Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Mason replied.

  Seconds later, after he’d checked with the desk sergeant and DS Savage’s office, he picked up the office telephone again. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Fudge,’ Mason began. ‘It seems that nobody at the station knows anything about an identity parade taking place this afternoon. Can you give me the officer’s details please?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s an Inspector Clamp.’

  Suspicions aroused, Mason checked the duty roster. ‘The name’s not familiar and he’s not on the station’s register. Did he say which area or division he was from?’

  ‘Northumbria Police, I believe.’

  Puzzled and curious, Mason checked the area manning lists and shook his head disconcertedly. ‘There’s no one answerable to that name on our records.’

  ‘Well, that’s who he told me he was, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Is Inspector Clamp with you currently?’

  ‘No, he contacted me over the telephone.’

  Panic momentarily gripped him. Still plenty of time to make it to Seaton School, Mason thought. He pushed his office door open and signalled for DC Carrington to join him. If this was Yavlinsky’s doing, then it was an audacious plan. He took several deep breaths, opened his office desk drawer, and took out his Smith & Wesson 36.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fudge. Under no circumstances is Martin allowed to leave the school premises. Do I make myself clear on that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Officers are already on their way, and I’ll be with you in thirty minutes.’

  DC Carrington stared at him. ‘Something a matter, boss?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Mason cleared his throat as he slipped on his jacket. ‘Someone purporting to be a police officer has just phoned Seaton School and asked for Martin Kennedy to be made available to them.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘An identity parade that’s supposedly taking place here at two o’clock.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right, boss.’

  ‘Those were my sentiments.’

  ‘Do you think there could be a mix-up somewhere?’

  ‘I doubt it. The officer involved calls himself Inspector Clamp and claims he’s serving with the Northumbria Police.’

  ‘Never heard of him, which area is he from?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Mason said picking up his keys, ‘let’s ask him.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The drive to Seaton Sluice took Jack Mason all of twenty-five minutes. It was late-morning and there wasn’t much traffic along the coast road. Dressed in a casual bomber jacket, jeans, and carrying a loaded Smith & Wesson 36 housed in its holster, the Detective Chief Inspector was taking no chances. Met at the school gates by DS Savage, they moved at a pace through the large assembly hall and into the heart of the building. School kids everywhere, along with a smell of fresh paint, he felt he was stepping into bedlam.

  The headteacher was staring out of his office window and deep in thought when they entered the room. ‘Ah. Detective Chief Inspector Mason,’ said Fudge, as he swung to address them. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’

  ‘Have you had any further contact?’ Mason asked.

  Fudge clearly looked nervous. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Good.’

  Mason perched on the edge of the headteacher’s desk and made himself comfortable. It was 11.24 am, and still ample time to finalise his plans. With two unmarked police cars stationed outside the school gates, and four armed officers covering the perimeter fence, it would be a difficult nut to crack – unless the suspect was already inside the building, of course.

  ‘Where’s Martin Kennedy now?’ DC Carrington asked, showing her concern.

  ‘He’s down in the staff room with one of the teachers and the two detectives who brought him here today.’

  At least the boy was in safe hands, which pleased Mason no end. He glanced out of the office window and tried not to be nosey, but he was a police officer and that’s what he was trained to do. It was obvious now why someone had installed monitoring cameras around the building – they were snooping on people’s movements including their own presence here today. Martin’s cover had been blown and he was having to think differently. But what to do with him was the question. Yes, there was a highly trained response team at his disposal, but guns and school children didn’t mix.

  His iPhone rang. It was the Area Commander.

  ‘Morning, Chief Inspector. What’s going on?’

  ‘Someone is attempting to snatch the boy out of the school, sir.’

  ‘So, I’d heard. Do we have any idea who it may be?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess who’s behind it.’

  Gregory fell silent for some moments, and Mason knew what he was thinking.

  ‘You need to consider getting young Martin away from there, it’s becoming too dangerous.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, but where to is the question?’

  ‘You need to get in touch with social services again.’

  Mason hesitated. People were looking for answers and he didn’t have any to give. Only uncertainty. He steadied himself before answering. ‘The question I keep asking myself is how did Yavlinsky trace Martin to Seaton School?’

  ‘That’s immaterial at this stage,’ Gregory replied stoically.

  ‘But it’s still a big mystery nevertheless.’

  Mason sat for a moment and thought he could almost predict what the Area Commander was about to say next. He wasn’t far wrong.

  ‘You need to give it some thought, the boy’s safety is paramount. If this leaks out to the press all hell will be let loose.’

  As he ended his call, his mind went into overdrive.

  Please God, don’t let me screw up on this one.

  DS Savage’s police-issue radio suddenly crackled into life. One of the unmarked stationary pool cars close to the school gates had spotted a Volvo XC60 parked suspiciously. Seconds later, after checking the automatic number plate recognition system (ANPR), it was down as a Hertz hire vehicle which had been dropped off at the Gateshead Marriott Hotel the previous day.

  Stay calm, Mason told himself. Don’t rush into it.

