The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Er … yes. Sorry, Nell. It was something he said that prompted me to ask you to look into Howard’s background.’

  ‘Not too much of a surprise then?’

  Toni detected an irony in Nell’s choice of words and tone that she sensed was deliberate. ‘I had a feeling we’d find his mucky hands on this somewhere,’ she answered.

  ‘You did ask me to include his finances in my searches,’ Nell continued. ‘And there’s something else I need to show you.’

  ‘Where’s Stuart?’ Toni asked.

  ‘He must be late in. Can I show you the something else?’

  ‘In a minute, Nell, this is important,’ Toni replied. ‘Did he find out anything about that prostitute?’

  ‘The one we caught with Mr Green?’

  ‘Nothing much gets past you, does it, Nell?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I hope not. I was curious why you asked him to look into her background?’

  ‘Another hunch I’m exploring.’ Toni smiled at her. ‘Like you, Stuart seems to have a knack for finding things out.’

  The report they had just gone through was thorough and up to Nell’s usual standards. By focussing on the additional material the Al Anfal document contained – compared to the Muslim Brotherhood ‘Project’ report – she had highlighted a selection of the monetary transactions and routes used to launder cash and had traced those back to their original sources. In an imaginative move, she had then produced a map of illegal arms smuggling, heroin and slave trafficking routes, and compared them to the financial transactions. The similarities were remarkable. One series of routes had become the focus of her attention when she noticed how they all ended up in one place: Romania. And more specifically, at the door of the Cristea family, the very same people she had been researching less than a year previously.

  And, for any normal researcher, that may have been where the trail ended. But Nell wasn’t just any researcher. She kept digging, checking and cross-referencing until she noticed another coincidence. A file relating to a mercenary soldier: a Serbian called Petre Gavrić who was last seen in Romania, and whose name she recognised from the ‘police-wanted’ circulations. A man who had escaped a swoop on traffickers that had resulted in the closure of the UK-based Cristea prostitution and pornography operation. Access to his file was blocked but Nell had been determined not to give up until she found out by whom.

  And when she did, she had realised it was time to tell her boss.

  ‘So what else did you find out about Howard Green?’ Toni asked.

  ‘That he spends well beyond his means.’

  ‘Using money from his wife?’

  ‘No corresponding or equivalent movement of funds that I could find. Wherever Howard Green gets his money from, it isn’t her.’

  The familiar buzzing of the security door release distracted Toni from the screen. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Stuart in the doorway. Great timing, she thought, wondering what he would think of Nell’s discovery.

  ‘Martina Proctor, the prostitute,’ said Stuart, without being asked as he dropped his coat onto an empty desk. ‘Not surprisingly, that wasn’t her real name. She was, or is, from Romania. Is there a brew on?’

  ‘We were just talking about her,’ replied Toni. ‘What did you find out? I thought she was a Londoner?’

  Stuart headed to the cubby hole and flicked on the kettle as he called back to them. ‘Well, she isn’t, but I remember her voice too and, yes, she had me fooled as well. Anyway, the upshot is she’s disappeared. She had a criminal record for street prostitution as long as your arm. Hardly a week seemed to go by without her being pulled in and either cautioned or charged with soliciting. But a week after we saw her with Howard Green was the last time she came to notice. Since then, nothing. No arrests, not even a benefits claim.’

  ‘Like so many of the other girls that fall into that world and never seem to go home,’ said Nell, her voice tinged with sadness.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Toni. ‘And I can’t help but think how convenient it would be for Howard Green if Martina Proctor was no longer in existence.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Stuart, from the doorway. ‘I ran her prints through the Interpol database and it came up with her original name. Maria something … I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it. Anyway, I did some more checking with the Immigration Service and the Home Office and I managed to find out when she came to the UK. She travelled on a scheduled flight from Bucharest in 1999.’

  ‘A flight? You might have thought she’d have come over in the back of a lorry or something?’

  ‘No, she flew. And it gets better.’ Stuart was now grinning, as if looking forward to seeing the reactions as he divulged what he had learned. His smile turned to a look of mild disappointment as his two colleagues simply waited silently for him to continue.

