The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Finding where the slave workers were being kept was now my job; and it was going to be an uphill struggle. But what was causing us the most concern was what happened to the slaves once their working life was finished. Interviews with rescued slaves, carried out by female officers on local domestic violence units, gave us an indication of the numbers of girls being brought into the UK, but not where they ended up.

  Matt had uncovered several relevant MISPERs – missing person reports – filed by women’s refuges that had taken in young girls from Europe, only to find that they went missing within a few days. Most were put down to the girls simply moving on, but, in several cases, personal effects had been left behind. Those MISPERs remained open and unsolved.

  I was at my desk reading one such report when Kevin Jones telephoned. It was good to hear from my old friend.

  ‘You seen the papers, boss?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Not yet. Something interesting?’ I asked.

  ‘A major Regiment book has just hit the shops. It’s featured in the Sun. You’ll never guess who the writer is.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Lad calls himself Chas Collins.’

  I laughed. ‘I read it last week while I was on holiday. It was quite good, all about Operation Cyclone. Toni Fellowes lent it to me and Jenny to read.’

  ‘Bloody hell … did you recognise him? Collins, I mean,’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Can’t say as I did. There were some pictures but not of anyone I knew. I half wondered if our job in Peshawar would get a mention, but it didn’t. He talked about the kit evaluation a bit and the mule trains bringing bits and pieces from downed Hind helicopters over the border into Pakistan, but he didn’t mention us or any of the other lads, not even once.’

  ‘So it didn’t ring any alarm bells then?’

  ‘No, not really. It just read like a bloke trying to make a buck out of stuff he found out.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe. But I can tell you Chas is not his real name,’ said Kevin. ‘He was on breakfast TV this morning talking live from a secret hideaway somewhere. He’s just using the name Chas Collins.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘You should. He was on the same selection as you. We used to call him “Beaky”.’

  I had a vague memory of the name. At Hereford, during the early eighties, Kevin and I had worked with a man called Beaky. He had been a selection failure, but he had been a good lad and had come very close to success, so he’d been kept on to have another go. Unfortunately, he’d turned out to have a bit of a drink problem and after several run-ins with the local police he had been sentenced to three months in the Corrective Training Centre at Colchester. After that he was discharged from the army. Last I’d heard, he had moved on to join the ‘circuit’, the large group of former regular soldiers who moved around the world, doing security work.

  ‘Have you read it yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Kevin replied, ‘but it looks like the media are lapping it up.’

  I laughed. ‘It doesn’t say too much, might be embarrassing for a few but most people will think that it’s fantasy.’

  ‘He’ll be a marked man if you ask me. He must be crazy, or desperate for money. Everybody knew we could never talk about that op.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was on it.’

  ‘Nor me; he must have been one of the contractors. Said on the TV that he’s living under an assumed name. He’ll bloody have to; if the CIA find him, he’ll have some serious questions to answer.’

  I didn’t argue. Since the Iraq War, several former soldiers had tried to cash in on the public thirst for inside stories. Beaky was just another one in a long line, so far as I was concerned.

  Kevin promised to get hold of a copy of the book and have a proper read of it. Before we hung up, I told him about the Red Sea rescue, the wedding invitation and the forthcoming trip to Romania. But I decided not to mention the prospect of actually meeting up with Beaky. The timing didn’t seem quite right. And Kevin’s phone call had also reminded me of a job that I needed to complete.

  Using the excuse of grabbing some fresh air, I headed to St James’s Park. With people milling about everywhere, the background noise would drown out what we needed to discuss.

  Fortunately, Kevin was still at home on sick leave. After a brief discussion, the arrangements were made. I had a safe place for my weapons and kit. We would meet that evening and store them at his allotment.

  I enjoyed talking with my old friend. He was doing well. Aside from the bullet wound to his shoulder, the injuries had almost healed.

  On a previous call, he had mentioned having taken a real shine to Sandra Beattie, one of the nurses who’d looked after him. Ruefully, he felt there was no chance whilst one of her patients.

  Then, after being discharged, Kevin had attended outpatients every day to have the wound redressed. On one of those visits, he told me he had been sitting patiently in the waiting room when Sandi – as she preferred to be called – had walked past. They had chatted briefly and then exchanged phone numbers. They’d now been seeing each other for several weeks.

  In some ways, I was envious. Kevin seemed to be putting the events of the preceding weeks behind him. I wasn’t finding it so easy, which was something of a turnaround. In the aftermath of the Iranian Embassy operation, my friend had suffered some problems after shooting dead a very young terrorist. He had some counselling and worked his way through it. At the time, it had been my job to support him in any way I could. Now, the situations had reversed. Kevin had noticed I was having problems and, based on what Jenny had been saying in recent weeks, he wasn’t the only one.

  Chapter 31

  Hornchurch, Essex

  ‘It’s crap, boss.’ Kevin was gripping Cyclone in his outstretched fist.

  My lips curved into a smile. ‘Like I said, it’s just an attempt to cash in on 9/11. Did you expect anything else? The publishers were just lucky that such a major attack occurred just as they were ready to launch the book.’

  ‘Not being funny, but you reckon it was just a coincidence?’

