door behind him. She could only hope that Miles would be true to his word.
Chapter 20
The Land Rover was towed away along with the hundred other vehicles removed from Central London every day and was now in the vehicle pound on Commercial Road in Tower Hamlets.
DI Martin Reid had traveled from Weymouth as soon as he’d seen the report that the vehicle had been found. Once it became clear that what the Harringtons had told him was a lie, he’d set up a marker to have the location of the vehicle sent to him. The address in Edinburgh had been real but when the local police called they found that the occupants – a young couple with three children – had no knowledge of anyone called Harrington.
The couple had left Weymouth in a hurry. Their house was empty. A check with their bank showed the withdrawal of a large sum. They were on the run.
It had not taken Reid long to discover why. These things are supposed to remain secret within the police force but a few enquires amongst colleagues soon revealed the Harringtons to be a witness protection case. It wasn’t too surprising that he discovered this without too much effort. The force was required to make sure the couple was safe by sending officers to observe, albeit at a distance. It was inevitable that an increasing number would know the real names – James and Julia Blake. Armed with this information, Reid tracked down a case officer who’d worked in the Hendricks team in London investigating the murder that led to the need for witness protection. Though he said it himself, Reid was now up to speed on most of the relevant facts.
What mattered now was that James and Julia Blake had absconded to London and here was their vehicle.
Reid showed his CID card to the shabby attendant in charge of the vehicle pound. “No. I haven’t come to pick up my vehicle. I’m here to inspect this.”
He handed the attendant a print out that gave the registration number.
The attendant made slow progress searching through the scraps of paper that amounted to the record keeping system for the place.
Reid was trying not to sound dismissive. “You guys heard of computers?”
The attendant took time to reply. “We’re paper here and proud of it. Know where we are. Haven’t lost one yet.” He searched through more of the sheets. “Here it is. Top floor. Near the exit.”
“It’s been cracked?”
“No need. The recovery guys were ready to use the usual tools. If the owners of all those expensive vehicles knew just how easy it was to break into them.”
Now Reid was feeling impatient and couldn’t hide it. “Can I get into it?”
‘Yeah, it’s wide open. The guy left it unlocked.”
Reid walked to the top floor, found the Land Rover, climbed in and began searching. It was clean. In the glove compartment he found the usual junk and used tickets to the theatre and a jazz concert, both in Southampton, but there was nothing to tell him where the Blakes were now.
He returned to the office and the shabby attendant. “When and where was the vehicle picked up?”
The attendant returned to the piles of paper records and began leafing through them. After a further delay that again tested Reid’s patience, the correct sheet of paper was produced. “It was towed away from just off the Tottenham Court Road.”
“What street?”
“Stephen Street.”
Reid knew the area. Before the post in Weymouth, he’d been with the Metropolitan Force. Stephen Street – that would make the search more difficult. There must be a hundred hotels near there but the chances were the Blakes hadn’t gone far, not after the long journey to London, not considering Mrs. Blake’s condition.
He thanked the attendant who grunted a reply.
Reid set off to find the street where the Land Rover had been abandoned. It would take some time but he would find them if they were, as he suspected, in one of the nearby hotels.
It was curious, though, that Blake had abandoned the vehicle in this way, yet it was understandable. He must have hoped it would be stolen. He’d not allowed for the fact that there are so many law-abiding souls in this town.
Reid knew it should not have been difficult to justify the trip to London with his commanding officer. The Blakes were wanted for questioning, after all, in the investigation into the killing of Agent Franks. But difficult it had been. The information about the death of the FBI man Franks had been amended. What was at first presented as a killing was now being treated as an accident. Franks had been cleaning his firearm when it had discharged, leaving him dead. There would be an inquest but no police investigation. Reid could tell this was a cover-up. That would be better for him. He would have the field to himself. So, he was here on his own account. As far as Weymouth was concerned he was on leave.
He had good reason to be here. He was tired of seeing others with money, real money, who neither deserved it nor respected men like him who worked in a difficult job for what to them was a pittance. They were people with no real skill or knowledge, many, if not all, with shady events in their past or their family’s past. He had a real hatred for those who expected that the mere fact they had money would entitle them to make more money. Yes, he was tired of getting by on the low pay the force gave him when those much less able than him had so much.