  ‘OK,’ he continued. ‘Get this. I checked the flight list with one of my old mates at Heathrow to confirm what I’d been told.’

  ‘Typical copper,’ said Nell, mischievously.

  ‘Just being thorough. And I was glad I did. I found her name on the manifest and you’ll never guess who was in the seat next to her?’

  Toni frowned. She hated games and was beginning to wish Stuart would stop beating around the bush and get to the point. ‘Do tell,’ she said, as patiently as she was able.

  ‘Remember Constantin Macovei?’

  ‘The trafficker that was shot by the police last year?’ said Toni.

  ‘A Cristea man supplied Howard Green’s pet prostitute,’ said Nell, as she turned to face the others.

  ‘So, Macovei brought Martina – or Maria, as she was called then – into the country?’ said Toni. ‘Martina was a Cristea trafficking victim? Are you guys thinking what I am?’

  ‘I can trump that,’ said Nell, the frustration in her voice apparent. ‘If you’d only just let me.’

  Stuart laughed. ‘Nell’s been trawling the auction sites on the dark web.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nell,’ said Toni. ‘You said you wanted to show me something else.’

  ‘At last,’ her researcher answered as she clicked the screen of her computer to a new window. ‘I found this for sale on a Pakistani auction site. I thought you’d want to know.’

  Toni leaned across her to look at what Nell had found. ‘What the hell,’ she exclaimed.

  As Stuart also went to speak, his gaze turned towards the security door. At the same time, a confused look appeared on Nell’s face as she too looked across. Toni spun in her chair to see what had distracted them.

  Alex Dyer, the new Deputy Director was standing in the office doorway. Stuart must have left the door open. Behind him was Suze Bickerton from Thames House. Dyer looked stern, businesslike, on a mission. Suze looked embarrassed, awkward. As if she didn’t want to be here, or something was about to happen that she wasn’t looking forward to.

  For a moment, Toni was distracted by what Nell had just discovered. She hoped – prayed – her assistant would think quickly enough to kill her screen.

  ‘Fellowes, I believe you know Mrs Bickerton?’ Dyer said, sternly.

  Fellowes? People like Dyer tended to use the surnames of their officers at meetings and similar formal occasions, but here, in the office, it would normally be first names for them, ‘sir’ to address him. This clearly wasn’t a social call.

  Toni nodded politely to Suze. She returned the compliment but avoided eye contact. Stuart was also looking rather sheepish; possibly concerned their conversation had been overheard.

  ‘Good. Fellowes, if you’d like to get your coat and come with me, please. Nell and Stuart, you will remain here with Mrs Bickerton. Make sure you give her your utmost cooperation.’

  Nell and Stuart? First names for them but not for me? Toni thought. Things were not looking good. It looked like the shit had hit the fan, big time.

  Her hands trembled as she reached for her handbag beneath the desk. She could feel every pair of eyes in the tiny office staring at her, watch
ing her move, looking to see her reaction. Don’t give them the satisfaction, she told herself; just keep calm.

  Just keep calm.

  Chapter 59

  ‘Want to tell me what the fuck is going on?’ Kevin eased himself closer to me as he spoke.

  My mind was racing with theories. Howard Green with Petre? What did it mean? Why was an enforcer from the Cristea slave-trafficking family working with an MI6 officer? What was the connection? I ran through what Toni had told me about the Al Anfal document; her warning about it and about Howard’s clean-up mission, and the words of Omar Shabat, the Minister. There had to be a common denominator.

  I didn’t reply, for even if I’d had an answer to the question Kevin had posed, Grady immediately ordered us to stay quiet.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Howard, as he stepped close enough to converse without raising his voice. ‘A long time since I’ve seen you two.’

  ‘Nearly twenty years, I’d say,’ Kevin answered. ‘And I was looking up at you then as well.’

  Howard laughed. ‘Yes, I do believe you were. I confess, I thought you’d never get out of that little scrape.’

