Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  Cade watched the air traffic controllers, impressed at their quiet and unassuming manner. East Midlands was, according to the ATC officer, hardly a busy airport in comparison to Heathrow but it had enough traffic to make it interesting at times. As he said interesting, he too did the thing with the fingers. It was obviously fashionable. Cade made a mental note not to do it.

  They left the tower and drove a few miles criss-crossing the airport, using taxiways and crash gates to navigate until they reached a bridge over the M1, one of the busiest motorways in Britain.

  Hazard left the car and asked Cade to follow him. As they reached the far side of the bridge they stopped. Attached to the bridge was a plaque.

  The airport had gained global attention in 1989, when tragically a disabled inbound British Midland 737 had lost power and struck the steep embankment of the nearby motorway, killing forty-seven people. It was only seconds away from landing.

  They both took a moment to read the inscription before Hazard spoke.

  “It’s what defines the village and the airport, Jack; it goes someway to explaining why the people that work here are as passionate as they are. My brother worked for Leicestershire Police at the time, he was one of the first workers to get to the scene. It was a bloody mess, that’s for sure.”

  He leant forwards and tapped the plaque gently before walking away.

  Cade took a moment to watch a 757 Icelandair flight arrive. The noise of the twin engines was immense as the crew skilfully approached the runway. The sky crackled as the aircraft flew directly over Cade’s head. He felt like punching the air. It was a great feeling to be so close to something so dynamic. He was hooked from that moment on.

  Hazard was sat in the car, smiling at Cade’s enthusiasm when he received a call on his portable radio.

  He pressed the car’s horn, summoning Cade, who jogged the short distance and got in.

  “Looks like your first job, Jack! That Thompson flight we saw land from the tower? Well, customs have some source info about a likely passenger on board; they’d like our advice and assistance on a few things. You up for it?”

  “Marvellous. Let’s go. This is why I’m here Steve, come on put those blues on!”

  Despite the combined enthusiasm of a couple of mischievous school boys they knew that they had to negotiate the airfield according to the rules, so even with the aid of a highly visible patrol car it still took a good ten minutes to reach the terminal.

  Cade turned to his new colleague.

  “Steve, can I borrow a pen and something to write on!”

  Hazard replied, “Bloody brilliant, no pen. Mad Eddie said you were intelligent!”

  “Shut up and give me your pen before I shoot you!”

  “Listen, smart arse, the pen may be mightier than the sword, but not much outruns a round from an MP5; your call.”

  Again, Hazard delivered the line with humour and esprit de corps uppermost in his mind. He beckoned to Cade as they reached the first Secure Area entry.

  “After you pal, let’s see if that card can open a few doors for you.”

  It could, in minutes Cade was being introduced to Danny Bingham, a young thick-set customs officer who had climbed swiftly through the ranks. His uniform epaulettes displayed three gold bars and a hoop which lead Cade to guess correctly that he was a chief. At thirty-three he’d done well and as Cade was about to learn he’d achieved the rank with a sprinkle of good luck, hard work and an abundance of passion for a workplace that he would describe as ‘a daily cocktail of risk versus consequence’.

  Cade stood with his teammate and Bingham, watching the passengers arrive into the search area. They were in an elevated operations area behind tinted glass, allowing them to observe undetected the various souls highlighted by diligent staff for further intervention.

  “This lot have arrived in from Alicante, Palma and Malaga. They are our main feeder airports, but we are starting to see an expansion, further out into Europe and even the southern states of the USA and Mexico.”

  Cade continued to watch, fascinated at the body language of some of the selected passengers. Some were openly confused, others slightly aggressive and the majority, whether it was small or great, had something to hide.

  “With our passenger numbers being in the three million plus category we can afford to be selective Jack, but we know a few still slip through the net. We’ve got some new technology and of course the dogs but we rely heavily on human interaction – there’s nothing better, but I guess I’m preaching to the converted?”

