‘Give them time. Those bastards can sniff out a storyline as flies find a camel’s arse.’
With thoughts elsewhere, if this was the Russian hitman they’d been chasing, then it was a close-run thing. If only he’d hit the kerb at the A184 roundabout, then matters would have turned out differently. He hadn’t, cursed Officer Smith, and the suspect was probably miles away by now.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The moment Jack Mason walked into Meeting Room One, the team was sat waiting for him. News travelled fast, and the latest intelligence rumours coming out of Gateshead Police Station were that Yavlinsky had been whisked to the Channel Islands in a private jet. If true – and Mason had his doubts – then Special Branch would have arrested him the moment he stepped onto the plane.
Yavlinsky’s exploits had certainly gone beyond the pale, and whichever side of the fence you sat on, he’d overstepped the mark. Now in hiding, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him and finally brought him to justice. Not all was plain sailing, though, as there were some daring members of the public who would take it upon themselves to hunt him down. With no mention of a Russian mafia connection to the press, Mason was hoping to get to him first. If not, then Yavlinsky wouldn’t think twice of breaking someone’s neck if it meant evading capture.
The Chief Inspector ran his eye down a whole load of stats and considered his options. Another weekend down the pan, and everyone looked exhausted. At least the boy was in safe hands, and that was one less problem to worry about. With all kinds of emotions tugging him, Mason figured there was no unearthly reason why the Russian would want to hang around in Newcastle anymore. There was still the fraud trial, of course, but that was a foregone conclusion.
He turned to face the assembled team.
‘Right,’ Mason began. ‘Analysis back from the lab confirms the contents of the hypodermic syringe picked up from Marsden beach was Tiger snake venom. Discussions with the reptile keepers at Edinburgh Zoo suggest it belonged to the same batch stolen from Monty Python’s pet shop in Newcastle.’ He waited for the noise levels to die down. ‘What it does tell us, though, is that Yavlinsky has stepped up his killing game so you’ll need to be vigilant.’
Faces dropped.
‘Anymore feedback from uniforms?’ asked DC Manley.
‘No. None.’
It was DS Holt’s turn to speak next. ‘What about Yavlinsky’s contacts?’
‘With the amount of media coverage, we’re getting, I doubt anyone would want to give him assistance, let alone contact him. It’s far too risky.’
Mason moved towards the crime board, thinking. He would need to work out a plan, and one exposing the Russian’s weaker side. His biggest concern was Yavlinsky reverting back to his pre-trial disruption tactics but stopping him was the problem.
‘Okay,’ Mason said. ‘Our last sighting of Yavlinsky was at three am.’ He pointed to the B1296 at Wrekenton on the wall map. ‘We know he slipped into Ravensworth golf course as the dog teams picked up his scent there. Where did he go?’
DS Savage held his hand up to speak. ‘It’s my view he’s back in Newcastle, boss.’
Holt shot Savage a glance. ‘I doubt it.’
‘And why not?’
‘His main interests lie in London, and that’s where he’ll be heading.’
Mason thought for a moment and took a tentative sip of his hot coffee. He needed a moment of inspiration, something he could get his teeth into.
‘Anyone got any ideas as to how he knew the boy was staying at Carlisle’s house?’
Savage was quick to react. ‘It appears that several tracker devices were fitted to our fleet of unmarked police vehicles, boss.’ The sergeant shook his head. ‘He’s obviously been monitoring our movements, which is how he ended up in Whitburn village.’
‘Holy shit. When did you discover this?’ Mason asked.
‘Just before the meeting, boss. They’ve since been removed.’
‘Good work, Rob. If he can penetrate our security ring that easily, what else is he capable of?’
‘What about young Martin Kennedy?’ asked DC Carrington, showing her concerns for the boy’s safety. ‘Have we heard any more from Social Services?’
‘He’s been moved to Scotland, Sue.’
‘Do we know where?’
‘No. It’s still a well-kept secret.’
