by Hayden, Mark
She found a neglected planting of shrubs in a raised concrete bed. Dodging out of CCTV range, she buried the battery. Safe enough.
Keeping close to the walls, she weaved her way to Departures. A stream of people were being dropped off by taxis which lingered only for a second before roaring off into the traffic. She stopped one at random and climbed in the front.
‘Harbour,’ she said.
The driver understood that much, and with gestures, signs and a twenty dollar bill, she convinced him to lend her his phone.
She dialled Wei’s number and caught him just before his shift at the restaurant began.
‘Kate. I thought you leaving tonight.’
‘Slight change of plan. I’m in a taxi. If I put you on to the driver, can you tell him to take me back into town and drop me at a shop which sells phones for cash?’
‘Of course. Are you alright?’
‘I think so. I’ll text you when I’ve got a new phone.’
She passed the receiver to the driver and sat back.
He first took her to a little shop whose female owner spoke good English. Kate left with with a selection of handsets and SIM cards, and a very small laptop. Then the driver took her to the hotel in which she was now holed up and considering her options.
When she had discovered the fake batteries, she experienced a feeling she had never felt before. All her life, someone had covered her back: first her family, then her adopted family – the Army. She thought that Skinner’s outfit would do the same, but it seemed that someone wanted to stab her in the back, not cover it. Kate was no James Bond. She couldn’t deal with this on her own against the world; she needed help.
She needed someone who was both in the correct hemisphere and who was tricky enough to come up with a suggestion for how to get away. She knew just the right man, but unfortunately she had no idea how to contact him. Well, there was one person who should know.
She opened the laptop and tethered one of her mobiles for a data connection. She found what she wanted on a public database – his mother’s phone number in Gloucestershire. Kate made the first call.
Tom tried not to panic, but it was very difficult. He’d seen this trick on the TV enough times to have got bored of it, but when a real live person magically appears behind you, it’s very, very scary. He glanced at the mirror, but saw only shadows. He breathed twice and put his hands on his knees.
‘How did you do that? I didn’t think anyone could copy these remote keys.’
‘I didn’t need to. I just watched you approach with all your bags and slipped into the back seat when you had the boot open. There’s a blind spot.’
The voice was cultured and clipped and a little high. He’d recognise it again.
‘I’m not pointing a gun at you, or anything melodramatic. I just want to put proposition to you.’
When the man used longer words, the accent stumbled just a little. Just enough to suggest this wasn’t quite his normal speaking voice.
‘Go on.’
‘Everyone’s entitled to his opinion, of course, but that doesn’t mean they’re in the right. John Lake, for example, is of the opinion that the peace process is more important than justice for Benedict Adaire’s victims. We disagree. We’d like to see Adaire go down for a very long time, and we’d like you to be the one to do it.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re desperate to catch those counterfeiters as well as nailing Adaire. And his murderous associates. It’s like this, Inspector. Tomorrow, John Lake or one of his friends will tell Adaire that he’s been rumbled. He will go to ground, and the counterfeiters will move on. You’ll never get them. If you act tonight, you’ll get Adaire, his friends, a shipment of Euros and the courier. You’ll even get the weapons they used on Griffin and company.’
‘How on earth do you know that? Are you part of this operation?’
‘Hardly. Like you, we uphold the law but we also have GCHQ at our disposal. We’ve been tracking mobile signals near Adaire since Thursday night. The computers they have down there can see patterns it would take me days to figure out. Once we’d identified the numbers, we listened in. Adaire is going to take first delivery of some Euros to go to Ireland tonight.’
Tom’s hands were sweating and he wiped them on his trousers. He needed thinking time. ‘Lancashire & Westmorland already have Adaire under surveillance. He’ll lead them straight to the handover.’
‘They’re good but they haven’t put enough men on it. Adaire always takes elaborate precautions involving a nightclub. He’ll give them the slip without even knowing they’re there. He’s like that. So what do you say? Are you up for it or are you going to let them get away again? You won’t get a better offer.’
‘Okay, I’m in. Do I follow you or meet you up there.’
‘Good man, Inspector. We’ll take your car. Pass me your phone first. I don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone except you.’
He might lose his job. He might be arrested. He might end up like Hooper or Griffin. All of those outcomes were undesirable, but Tom was more certain than he’d ever been: if he let them get away again because he bottled it, he would regret it for every day of his life. To show willing, he passed his phone over his shoulder, started the engine and headed for the motorway.
‘As you pointed out, these people are not shy with guns. How am I going to arrest them?’
‘We’ll get backup when we’re there. Don’t worry.’
That was the least reassuring thing he’d heard since Caroline told him their marriage was as secure as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Chapter 14
Kabul — Hong Kong — Blackpool
Wednesday
3 November
The helicopter simulator was more expensive than a real helicopter, but cheaper in the long run: it saved lives and money. Conrad Clarke’s students would have worked their way through several million pounds worth of kit, and would be dead many times over if they’d been let loose on the real thing.