  Twenty years? My mind returned to Afghanistan, and to the last time I had seen Howard there. He’d been working out of the MI6 office at Peshawar in Pakistan and had been responsible for much of the reception and analysis of Russian hardware that Beaky had written about in his book, Cyclone.

  ‘Your lies nearly got me killed, and you never as much as said sorry or even a little thanks,’ Kevin spat.

  I heard the bitterness in the words, the rage of a man who held a grudge, and I remembered. I remembered how Kevin had been tasked with covering an extraction of equipment by Howard and his team and how the promise of help to fight off a large Russian force had failed to materialise. I remembered how I’d finally found my friend, wounded and bleeding, in hiding and kept going by a mixture of anger and adrenalin. All bar three of the Mujahideen Kevin had fought alongside had been killed, and every man that escaped had been injured, no exceptions. And I also remembered why, after Toni had told me what had really been going on to hide the real nature of the Al Anfal document, I’d decided not to tell Kevin the truth. I knew my friend well, knew how he’d react to the news that a man who had abandoned him to his fate was also responsible for the deaths of so many of his friends. As old wounds were opened, good sense would have gone out the window as an all-consuming desire for revenge took over. And Kevin would have let that happen; he would have gone after Howard, and he wouldn’t have stopped until the man had suffered for what he’d done. And what would have been the benefit? Another man dead and Kevin’s life ruined. And for what?

  Howard ignored him. ‘And what of you, Robert Finlay?’ he asked. ‘You seem rather less surprised to see me than Kevin. You’ve become something of a pariah in the policing world, I’m told.’

  ‘What’s Petre doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, I’m sure that will all become clear in due course.’

  ‘Do you mind if we stand up?’ I replied. Howard was close now, not so close that we could reach him – he wasn’t that foolish – but craning my neck to see him wasn’t something I wanted to continue. I needed to be on my feet.

  ‘Mr Grady. Would you please cover these gentlemen as Petre secures them?’

  I watched as Petre walked to the back of the Range Rover and began unloading something. My view was obscured but, whatever it was, it looked heavy. He then walked to the passenger side of the car, removing a small laptop and what looked like a satellite phone. He placed both items on the bonnet before reaching back inside and emerging with two sets of plasticuffs. As the internal light came on, I also saw what appeared to be the silhouettes of two figures in the back seat. They sat still, apparently watching what was going on.

  I lowered my head as Petre took hold of my arms and applied the cuffs. Unarmed and outnumbered, I didn’t resist. There would have been little point and, at the moment, I was in one piece, a situation I planned to maintain for as long as I could.

  As Petre tied Kevin’s wrists, Grady loomed large in front of us. ‘You’re into that kind of thing, eh, Kev?’ he said.

  ‘Just fuck off, Grady.’ Kevin lunged forward but Petre moved quickly to counter his adrenalin-fuelled reaction. The Serbian kicked his legs apart and sent him sprawling onto the dirt, his face glaring angrily at the implication of what Grady was saying. He stopped struggling and lay quiet, but I could already see red weals appearing around his wrists as he strained against the cuffs.

  Petre quickly turned us both around and sat us down on the grass. He didn’t speak and, satisfied we were both secure, he stepped toward the Range Rover.

  ‘Search them then bring them inside,’ Howard barked.

  Grady placed the pistol he was holding into his belt and then lifted me to my feet. A few feet away, I could see Kevin receiving similar treatment from Petre. All the while, Grady and Kevin stared at each other, their previous friendship now replaced by open hatred. The search was thorough and methodical, and quickly produced the digital recorder that had been sitting in my pocket, a back-up that I’d been planning on using to record the interview with Mellor if I’d been unable to work the burner phone.

  Petre opened the bothy door to allow us to follow him in. Howard had pulled one of the chairs to a position against the far wall and was now sitting facing the door. The remaining furniture, a table and two more chairs, he had pushed to one corner to keep the floor area clear.

  Grady came in last, made sure we stood facing Howard and then handed him the recorder. Howard turned it on.

  ‘Planning on recording something, Finlay?’ he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  A look of uncertainty flashed across his face. He pressed ‘play’ and seemed pleased when he discovered the device was clean. ‘Bring me the gun,’ he said, addressing Grady and Petre. He turned to Kevin and me. ‘You two, sit down again.’