  ‘Okay,’ he began. ‘This place is virtually in lockdown, so let’s try to contain this off the school premises and away from the children. Whoever this person is, he needs to be stopped, and fast.’

  Nods of approval gathered pace.

  Just as a precautionary measure Mason ordered the two unmarked police cars to move away from the scene and another two to take their place. If this was Yavlinsky’s vehicle parked up outside the school gates, it could all end up in a high-speed chase. Given the choice, like all other detectives, he would have preferred it to be as far away the school as possible. But Yavlinsky didn’t give a damn whose life he put in danger, just that he achieved his objectives.

  His patience fast running out on him, matters had reached crisis point. He took a deep breath. If he had a pound for every time he’d been in this kind of situation, he’d be a rich man. Hold your nerve, Mason told himself. Stay calm.

  ◆◆◆

  The engine ticking over, Chameleon stared out through the Volvo XC60 driver’s window and across at the school entrance. His foot covering the accelerator pedal, he had plenty of humph under the bonnet should he require it. It was 11.59 am, and still no sign of the boy showing. He would need to move soon – and he knew his way around the area.

  A flash of light caught his attention, and he noticed a silver Ford Focus move off in a westerly direction. He wasn’t sure, but if that was an unmarked police vehicle, he would need to keep his eye on it just in case.

  Sunlight dancing through the windscreen, he hadn’t felt at all well that morning. The more he thought about the poison he’d administered to Stephen Rice, the more he realised that something had gone horribly wrong. He’d followed the instructions explicitly – even down to wearing rubber gloves. Having carefull
y transferred the container back to the jacket pocket he was wearing, he wondered if cross contamination had taken place?

  Just how much exposure he’d been subjected to, he had no idea. But it was sure scaring the living daylights out of him. Cellular degradation due to damage to your DNA wasn’t the kind of death he was up for, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it right now. He should have thrown his jacket away the moment he placed his surgical gloves inside the pockets, and now he was having grave doubts about his health. Rice would have suffered in agony, and God forbid he was facing a similar fate.

  Annoyed with himself, he tried to think positively. He only had one more mission to take care of in Newcastle, and he didn’t want to screw up on this one. Thinking about this, there was no way the headteacher would release the boy without written consent. Definitely not. He should have done things differently, gone in heavy handed instead of pussy-footing around. He hadn’t, and now he was faced with an even bigger challenge.

  Chameleon glanced at his watch and checked the school entrance door again. Without access to a closed monitoring system, he was having to work blind.

  Should he risk ringing the headteacher again?

  He fiddled with the air conditioning control, but still couldn’t get it to work. It was mad hot inside the hire car, and he’d forgotten to bring his water bottle with him. Not wishing to hang around any longer, he dropped into first gear and slid away from the pavement and joined the steady stream of traffic heading west.

  What he didn’t see, or perhaps he had, and it hadn’t registered, was the unmarked Beamer estate now trailing in his wake.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In the early hours of the following morning, Jack Mason stood with his hands in his pockets and stared down at the hotel layout stretched out on the bonnet of the Road Traffic Unit Vauxhall Insignia estate. It was a clear night; but a dull neon glow hung over the city with ominous uncertainty. Just off the A1(M) and close to the Gateshead Metrocentre, the Marriott Hotel stood in partial darkness. Nearby, and hidden from view, a team of armed police officers wearing anti-ballistic armour and black helmets were making last-minute preparations to storm the building. In addition to a Tactical Firearms Unit presence, a rapid response 4X4 from the Northumbria Ambulance service was waiting in an adjacent street in anticipation of a shootout.

  Ten miles north, in what was now a joint coordinated operation, armed police officers were descending on other properties owned by a well-known Russian Oligarch. Elsewhere across the cities of Gateshead, Sunderland, and Newcastle, dozens of search warrants were about to be executed on smaller properties of interest. In what was a massive showdown of strength, team confidence was running high.

  Having selected a small line-up of hand-picked officers including a dog unit to stay close, Mason was banking on an element of surprise. Events were moving at a pace, and as the hunt for Grigori Yavlinsky intensified nothing was left to chance.

  A figure approached, and he was waving his arm in the air.

  ‘Everything is ready to go,’ DS Savage confirmed.

  Mason looked at his watch. Three minutes to zero-hour.

  ‘I’m still waiting for team Seven to report back.’

  Savage grinned ‘Let’s hope our suspects are all tucked up in bed, cos they’re about to receive a rude awakening.’

  ‘Any more news from hotel reception?’

  ‘Yeah. A do not disturb notice has been placed on room 27’s door, and they believe it’s occupied.’

  Mason thought about it. According to Special Branch, Yavlinsky was moving around the area under several different names. Tetley, Grey and Twining’s were among his favourites. Either the man had a warped sense of humour, or a strong liking for tea. He had yet to decide.

  ‘What’s the latest on the Hertz hire vehicle?’ Mason asked, gesturing towards the hotel carpark.

  ‘The engine’s stone cold, boss. It hasn’t budged in hours.’

  ‘Good. . . which means he can’t be far away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

  Mason gave Savage a puzzled look. ‘What about fire escapes, are they all covered?’