Mind you, he thought, it won’t be long before they’re suiting up for real. He didn’t know whether to envy them their youth and health or pity them because he would go home to England, and they would go out to fight the Taliban.
In between sessions, he heard a shout across the hangar from the office. Someone called his name and waved him over. He limped across the floor and saw an ex-Marine Corps soldier in the uniform of an American private military contractor outside the squadron office. It was the personal bodyguard of his loathsome American boss. Clarke had no idea whether the PMC was equally loathsome because he had never heard the man speak.
‘Afternoon, soldier.’
No response.
Well, it didn’t hurt to be polite. Inside the office, his boss was looking at the orders pinned to the wall. Clarke collapsed into his chair and rubbed his leg. The surgeons had warned him that it would be sensitive to cold. ‘Tea!’ he shouted, and the squadron servant began to scurry about. He was distantly related to one of the pilots, and Clarke paid his wages out of the allowance he had been given for his own bodyguard. He couldn’t care less about his own safety, but he cared a lot about having hot tea on demand and someone to look after him. The man had only one hand after an encounter with the Taliban.
The servant put two mugs down on the desk and left them alone. Clarke lit a cigarette.
‘You can’t do that in here,’ said the American. Clarke pointed to a sign that said Non-smokers should stand in the doorway. The American started wafting his hand, but gave up and opened the office door before sitting down.
‘Congratulations are due. I think.’
‘I think so too,’ said Clarke. ‘My squadron won the Stage One simulator competition hands down. Beat your lot into a cocked hat.’
‘The ones that survived did very well. Shame you had so many fall by the wayside.’
‘Change the rules, then. That’s what normally happens when Americans lose something. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
/> The American’s lip twitched ever so slightly. He wanted Clarke to call him Sir just as he’d tried to call Clarke Captain. Clarke’s response had been, ‘Neither of us has a commission from the Afghan Airforce. Until we do, I don’t think ranks are appropriate.’
‘We’re due a break soon. Progress has been good, well up to target. I’ve had orders from Washington, though. We’ve to give your squadron ten days furlough with immediate effect. Not you, though. You’re going to get new orders.’
Clarke groaned. He was just getting used to life in Kabul. He didn’t want to be jetting off again. ‘Thanks. I suppose.’
The American went to leave, and Clarke said, ‘You’re welcome.’
‘What for?’
‘The tea. It’s considered rude in Afghanistan not to take hospitality when it’s offered.’
The American left and his bodyguard fell into step behind him.
The office phone rang, and the servant answered it. Most of the calls were local, and Clarke needed a translator. He didn’t notice at first that the servant had switched to English until he shouted over to him.
‘There’s a lady on the line, Chief. She says she’s your mother, but I think she’s too young.’
Who on earth? He picked up the phone and said hello. The caller actually was his mother. His first thought was that something must have happened to his father.
‘Is everything alright?’
‘Yes, dear. We’re all in the best of health. I’ve had a call from someone who claims to be an old friend. I’ve sent their contact details by encrypted email. I can’t stop, this call is costing me a fortune. Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be in touch.’
Clarke passed on the good news about the ten days leave to his squadron, and they high fived each other as if they were extras from Top Gun (which many of them thought they were). He wrapped up the session and headed back to his quarters.
He expected the email to be from an old flying comrade. Probably someone looking for work. When he saw the name he took a sharp breath. What on earth did Kate Lonsdale want? His mother had included a note saying that it seemed urgent. He looked up the Country Code and saw it was for Hong Kong. Good grief. What on earth was she up to? He dialled the number, and she answered immediately.
‘Hello, Kate. Why has the Army sent you to Hong Kong?’
‘Haven’t you heard? I left the Army and I’m freelance now. Listen, Conrad, I know this is a bit cheeky, but I’m in a spot of bother and I need your advice.’
Was she really in trouble? She could easily be laying a trap for him if she were still pursuing Jensen’s death.
‘Why me?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t have thought I was your favourite person after what happened to Vinnie.’
‘You weren’t my first choice, but you’re sneaky and you’re on the right continent.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I was about to fly to Shanghai, and someone, possibly my boss, planted something in my luggage.’
‘What was it and where is it now?’
‘Three lithium batteries. Big ones. I’d rather not say on the phone where they are.’
‘Describe them.’
‘Grey metal cases. Sealed. Connectors at one end. All the labelling is in Chinese except for the words “Disposs of carefully.” That’s “Dispose” but spelt wrong … Hello? Conrad? Are you there?’
‘Yes. How long have you got?’
‘I’m supposed to be on a plane in the morning, our time, so about eight hours.’
‘I’ll call you back in less than an hour. Promise.’
He lit a cigarette and studied the picture of Ganesha on the lighter: it was decision time. If it had been anything else, he might have helped her or he might have left her. He didn’t know. But this was different.
He’d seen those batteries – and the spelling mistake – before. Lots of times. They were a sideline of his shadowy employers, and he knew what was in them. The question was this: why would they be giving Kate Lonsdale three canisters full of pure, refined heroin? Presumably to get rid of her into the Chinese justice system. Should he let them get on with it or not?