  As Grady left, we did as instructed. Petre watched from just behind us.

  ‘I don’t have long,’ began Howard. ‘So, to avoid any unpleasantness, I’ll be asking for your full cooperation.

  For a few moments we waited, with no further conversation taking place until Grady returned and handed Howard a small, brown paper bag. Howard peered inside, grunted approvingly and then, with a toss of his head, indicated for Grady and Petre to leave.

  ‘OK, let’s begin,’ he said, as the door closed. ‘The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can all be on our way home. What do you two know about Al Anfal?’

  ‘I should have bloody guessed,’ said Kevin. ‘You always did have a nose for a quick buck.’

  ‘So, where is the document you were planning on selling?’

  ‘From what I’m told, you lot have it.’

  ‘My lot?’

  ‘The Security Services – MI6, MI5 … whatever name you want to use. You have it.’

  Howard appeared about to respond before checking himself and turning to me. ‘And what might you have to say, Finlay? What happened to the version you obtained from Bob Bridges widow?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.

  Kevin turned to me. ‘Don’t be an idiot, boss. If you’d seen what that bloke took from the back of the car, you’d know it was a waste of time bullshitting.’

  Howard grinned. ‘Ah, yes. What I would call my back-up plan.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t bring that water container because you’re thirsty, did you?’

  Petre had lifted something heavy from the boot of the car. I’d not seen what it was but now, I realised Kevin was right. A large water container meant one thing, and not for washing or drinking. It was to make sure we talked. If Howard didn’t get the answers he sought, we were to be tortured. Waterboarding was well known to be both speedy and effective. And Howard had mentioned he was in a hurry.

  ‘Let’s move on shall we, gentlemen?’ he replied.

  Kevin’s willingness to talk surprised me, bu
t as the conversation continued in what might almost have been described as a meeting of old friends – bar the fact that one of them was holding the other two prisoner – we made good progress. Howard wanted to know who else we had spoken to about the document. Kevin kept quiet about McNeil.

  ‘You never discussed it with Toni Fellowes from MI5, then?’ Howard demanded.

  ‘Would you have wanted to share its value with the Security Services?’ I bluffed, hoping he might accept the notion we both believed the document to simply be something we could sell.

  Kevin decided to support me. ‘We agreed it. Nobody was to know apart from the translator and, as we all know, he’s now dead.’

  ‘Yes, quite regrettable. For an old man, he showed remarkable inner strength … until he gave me your names, of course.’

  ‘You killed him?’ I said.

  ‘I did my duty, Finlay. I plugged a leak. Don’t try and convince me that former Special Forces soldiers like you two wouldn’t understand that?’

  ‘So, are we also in need of silencing?’

  Howard didn’t respond for a moment, as if he were thinking.

  ‘And what about Shabat?’ I asked, and from Howard’s reaction I saw I had his immediate attention.

  ‘What of him?’ he asked.

  ‘I had a meeting with him a few days ago. It was very revealing.’ I hoped that by keeping the true nature of the conversation to myself, Howard might give away something useful.

  He didn’t. He simply shrugged. ‘Old news, Finlay and, to be frank, I couldn’t give a toss what he shared with you. That lily-livered individual couldn’t be relied on and it was a mistake on my part to think otherwise. If he’d done his job as ordered we wouldn’t be here now. So, tell me about this document, Jones?’

  ‘I thought we’d come back to that,’ Kevin answered. ‘I guess you don’t want to share? Is that why you sent the others outside because you want to cut a deal to find where I’ve stashed the copy…’

  ‘It’s not a decision I will make,’ he replied. ‘You need to understand that the men outside work at a lower security clearance level than I do, so there are things I may ask you, answers you may give that I would prefer them not to hear. I can only recommend to those above me as to how you are dealt with, based, as I said earlier, on your cooperation. Right now, you are bargaining for your lives, yes. And it has absolutely nothing to do with whether the document you have is of any value to a potential buyer.’