  I laughed, not just at the idea of Cristea Publishing knowing about the New York attacks but at the way Kevin’s Welsh accent became stronger when he was angry. ‘I don’t think publishers have an inside track on what Al Q’aeda does, if that’s what you mean?’ I answered. ‘Now grab these.’ The two black holdalls I was carrying were heavy. I grunted as I heaved them into the hallway of Kevin’s house.

  ‘Not sure what I expected, really. I guess I was a bit scared he would name names. Did you read how he always said with the SAS rather than in the SAS? He’s a bloody Walt, if you ask me.’ Kevin headed to the kitchen and turned the kettle on, something he always did when under pressure.

  ‘Well, I read it too,’ I said. ‘And, with the exception of the base Commander, I couldn’t work out who he was referring to or even if they were based on real blokes.’ I shut the front door and followed Kevin into the kitchen.

  ‘I know what you mean. I reckon I could pick a couple of others out as well. Beaky is a bloody fantasist, though. He talks about his supposed postings with the Regiment as well as his time in Afghan on the Cyclone Op. And did you read about his love life? Better than James Bond’s apparently.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ I said. ‘It’s not our problem is it?’

  ‘Not really, no … but it’s annoying. He’s either done a lot of talking to guys who should know better, or he was there. My guess – he was one of the contractors who went out there first thing, before the Op really got going.’

  ‘I don’t think I met any of them.’ I said.

  ‘Me neither. I would have remembered him. Thankfully, he makes no mention of Regiment involvement. There’s nothing about the Increment guys either. That’s lucky for him, in my opinion. If he’d mentioned their names he would be watching his back for evermore.’

  Increment was the code name for the small group of SAS soldiers that went to work for MI6 on a full-time basis. They were
given false identities to help with their cover. Increment did the dirty, deniable operations that MI6 required their kind of expertise for. Not surprisingly, they were tough men.

  ‘Recognise anyone in the photos?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really … difficult to tell with the faces blurred out.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about then, Kev. Not like what’s in those bags in your hallway.’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘Cyclone was supposed to have been a black op. How the fuck did a drunk like Beaky get in on the act?’

  I decided to take over the tea-making. Kevin was too wound up. For the next twenty minutes I was compelled to listen as he went through page after page of the book, dissecting Beaky’s claims and reading out sections that were either inaccurate or could prove embarrassing.

  In the end, Kevin reluctantly agreed that Cyclone was a mix of fantasy and fact, dressed up to look like the real thing. It exposed the fact that MI6 and the CIA were using the Mujahideen to battle-test weapons against the Russian army but no more. The press would probably lap it up and the public would buy the book. Whatever happened, it wasn’t our problem.

  As darkness fell, we finished the brew and headed to Kevin’s allotment. Beneath the wooden timbers of his tool shed, he had dug a shallow hole into which he had placed a series of small plastic bins. It was secret, perfectly sealed and damp-proof, and it took just a couple of minutes to add my kit to his. There it would remain secure until such time as I would dispose of the weapons properly. I would get them melted down or do something with them that stopped them from falling into the wrong hands.

  But not yet. Not until I was sure.

  Chapter 32

  Bucharest arrivals hall was surprisingly small for such a large city. I scanned the throng of taxi drivers, friends and relatives who almost blocked the route to the exits. There was no one holding a sign bearing our name.

  ‘Finlay,’ called a male voice. A muscular arm waved in the crowd. Then there was a beaming face. It was Petre, Marica’s bodyguard.

  I made to shake hands, but Petre brushed my open palm aside and engulfed me in a bear hug. Then he shook Jenny’s hand, gentle and polite, although, from the look on her face, I guessed that she could feel the power of his grip.

  With Jenny introduced, and after allowing me a moment to recover my breath, Petre took hold of our bags and led the way across the arrivals concourse to the car park. A blue-uniformed politia officer was standing chatting and smoking with the driver of a black Mercedes. When the driver saw Petre, he threw his cigarette into the gutter. This had to be our ride.

  Marica had booked us into the Inter-Continental on Nicolae Balcescu Boulevard. It was nice and central, within an easy walk of the Old City and overlooking the National Theatre. Petre did his best to chat during the twenty-minute drive, but the noise of the traffic and the limits of his English vocabulary meant much of what he said was lost in translation.

  Arriving at the hotel, Petre suggested we let him take care of the booking-in process, so we handed him our passports and a smart concierge showed us to our room on the third floor.

  The room was large and very comfortable. I winked at Jenny as soon as I saw the huge bed. But her response surprised me. The smile that greeted me looked forced. Something had upset her.

  ‘What’s up, Jen?’ I asked, as the concierge left, having politely refused my tip. ‘Don’t you like it?’ I leapt onto the bed.

  ‘In the car … did you see what I saw?’ she answered.

  I shook my head, confused.

  ‘In the pocket behind the driver seat. There was a set of handcuffs.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe the owner is into a bit of bondage?’ I said, trying to make light of it. In truth, I was puzzled that I hadn’t spotted them. ‘Shall I check the bedside drawers,’ I suggested. ‘See if they’ve left some for us?’