‘What about Special Branch?’ asked Harry Manley. ‘What have they been up to lately?’
Mason let his mind drift for some moments. Questions were being asked, and he was having to think on his feet. Not good, he thought.
‘If Special Branch do anything to report, they’re not letting on about it.’
Tom Hedley, the senior forensics scientist, pointed to the map. ‘If this Russian banking trial is still set to go ahead, he’s bound to continue with his disruption tactics.’
‘And do what exactly?’
‘Protect the names of those who paid him to do a job,’ Hedley replied firmly.
The room fell silent.
Insider knowledge could be very useful, Mason thought. Even so, now wasn’t the time to reveal what Special Branch had told him about the upsurge in the chatter lines coming out of the Russian Embassy. Yavlinsky had overstepped the mark, and the Kremlin were keen to put an end to his exploits. There again, nothing was ever straightforward involving the Russians. That much he’d learned over the years.
Still struggling to come to terms with it all, the Chief Inspector turned to the wall map again. Something didn’t fit, and whatever it was he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. If the Kremlin had other plans in mind for Yavlinsky, what were they intending to do? More to the point, what if the supposed private jet to the Channel Islands was purely a diversionary tactic? Experience had taught him the Russians often blew hot and cold in situations such as these – but did they really want to get rid of one of their top agents? If not, then what were they up to? The last thing he wanted was a bunch of Russian mafia thugs roaming the streets of Newcastle – gangsters taking the law into their own hands.
Mason took a deep breath and turned to face the team again.
‘Anyone got any thoughts?’ he said, tapping the map with the back of his hand.
‘Tom’s right,’ said David Carlisle. ‘Yavlinsky’s a paid man, and if the trial goes ahead, it could implicate an awful lot of high-ranking Russian officials including some eminent British businessmen with dodgy offshore banking accounts.’
‘Interesting.’ Mason nodded. ‘So, you think he’ll strike again?’
‘What has he to lose?’
Caught in two minds, Mason’s look was stern. He still hadn’t been completely honest with his team, but some intelligence reports were too hot to handle and he’d given his word to keep schtum. He thought about it. Apart from uniforms searching the area around Wrekenton, there had been dozens of sightings matching Yavlinsky’s description.
‘Imagine it was you knowing everyone in the North East was out looking for you,’ Mason went on. ‘What would you do?’
‘I’d lie low for a couple of days,’ Manley replied. ‘Bide my time and wait for the dust to settle down.’
‘Exactly,’ Mason agreed.
‘Shoot on sight?’ said DC Rogers.
Mason’s grin broadened. ‘With your eyesight, Dick. I doubt you’d hit a barn door if it was put in front of you.’
Laughter broke out, but nerves were jangling, and Mason had sensed unease. If it did come down to a shootout, he would be ready and waiting for him. His problem was, that Russian agents were renowned for springing surprise attacks when you least expected them, and conventional wasn’t Yavlinsky style. Whatever line of attack the Russian hitman would adopt, it wouldn’t be a pleasant one.
It was agreed. Yavlinsky was hiding in Gateshead somewhere and they would need to flush him out. As the team broke into smaller groups, Mason gave out another set of instructions. It was a large catchment area and nobody was under any illusions as to the size of t
ask that lay ahead. The Russian would need to break cover at some point – he had no other option left open to him.
Mason’s phone rang, and he answered it.
A man resembling Yavlinsky’s description had been spotted close to Birtley and it was time to set the wheels in motion again.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Mid-morning, and Chameleon wasn’t feeling at all well. He knew his motivation levels were at an all-time low and he was fast running out of steam. Not only were his gums starting to bleed, his tongue was threatening to choke him and he could hardly breathe. Desperate, he would need to get himself to a hospital before his body completely shut down on him.