  “In a way Danny, yes, but I’ve come from a different world of law enforcement, so I’m here to learn. Consider me a sponge, in its literal not biological sense, and we’ll be fine. I have a real interest in people groups, you know, those from countries that the UK has never really either understood, or worse, thought they had and were a million miles short of the mark?”

  Bingham understood entirely. He’d cut his relatively junior teeth further south in the Port of Dover on the southern-most tip of England. It was to be his making. He learned quickly about how individuals and groups could exploit the system, import and occasionally export the choicest commodities, and above all make a very successful living.

  The key commodity through Dover was what loosely fitted into the duty-free category: alcohol, tobacco and similar goods.

  What Bingham was looking for whilst stood with Hazard and Cade was a different set of commodities.

  “We are looking for cash, Jack, and party drugs and any indicator that someone is being illegally brought into the country. We obviously work closely with Immigration, which is why Terry has just joined us.

  He introduced Cade to Terry Barker, a career immigration officer who, so legend had it, could sniff out an asylum seeker before he or she so much as boarded the plane in a foreign port.

  “Thanks for coming Terry, Jack has joined the Airport Police as an intelligence officer, I think you two will get along just fine. You talk the same language already. He’s got a current interest in Romanian offenders, perhaps you can explain Jack?”

  Cade outlined why he considered Eastern Europe to be a threat region, careful not to sound xenophobic he picked apart his message, highlighting how it was the few Romanians, some, but not all of gypsy origin that were starting to harm the homeland.

  “I need to try to get the message across. If we start low and aim high, we’ll get there, Terry, but it may take a number of years to succeed. no-one, with the notable exception of the present company and a few of my old bosses, seems to want to listen. These folk are adept at using computer equipment, and some are bloody brilliant with numbers, combine that with a smattering of Soviet training and street craft and as they say Robert’s your mother’s brother.”

  Barker paused for a second, a puzzled look on his face, and then spoke.

  “I get it, Bob’s your uncle! Yep, you are spot on Jack, good to have someone on board that thinks the same way. I was reading the Office for National Statistics blurb the other day.”

  Cade interjected, “Christ, you know how to live!”

  Barker continued, either ignoring or missing the sarcasm, “they are starting to record inbounds from the former Eastern Bloc but it’s not enough, the system is fractured at best, give it ten years I predict we’ll be half a million out.”

  It was a sobering thought for those gathered in the glasshouse.

  Barker continued in a groove now and clearly enjoying having a new audience.

  “The issue is Jack that we, as in the government, are concentrating on the big fish, the largest airports, you know, Heathrow, Gatwick, Manchester, but the buggers are getting in through here and Leeds and Stanstead, we are more porous than a Dutch dyke and I’m not talking lesbian.”

  Danny Bingham was tapping data into a computer terminal, trying not to laugh and attempting to check the Customs and Excise intelligence system, looking for cross matches or alerts, either those linked to passport movements or previous intelligence records.

>   Cade was looking over his shoulder, learning a new system and comparing it to the relatively archaic Police National Computer system that he was used to.

  He pointed to a name in the flight manifest, which for no reason appealed to him.

  “So, taking that name there, can we search across our systems, police check, immigration check and customs? You know, all cross-matching and coming up with an intelligence picture?”

  It was Barker who replied first, “Sadly not Jack, one day I’m sure and I hear it’s not too far away but for now, I’m sure you’ve heard this already, but it’s human intelligence that wins, that and taking a punt now and then, seeing a gap and trying to fill it.”

  Cade nodded, encouraging more.

  “Our source intel tells us we are looking for a redhead today. Why not have a go, pick a passenger out there and get Danny to run them through their system, use that telephone there to run a PNC check and I’ll do the same. Like I say, sometimes it’s about taking a risk.”

  Cade embraced the challenge and looked down the list, trying to match it to the person stood in the search area.