  ‘Be serious. There was blood on them. At least it looked like it … dried blood … and did you see the holes in the back of the seat? They looked like they were stiletto marks.’

  I had to confess that I hadn’t noticed the cuffs or the puncture marks. I’d been too busy looking at the scenery and passing traffic.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s not go jumping to any conclusions. I’ll ask Petre when he brings up the passports.’

  Petre arrived about five minutes after the suitcases, while Jenny was taking a shower. In reply to my question about what she had seen, he shrugged, and explained that the car was a spare he had been given to collect us from the airport. Many of the Cristeas’ employees used it. He always travelled in the front so he had not seen the damage to the rear of the seats. He promised to ask the driver.

  After checking that I had a copy of Marica’s itinerary, he said good-night and left us to it. We would be collected at eleven the next morning.

  We ate an early dinner. The waiter seemed to be especially attentive and even knew where we were headed the next day. In good English he told us he knew the Cristeas well: an important family who often used the hotel for their guests, he said.

  As we left, he told us that the weather forecast for the next day was good. ‘As we locals say, the Cristeas can even arrange the weather,’ he said, with a broad grin.

  Chapter 33

  My first sight of Beaky, or ‘Chas’ Collins as he was now known, was at breakfast the next morning. It was a buffet and as I helped myself to my favourites, I caught a partially obscured view of a couple sat at the far side of the restaurant. One of them was unmistakably Beaky, my memory of him prompted by my conversation with Kevin. I wondered if he might recognise me; a lot of water had passed under the bridge since the time we’d been on a selection course together, and it looked like we had both put on a few pounds.

  Sat next to Collins, with her back to the buffet area, was a woman with bleached blonde hair. My first guess was that she was his wife, although I vaguely recalled Kevin saying that Collins was divorced. Perhaps she was the girlfriend, I thought. On the adjacent table sat two men; they were in their early thirties – tanned and sporting short haircuts, and wearing light bomber jackets over T-shirts and jeans. Just like Petre: personal protection.

  One of the bodyguards was watching the room while the other ate. The observer made eye contact with me as I gazed over at Collins, then had a quiet word with his companion. Just as I returned to loading my plate, I saw that both men looked across at me.

  Heading back to our table I told Jenny what I had seen.

  ‘Do authors normally employ security, then?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea.’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s because he’s in Eastern Europe; or maybe he’s provoked a reaction with his book.’

  ‘If the Cristea family use the hotel for their guests, I wonder if we’ll see anyone famous.’

  I sensed that Jenny was starting to feel a tinge of excitement.

  As I was finishing my breakfast, Jenny reached across and tapped me on the back of the hand. I looked up and followed her eyes across the room. The Collins party were leaving – one of the guards leading, with the other bringing up the rear. As the group walked past, I was able to get a better look at the woman who had been sitting with her back to the buffet area. Her blonde hair was tied back. She was attractive, but there was a steel in her expression that indicated toughness. I put her in her mid-forties, a bit younger than me. With a confident, determined walk and her black trouser suit, she looked every inch a businesswoman.

  Two cars were waiting at the front of the hotel when we came down in our wedding finery. The taste for using black Mercedes seemed to have continued, only this time they were a lot newer than the car used by Petre for the airport journey.

  We were being treated like VIPs: a uniformed porter held the rear door of the nearest car open for us; the car smelled new and was in pristine condition. The other Mercedes was in front and appeared to be unoccupied. We waited; there seemed to be some form of delay – the two drivers were very animated, talking heatedly as they prepared for their remaining passengers. I guessed it wou
ld be the Collins party and I was right. A few moments later they emerged from the door of the hotel.

  It was then that the reason for the argument between the drivers became clear: there wasn’t enough seating in the car unless one of the bodyguards sat in the back with Collins and his companion. It looked like they were unhappy with the idea.

  The solution was obvious and after a short debate, the driver of our Mercedes opened the door and asked whether we minded if one of the guards rode in the front of our car.

  With the passenger logistics sorted, the drive began. The bodyguard mumbled a ‘thanks’ and shrugged.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I said.

  ‘He wasn’t happy about one of us riding in the back with him,’ he replied, gruffly.

  ‘Likes his privacy, I guess?’

  ‘Something like that. She didn’t mind … he didn’t like it. I’ll be sure not to trouble you.’

  The main road away from the hotel was busy but not congested and, save for the occasional delay to overtake horse-drawn carts, we made good progress out of the city.

  We headed north. At one point, I noticed Jenny discreetly checking the storage pocket in the rear of the driver’s seat. It didn’t take much to guess what she was looking for.

  For the remainder of the journey, neither the bodyguard nor the driver spoke. After about an hour we turned off the main road into a more rural area – passing through small villages with brightly painted houses and quiet lanes. All the houses had high garden walls along the side that faced onto the road. Privacy seemed to be very important in this country.

  In the fields we saw cattle and sheep tended by men with packs of large dogs. There were also people harvesting what looked like maize. They were cutting it by hand, stacking it into huge bundles and then laying it in carts, the horses that drew them waiting patiently. Elsewhere, men were cutting fallen trees with hand-held saws and using huge axes to chop logs.