Having spotted another high-speed Intercity train thundering south along the tracks, he decided to head north. He knew that Lamesley wasn’t too far away, and he was making steady progress towards it. Intent on hitching a ride on one of the many freight trains leaving Tyne Yard, he was keen to get there. Anywhere was better than Birtley, and he couldn’t get away from the place quick enough. What at first seemed a crazy idea, was now his only salvation. He’d initially planned to travel to Hull, where a skipper of a fishing trawler had arranged him safe passage to Murmansk. But now that UK Border Force had stepped up their surveillance operations, that was no longer possible.
Seething with anger, and still limping badly from his disastrous motor scooter mishap, Chameleon pushed on. He’d screwed up big style, failed miserably in his mission to halt the Newcastle trail, and all because of the boy. He should have taken care of it the moment he first clapped eyes on him. He hadn’t, and now he was up to his neck in serious trouble. Just how the Organisation would deal with it, he had no idea. Not only had he put a lot of prominent people at risk, he’d jeopardised the entire money laundering operation.
If he did have a plausible explanation to give, he could always blame the hedge fund auditor, Stephen Rice. The man was an out and out traitor who had not only betrayed Russia, he’d duped the British Intelligence Service into believing he was working for them. He wasn’t, of course. Having got into bed with the CIA on the promise of a foreign passport and a three-million-dollar money transfer into a personal account, the bastard had sold his soul to the devil.
If there was ever a man who deserved to die, it was Rice!
In truth, Chameleon wasn’t one of those daft idiots who kept all of his information stored on a hard drive. He was much smarter than that. Assured in the knowledge that if anyone did try to break into the cryptic files without the correct passwords, the files would go into self-destruct. Okay, he’d mislaid an important USB memory stick in a moment of haste, but that was down to the radiation poisoning. If not, what else could he blame? He was a highly respected professional at the top of his game – the agent known as Chameleon.
With every movement sending searing pains throughout his body, he let his mind drift. He knew the police were out looking for him as he could hear the helicopter clattering overhead. If ever he was going to make good his escape, he would need to get a move on, and quick. It was the police dogs he feared most, as he knew how efficient they could be in tracking people down. If only he could get to Byker, he had the perfect remedy to stop them dead in their tracks – meat laced with Black Mamba venom!
See how you cope with that, you miserable mutts!
At the far end of the street Chameleon spotted a strip of wasteland, and beyond that, a row of disused lock up garages. Never stay in the same place twice, he told himself, it was the number one rule of engagement. Maybe he should hunker down for a couple of hours – build up his energy levels and make another push in the dark.
With different scenarios playing out inside Chameleon’s head, he kept thinking about the new property developments back in London. His builders would have robbed him blind had he let them – and all because he was a foreigner. Not that he was squeaky clean, but at least he wasn’t a down and out cheat like these individuals were. He would need to deal with them. His way – disrupt their assets once and for all. He had a few contacts he could rely on, and they were good at what they did. Bankruptcy was their favourite line of business, and it never failed to amaze. Closing companies down wasn’t a problem these days. If you didn’t have a roof over your head and the cost of a loaf of bread in your pocket, you simply starved on the streets.
Chameleon’s instincts as a hired assassin had taught him many things over the years, but he’d never failed to complete an assignment. Never ever. This time felt different, though, and he was struggling to keep his wits about him let alone think straight. The moment he broke cover, the police would be onto him in a flash. He would need to stick to the plan – it was the only option left open to him.
Chameleon heard a helicopter hovering low overhead but could not see it. It was flying in circles, as if it had spotted something. Panic gripped him as never before as he slipped into the nearest garage lockup. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least he felt safe here. Then he heard dogs barking and his body locked solid.
Tomorrow would be his lucky day – surely!
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Within minutes of Jack Mason calling for backup, two helicopters came into view, fifty metres apart. He watched as two teams of Counter Terrorist Special Firearms Officers (CTSFO) dropped down scaling ropes and onto an embankment close to an old carriage shed nearby. Dressed in familiar black body armour and armed to the teeth, they were here to finish the job. It was a massive show of strength, and Tyne Marshalling Yard would soon be the talking point in every pub in the land.