  ‘Everything’s been taken care of, boss. If he’s holed up inside the building, there’s no escape for him now.’

  ‘Okeydokey.’

  Just as he was about to make his move, Mason’s earpiece suddenly sprang into life. He turned the volume down. One of the ops teams north of the river was experiencing difficulties. An old man suffering a suspected heart attack was in desperate need of medical attention. Shit happened, but the thought of a three-ton ambulance entering the area somehow didn’t appeal. The slightest whiff of a police presence, and the Russians would evaporate. No, Mason thought. He would need to come up with a plan, and one that wouldn’t jeopardize the entire operation.

  ‘What time do we go in?’ DS Savage asked anxiously.

  ‘Three am.’

  ‘It’s almost that now.’

  I know, I know. Give it a few more minutes.’

  The sergeant screwed his face up. ‘Twenty-four hours into the planning and some old geezer decides to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Some things are unavoidable––’

  ‘Yeah, but not on our watch!’

  Mason looked up at Savage briefly. ‘For what it’s worth, all teams will go in simultaneously.’

  Savage blew into cupped hands as Mason stared at the hotel reception lobby. If they could maintain the element of surprise, the Russian had little or no chance of escape. But what if the room was booby tapped – fitted with a low-level explosive device enough to maim several officers? Just because Yavlinsky’s hire vehicle hadn’t moved in hours, didn’t mean a thing.

  Patience, Jack. He who dares wins!

  He pressed the call button on his police-issue Airwaves Unit and whispered into the mouthpiece. ‘Let’s stop the ambulance well short of the suspect’s property and send in the paramedics on foot to deal with the old man.’

  ‘Roger that,’ came back the reply.

  ‘How far are we talking from the suspect’s house?’

  ‘It’s directly opposite, boss.’

  ‘Shit!’ Mason cursed.

  Headlights flickering along the Western Bypass, his mind all over the place, he would need to give the order regardless of the consequences.

  He glanced at his watch again.

  One minute to zero hour.

  He loosened the clip on his holster flap in readiness. If they hung around much longer, they would lose the initiative of surprise.

  Mason gave the signal.

  Thirty seconds before zero hour, the assembled line of armed police officers moved quietly through the hotel’s entrance lobby. Weapons at the ready, the lead officer carried an enforcer battering ram in his hand, the second an anti-ballistic shield. Following in their wake, Mason teased back the safety catch on his nine-millimetre Smith & Wesson 36 and wrapped his fingers firmly around the stock. It had been years since he’d last worked on an armed response operation but knew he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Silence at first, then everyone shouted at the top of their voices.

  As room 27’s door burst inwards with a crack, the frame gave way under the strain. Seconds later a dozen armed officers piled in through the tiny opening, their weapons loaded and locked. Then, through the mist of uncertainty, a young woman’s head appeared from beneath the bed sheets. She looked frightened, confused, as if the tan had been sucked from her complexion.

  ‘Where is he?’ Mason said calmly.

  She winced, her surprise unquestionable.

  With a dozen Heckler & Koch assault rifles bearing down on her, Mason stepped forward and read her the riot act. ‘Don’t mess with me, young lady. Where’s Grigori Yavlinsky?’

  Still no response.

  As the hotel room was taken apart, the woman was led away in handcuffs and placed into the back of a waiting police vehicle before being driven away at speed. What had taken forty hours of planning, was over in a matter of
minutes. Although the operation had run like clockwork, their suspect was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Anything?’ Mason asked.

  ‘We’ve searched the building from top to bottom,’ Savage confirmed, ‘and there’s no sign of the Russian.’

  ‘He’s here somewhere––’

  ‘He must have got wind we were coming, boss.’

  Mason looked at the sergeant bleary-eyed. ‘If he left with all of his possessions, the woman is obviously a decoy.’

  ‘It’s looking that way.’

  ‘Let’s see what the dog teams throw up.’

  Back at the hotel reception desk, Mason took a copy of the hotel’s guest list along with CCTV coverage as forensics poured all over the Hertz hire vehicle. It didn’t take long. Fingerprints lifted from the steering wheel and fed into the AFIS database system soon established a match.

  An Airwave Unit sprang to life nearby, causing Mason to lift his head.

  News from the other coordinated raids didn’t look good suddenly. The Russian had gone to ground and had vanished without a trace. Distraught, Mason reached for his iPhone and searched through the list of numbers.

  Seconds later the dialling tone kicked in.

  ‘Sorry to drag you out of bed, my friend. But I’m in tight corner.’

  ‘Christ, Jack. It’s four in the morning, what the hell is going on?’ David Carlisle yawned.

  ‘Only the early bird catches the worm they say.’

  ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘It’s the boy,’ Mason sighed, ‘young Martin Kennedy.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but I’m looking for a safe house for a couple of days.’

  Mason could hear movement in the background, and guessed the private investigator was now out of bed. At least something was working in his favour.

  ‘How can I possible help?’

  ‘I’m looking for a big favour.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, I’m––’

  ‘The last time we met you said if I needed your assistance, I just had to ring.’