  “OK, Geoff Pullen, UK national, 17th July 1961, seems to travel a lot between here and Ibiza. I’m going for party drugs; tanned, wearing a red tracksuit and sporting a recently pierced ear, he looks like an aging DJ! And above all, he’s a redhead!”

  Danny Bingham almost yelled, “He’s not a redhead, he’s ginger!”

  The team laughed but knew Cade probably wasn’t a million miles from the truth.

  Cade said, “Ah yes, but ginger people are survivors; tough, adaptable and unique.”

  Terry Barker commented, “Well ginger or not he’s a Brit, so no real interest from me, so I’ll watch; I see the dog had a bit of interest but didn’t indicate, so if he had drugs then he hasn’t anymore, but let’s give it a run. Over to you, Danny boy.”

  Bingham spoke to a search officer and allowed Cade to prompt him with a few questions, it was an experiment and Mr Pullen was the guinea pig.

  They watched from behind the surveillance screen as Pullen was ushered to a search bench and started to see his suitcase emptied out with military precision onto the stainless steel table. Pullen was impassive, apparently most at ease and possibly overly confident.

  Twenty minutes later the search was over and the best questioning techniques had failed to elicit anything from the forty-one-year-old British national who was now getting packed and ready to leave for home in nearby Derby.

  “Sorry Jack, you can’t win them all,” announced Daniel Bingham. We’ll try again with the next flight, if you can hang around?”

  Cade was highly motivated, “If that’s OK with you Steve I’ll spend an hour here, things are all new and it’s a good chance to network.”

  Hazard was happy, it meant he could relinquish his responsibility as a mentor and get back out to what he enjoyed the most, quietly terrorising airport workers who were, to his mind at least, trying to run the gauntlet by moving illicit goods back and forth across the air/landside boundary.

  “Give us a shout when you are done. Here, take this radio; I’ve got another in the car. I’m Sierra Two Zero if you need me, you’re India One.”

  With that Hazard stepped out into the search area for all to see, stroking the blued metal surface of his MP5 as he walked past a group of young males, all evidently returning from an overly taxing stag weekend in Spain.

  Cade asked if he could follow Geoff Pullen for a short distance. Something was gnawing at his intuitive mind and he wasn’t about to let it end without a result.

  He exited via a side door and skilfully merged with the passengers from a newly arrived flight and one or two stragglers who had been indecisive at duty free or detained by border authorities.

  Cade took the chance and started speaking to Pullen as they both headed to the arrivals door.

  “Sir, Airport Police, can you join me over here, please?”

  Pullen was on the defensive immediately, “Listen pal, I’m not being funny but your lot ‘ave all just about taken turns in shoving their fists up my arse and they found nothing, do you hear me, fuck all, now, if you don’t mind I’d like to get home to me wife and kids.”

  “Of course I don’t mind Mr Pullen, although I doubt you’ve got kids, and for the record I didn’t see one forearm enter your rectum, but maybe I wasn’t paying attention, but you were, Geoff. You were.”

  He stared directly into his eyes, noting that Pullen was unable to hold the gaze.

  He left the last part of the sentence hanging, using his name to emphasise that this was about two people and one issue: Jack Cade, Geoff Pullen and whatever it was that Pullen was hiding.

  “Now as I am sure you know we can do this the easy way…”

  “I know, the hard way, which are you, good cop or bad cop?”

  Cade replied, “Both – and it’s a deadly mixture. So, what’s it going to be, another few hours in my custody back at the station on suspicion of you exporting ecstasy to Ibiza in the lining of your jacket to satisfy your youthful audience, or are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Pullen sighed and shook his head, “You know what kid you are good, I’ll give you that, but if you think I’ve got half a pound of crack up me poop shoot you can think again. I’m not into that shit.”

  Cade laughed at Pullen’s language which in turn caused the suspect to buckle slightly.

  “Sir, I suspect you carry it in your jacket pocket, front left to be precise, not in an altogether darker and damper location.”