Reid had used his contacts well, not just to discover what he needed to know about the Blakes and their past but to find out about the money on their heads.
If he was the one to find them and deliver them up, he could collect
two million. It would be enough to start a new life somewhere far away from here, somewhere he would not be on the outside looking in on those with all that fast money.
Chapter 21
There are times when you need people like Adam Weston.
He lived alone in a Victorian basement apartment in Pimlico in a space no bigger than a large cupboard once you took away the kitchenette and shower areas. The space was so filled with computers and their peripherals it was difficult to see how he made room for the single couch that turned into a bed.
Miles knocked twice, paused and knocked three times. He felt foolish but this was the way Weston wanted it.
The hacking Weston did was illegal, it was no good pretending otherwise. He worked on the principle that if he entered the target system in a clean manner, stayed for the shortest time and did no damage while he was there, his transgression could remain unnoticed or, at worst, be regarded as trivial. If he was investigated, he’d established a complex web of proxy servers and accounts between himself and the target to deter all but those with the highest level of determination and resources.
Weston had no interest in anything beyond hacking and computing. Miles was busy chasing the deadlines that plagued the journalist’s life. They seldom exchanged much beyond the business at hand. In the two years they’d been working together they knew little about each other and preferred it that way.
Miles began. “Thanks for getting me the hotel address.”
Weston shrugged. “It wasn’t too difficult.”
“I have another problem I need your help with.”
“Why else would you be here?”
“It’s sensitive.”
“You’ve come to the right place.”
“FBI.”
Weston blinked. The FBI and the State Department were known to the hacker community as the toughest challenges. To get in and get out clean was the most difficult thing. They all knew that. He smiled again. “Cost you.”
Miles nodded. “OK.”
“Need to take care. May take time.”
“I don’t have time. We need to do this now.”
Miles told Weston what he needed to know about Agent Franks. “He’s shot dead in a public place. The local police begin to investigate. There’s an early, incomplete story on a local newspaper blog. Then nothing. Someone’s sitting on this. I need to know who and why.”
Weston was already tapping at the keyboard before him. Code flowed across the computer screen. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“You’ll find a way.”
Weston fell silent as he toiled with the code. He let out the occasional cuss or whoop of delight as the battle to enter the FBI database unfolded. After twenty minutes he leaned back in triumph. “We’re in! Does Franks have a first name?”
“Jack.”
“So, John?”
“Guess so.”
Weston entered the name. “OK, I have the file. John Franks. Recruited straight from college. Looked to have a bright future in the organization. Early commendations. Then his career went on the back burner. He’s solid. Unremarkable. His latest assignment is coded alpha.”
“Alpha?”
“It means you can’t get to see the details unless you have additional clearance. Which we don’t have. Not yet anyway.”
“Black ops?”
Weston turned away from the screen and frowned. “Maybe not. Just secret even to most within the organization.”
“So, legit, then?”
“It’s too soon to tell. I’ll need to dig further.” He turned back to the keyboard and continued searching. “What’s this?”
“What have you found?”
“A flag. Says this is political. You didn’t tell me this thing is political.”
Weston began closing down the computer connection. “That’s it! I’m out.”
“I need more. It’s urgent.”
Weston sat back in the chair. “It always is. Meanwhile, I’ve got a skin in need of saving. You know I could be extradited and get thirty years in a US jail for this? If this is political it’s a whole other ball game.”
Miles shook his head. “But why cut and run now when we’re closing in on what we need?”
“Call it a sixth sense. Call it intuition. Call it self-preservation. Call it anything you like. But that was the time to run. They knew we were in there. They were getting ready to come after us.”
“You’re safe for now?”
“I hope so.”
“You’ll go in again?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Double your fee.”
Weston was reluctant but he agreed. “OK. If you really want it this much.”
Miles nodded. “I need you to crack the encryption.”
“I can’t promise anything. I’ll give it my best shot. But only when I’m sure it’s the right time to go back in there.”
“It means a lot.”