After relaying his team whereabouts and the suspect’s last known position, Mason waited for further instructions. He didn’t wait long. As the lead helicopter hovered low over the distant treeline above the Ravensworth Arms Hotel, the second flew off in a southerly direction and over the rooftops of Birtley.
‘Command One to Peter Rabbit,’ came the reply. ‘Unless your men are in imminent danger, you’re to hold your current position.’
‘Roger that,’ Mason replied, straining to listen above the din of the clattering helicopter’s rotor blades. ‘Do you want me to take up a defensive stance?’
‘You can do, but you’re to stay put until I give you further instructions.’
Moving at a pace, he watched as two teams of specialist firearms officers fanned out in a V formation and advanced along the railway embankment. Then through a break in the clouds, the second helicopter reappeared. Equipped with a Nita Sun 30 million candlepower searchlight and thermal imaging camera, it was hovering freely between the long lines of stationary freight wagons as if looking for signs of life. With hundreds of places to hide, the downdraft from the helicopter’s rotor blades was throwing up huge clouds of dust and making life difficult. He knew Yavlinsky was ex-military and trained in the art of combat survival, but how would he cope against a team of highly trained specialists?
Then some sixty paces to his left, the Russian broke cover. Stooping low, he was limping heavily as he made towards the road bridge connecting Lamesley and Eighton Banks. He’d lost one of his shoes and his shirt tail was flapping in the breeze as he ran. Mason pointed towards him and a small coppice close to the railway embankment opposite. Having guessed the Russian’s intentions, the risks he was taking were enormous. Events were moving at a pace, and no matter how well you planned your operations, the unexpected happened.
Out of his peripheral vision, Mason checked the marshalling yard layout on his iPhone and tried to get a fix on his bearings. One hundred paces to his right, he could see a team of armed officers were making steady progress towards a line of stationary freight wagons. Caught in a pincer movement and with little or no room for manoeuvre, there seemed no way back for the Russian now.
Dressed in a black bulletproof jacket and carrying what looked like an HK G36 modern assault rifle in his hand, the senior officer signalled his intentions. Seconds later and with split precision timing, the two teams began to close down on the Russian’s last known position. It was surreal, like watching a
ballet performance in slow motion. If Yavlinsky didn’t react soon, he would be caught in their crossfire and die under a hail of bullets.
◆◆◆
Seething with anger, the pain in his foot was excruciating. Hobbling on one leg, Chameleon could see the extended lines of armed officers advancing towards him, but there was nothing he could do about it. His plan, insomuch as he had one, was to reach the sanctuary of the small coppice opposite. He would need something more secure in the long term, but for now he would make do and mend.
After a few minutes of lying still, he heard the crunching sound of loose ballast being walked on and felt a sudden prick of apprehension. Barely thirty metres away, back arched and weapon cocked ready to fire, the senior officer was almost on top of his position. He wasn’t a ferocious looking man, lean, with mouse-like eyes peering out through a slit in his black balaclava. What Chameleon didn’t know, or perhaps he did, was that if he didn’t act soon all routes of escape would be cut off to him.
He felt in his pocket for the hypodermic syringe.
Still there!
Nothing would stop him now. No matter what dangers he faced.
His index finger covering the hypodermic plunger, he pulled off the needle cover and prepared for the inevitable. Just a few more paces and he would take the senior officer by surprise. It would be quick – just as the others – and with this amount of lethal snake poison flowing through his veins he would die in a matter of minutes.
Crawling forward on all fours, beads of sweat rolled down Chameleon’s face. Less than a quarter of a mile to his front – beyond the high-speed tracks – the small coppice looked even more inviting to him now. The problem was, reaching it would be almost impossible as he would be cut to pieces the moment, he broke cover.
Hoping the senior officer hadn’t spotted him, Chameleon prepared to grab his loaded weapon. He knew he was capable, knew he wouldn’t hesitate, and his determination was unwavering.
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