  “Christ that’s all I need a copper with a sense of humour. Come on kid, let’s walk out to the car park and I’ll let you into a secret. I’m not carrying anything son, honestly, but you are right, I have got something weighing heavily on me mind.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pullen appeared to ease in Cade’s company; he wasn’t sure why as he had spent thirty years of his life just on the wrong side of right when it came to the law. He liked people to know he was a little unconventional, daring almost, and he felt this added to his sense of mystery, especially with young and attractive girls who he had been spending a disproportionate amount of time with lately.

  The reality was that most found him to be bordering on repulsive and only associated with him for his money and ability to provide them with party drugs.

  He had an advanced case of athlete’s foot, an improving case of Impetigo and a quite terrible body odour that was compounded by the daily activity of emptying an entire can of Lynx Voodoo all over his armpits, bulbous stomach and profusely sweating ginger crotch.

  It was fair to say that in his presence Cade felt overly attractive.

  To compound things, it started to rain.

  Pullen threw his much-loved and dog-eared suitcase into the boot of his white 1990 Vauxhall Astra, nodded for Cade to join him and got in. He turned the engine on as the interior had quickly fogged, the now present odour of a failing air conditioning system blending with Pullen’s own unique signature.

  Pullen pointlessly switched the wiper blades onto full and turned to Cade.

  “Right, now I’m not sure why, but I trust you, so here goes.”

  Cade nodded attentively, unsure what was going to follow. This was what he joined for.

  Pullen cleared his throat and coughed causing particles of dark brown highly adhesive phlegm to collide with the windscreen and hang there, testament no doubt to his forty a day habit.

  “Now it’s like this kid, I was sat in seat 29C right, the girls always upgrade me as I travel so much, I’m what you call a frequent flyer, any road, on the way home today I was sat next to a lady.”

  He smiled a knowing smile and continued.

  “Now, my educated ear told me she was a Russian, and I don’t mean she was in a hurry neither!” The joke failed to raise more than a snort from its audience.

  “Now, what’s wrong with that Mr Pullen? I hear you ask, albeit you didn’t.” The conversation was clearly going to take a
long time and Cade was beginning to wish Hazard would turn up and shoot his newfound friend in the kneecap.

  “Well,” Pullen continued, “The point is she was gorgeous, I couldn’t take my eye off her, so me being me, you know DJ Pullen Power, that’s me,” he skilfully handed a business card to Cade, “well, I thought in for a penny, so I started chatting her up.”

  “And?”

  “And she tells me she’s a Bulgarian, on the run from her boyfriend, he’s some big unit in a gang over there, living in Spain though, into all sorts, mainly moving girls around Europe and stealing top-end motors. So, I get chatting and after about an hour I’ve got her eating out of my hand.”

  Cade offered an airline-related pun, “Did she have the chicken or the fish?”

  Pullen continued, clearly on a roll.

  “Forget that hombre, that’s Spanish by the way, she didn’t eat, I ‘ad her dinner, but after she slept for half an hour she talked, non-stop until we landed, said she was heading to London and that she was on the run from some bloke called Jack Dawes.”

  The rain was now persistent, entrapping Cade in the faded hatchback, its cloth seats sagging and suspiciously damp.

  “Jack Dawes? Who’s he? Any idea?”

  “I have and that’s where you come in officer.”

  Cade was unsure where the conversation was heading but felt compelled to ask the obvious question.

  “Go on.”

  “I will, thanks. Look it’s like this I’ve got a couple of parking tickets and I wondered if you could, you know, see your way to getting them sponged off?”

  “Expunged?”

  “Ay, that an’ all, expunged.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck you then.”

  “Geoff and we were doing so well, OK, I’ll see what I can do, give them to me.”

  Pullen replied, “How did you know I’ve got them in the car?”

  Cade, swift as striking cobra replied, “Because Geoff you keep every other fucking thing in here, it’s a mobile dustbin, a health hazard and a bloody death trap too. Give me the tickets and keep talking before I arrest you for something.”