Ganesha stared at him, broken tusk in hand. He flicked it on to the back and focused on the little engraving of the fish. Mina. He carried her name in his pocket everywhere.
Could he ever look Mina in the eye if he sent Kate to prison as his bosses clearly wanted? If he helped her get away from China, would he be able to keep his job and his life?
He rolled the lighter round and round in his hand looking first at the god and then at the fish.
God, fish, god, fish.
He snapped his fingers closed around it when his phone rang.
He had only heard this voice twice before – when he was told to sort out a problem in England, and afterwards to thank him for his work and send him to Afghanistan. As far as he could tell, it was the voice of the Commanding Officer, the man in charge of the whole Rainbow of operations – Red Flag, Green Light, Blue Sky. Well, Clarke called him the Commanding Officer in his head.
‘Clarke?’
‘Sir.’
‘Get to Hong Kong and await further instructions. We have a situation there that you need to sort out. Kate Lonsdale has gone AWOL with some of our merchandise, and she needs to be dealt with.’
‘Sir.’
He disconnected the call and rolled the lighter around again. This didn’t sound good at all.
The journey to Blackpool was conducted in silence. The man in the back had begun and ended the conversation by saying, ‘Don’t make small talk. Or ask questions.’
They had to stop to buy diesel, and to allow Tom to go to the toilet. Instead of the motorway services, he was directed to a small garage off Junction 27. He also needed a drink because he couldn’t remember his mouth being this dry. His passenger seemed unaffected by such minor things. When Tom went to fill the tank, he simply lay down on the back seat and disappeared. Tom made a point of not looking, but when he was queueing to pay, he could feel the man’s eyes on him every second. He didn’t try to make contact with anyone.
At the end of the M55, he was told to put a postcode into his satnav, and the electronic voice directed him to a deserted street well away from the hordes of families driving into town to enjoy the Illuminations. Tom had never seen the lights, nor had he ever wanted to, but he promised himself that after tonight he was going to make a pilgrimage along the Prom to remind himself how stupid he was being.
‘Pull up here.’
Tom parked the car and switched off the engine.
‘Open the boot and put your hands on the dashboard where I can see them.’
His passenger’s tone had changed from invitation to command. Perhaps it was how the man was used to dealing with people. Perhaps he had made a special effort to talk Tom into joining him. Perhaps not. The most likely explanation was that the man had Tom exactly where he wanted him, and couldn’t be bothered to ask nicely.
He did as he was told, and the man got out. Tom checked his watch; it took the man two minutes to return and put something in the boot. The lid was slammed down and the back door opened.
‘We’re going to wait for an hour and twenty minutes. Make yourself comfortable.’
Tom did just that. He took off his seat belt and twisted his legs to take the pressure off his back. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what he knew for certain, and to ignore what was speculation.
The passenger had connections with the security services. That was for certain. He knew who John Lake was and what he had said. This didn’t mean he was actually a member, just that he knew people who were.
He had got close to Adaire’s operation as well. The telephone intercepts showed that the man had very good intelligence indeed. A hundred things were bothering him, but one stuck out from the others: how did he know about Adaire’s habit of dodging into the nightclub to avoid detection? Had they followed him before or did they have a
source inside Adaire’s team that they weren’t going to admit to?
The darkness and the motorway driving took their toll. Tom had no obligation to keep watch, and so he let his passenger do the worrying. Tom fell asleep.
‘Wake up, Inspector. It’s ten o’clock.’
‘Right. Okay.’
He ached. All over.
‘Get out and go for a walk to the end of the street. You’ll be stiff, and the cold air will wake you up.’
Tom didn’t argue. He took his time and stretched his arms. His right leg had almost gone to sleep. He was more awake when he got back in but he was more worried, too. Something was about to happen.
Hong Kong’s night life was in full swing and it took Kate a few minutes to find a relatively quiet corner in a bar to wait for Conrad’s call.
Of all the six billion people in the world, why had she rung Conrad Clarke? She had other friends who had left the Army, but she had lost touch with all of them after they handed in their uniforms. Clarke wasn’t even a friend – she knew him, yes, but he was also the man who had organised the flight which killed her fiancé. Only Vinnie hadn’t really been her fiancé, because he had never proposed.
She wore the ring around her neck, the one that Vinnie had obtained from Conrad, the one he had been carrying in his pocket when the chopper plunged into the mosque killing him and the pilot.
She didn’t even know what Conrad could do to help, but there had been all sorts of rumours about him when he was in the RAF. He was the one who could be relied on for illicit booze or dope if you were organising a party. One night, a junior officer had told her, in all sincerity, that Clarke owned an antique shop in the Cotswolds where he sold historical artefacts smuggled out of Afghanistan and Iraq. Her phone rang.
‘Hi Kate, everything okay?’
‘So far.’
‘Where are the batteries? I need to know if I’m going to help you.’
‘Two are still in my case at the airport hotel. The other one is in a safe place.’