Miles left without saying much more. He knew if anyone could get the information he needed, Weston was the one.
Chapter 22
Calling on his old contacts in the Met was going to need care, DI Reid was sure of that. True, there was loyalty in the force but like so much else it came at a price. Yet he wasn’t about to bring others into the game unless he had to. He wanted the whole two million. He would have to play this down and use his own money.
He was with Billy Smith in the Lamb and Flag, a pub near Charing Cross Police Station in Argar Street where Smith worked as station sergeant. Smith was someone with access to the information Reid needed but without the ambition to enquire too deeply why he would need it.
Reid turned the conversation his way after the expected opening discussion – why he’d been unwise to leave London to spend his life with the farmers of Dorset – had dragged on long enough. “I’m on a divorce case. Private work, you know. Off the record.”
“How much you in for?”
“Nothing much. A few thou, that’s all. It’s more a special for a mate. His wife’s playing around. He needs evidence so that when it gets to court she doesn’t skin him for half of what he owns.”
“Something to show she’s in the wrong and puts her in bad light with the court?”
“Yes. So, the thing is, she’s here now in London, shacked up with this bloke and I need to know where they’re staying. They’re in a hotel in Central London, I’m certain of that. I just need to know which one.”
Smith took a long, slow sip of his drink. There was money in this if he played this right. “So what are you proposing, Martin?”
“I was thinking they’d be checking in under false names. Looking furtive. Maybe even suspicious. The kind of thing a hotel manager might report.”
“And you’d want me to let you know?”
“Exactly.”
“Cost you.”
“Come on, Billy. I told you I’m not in on this for much.”
“But you also said it was more of a special for a mate. So the money can’t be the most important thing for you.”
“You’re a tough one, Billy. How much?”
“Half.”
Reid winced. “Eight hundred. You know that’s more than fair. It’s going to take you not much more than a few minutes here and there to look over the reports that have come in.”
They shook hands. Smith’s smile showed he was pleased at the prospect of collecting on the deal. “Look, I’ve got to get away. I’m on duty in half an hour. I’ll look through the reports. Let you know when I’ve got something.”
“Make it soon. I need to catch them at it.”
“Give me a call in an hour. I should have something by then.”
Reid leaned back in his chair when Smith had left. Eight hundred was less than he’d feared – and his old sergeant had gone away thinking he’d driven a good deal.
He ordered another drink and made a silent toast to the loyalty of the Force.
Chapter 23
I didn’t make it to Charing Cross eve
n though it was just a short walk to my meeting with Miles.
The black SUV that I’d half-seen following us into London from Weymouth pulled up alongside me as I walked along Raven Street. It had one of those long sliding doors on its nearside. The door opened. Two men jumped out and pushed me into the back. The door closed and I was off the street.
I didn’t have much hope that this had been seen, let alone reported. London is like that. For one of the world’s most populated cities, it has areas that are almost deserted even during the height of the day and those in the SUV had chosen well.
They were three men with buzz cuts, dark suits and well-kept teeth. FBI.
It was civilized. No one shoved a rag in my mouth or secured my hands with plastic snap-on bands. No one placed a hood over my head. But the black glass windows of the SUV had been treated so light couldn’t get in or out. There was no way of knowing where they were taking me.
I had time to complain. “You can’t just lift me off the street like this.”
They weren’t listening. The suit traveling with me in the back of the vehicle had the same answer no matter what my question. “We’ll let you know when we get there.”
“Where are we going?”
No reply.
We traveled for over a quarter of an hour before stopping. I could hear the doors of a lock-up being opened as the SUV’s engine continued to turn over. I guessed we were still somewhere in London. There had been no let up in the sound of heavy traffic and the need to slow down and stop often that was a feature of city driving.
I was led out of the SUV into the lock-up and taken up a wooden staircase to an office on the first floor.
It was the kind of place that had once been run as a business repairing vehicles. The downstairs was where the mechanics worked while, up here in the office, a manager checked they were working and took the telephone enquiries. But the lock-up hadn’t been used for that for some years and now served a different purpose.
I was seated, facing a man who looked like Agent Franks but who lacked the hint of compassion I had seen in his face. This face showed only determination.