by Rachel Lynch
Another officer sat in his car opposite the cafe, watching through a powerful camera lens, and counting the bodies inside. There was a waitress serving tables, a man behind a counter reading a newspaper, and three customers. Helen agreed that one officer should go inside and book an internet slot, order a coffee and check the toilets. She watched as his camera, fixed to his tie, showed her everything. Soft music played inside, and the officer greeted the staff, before being shown to a table. He ordered a coffee and sat down. It was midday.
Helen’s heart rate began to taper off as she realised that they could be watching the little business for some time, and she told herself that she must carry on working. She couldn’t sit there all day hoping the two men would simply waltz in and make her life easy.
She turned away from the screen and busied herself with the CCTV footage from the garage in Lille, where the purchase of petrol had been traced, thanks to the idiots who failed to get rid of their till receipt properly when they torched the Range Rover near Calais. But she was grateful to them for it.
The footage was crystal clear, and she peered at the images as she paused the frames. Two men of North African descent were seen paying at the counter at the exact time on the receipt, but they didn’t match the descriptions and Photofits of the ones identified as Les Beurs by the angry Frenchwoman. It made sense to her and confirmed that this was a widespread operation, and one of some considerable planning, involving multiple vehicles. The two men who’d occupied the flat in Lyon had stayed here, while the other two – whom she was staring at right now on her computer screen – busied themselves with getting rid of the initial transport vehicle, the Range Rover, thinking their leg of the journey was complete.
‘You cocky bastards,’ she said under her breath. She enhanced the images in the hope that she’d get a good face-on view to run through facial recognition technology. It was a lengthy process and after a while Sylvia appeared back in the office, asking what she was up to. Helen didn’t respond at first and Sylvia peered over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows.
‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.
Helen nodded and said she’d be a couple more minutes. After she’d finished, Helen flicked expertly around her computer, showing Sylvia the lab report, the CCTV and the live reconnaissance of the internet cafe.
‘You go for the jugular, don’t you? I like that about you. You work as hard as me,’ Sylvia winked and Helen smiled.
It was one o’clock. Helen’s stomach rumbled. She was aware that Sylvia had tensed and looked up to her questioningly.
‘I know one of those men,’ Sylvia said, pointing at the CCTV still from the garage near Lille. The one of the men paying for petrol. ‘He’s been on our radar before and is currently logged as a person of interest in connection with several cases of drug production here in France, as well as not registering for work or asylum in the first place. Peter Knowles will be interested in this – they thought at one point that he was part of a terrorist sleeper cell in Marseilles. He dropped off the radar two years ago and we assumed he’d gone back to North Africa or gone to ground here in France. The last time we had anything on him, he was in Paris. It looks like he’s been out of the action, awaiting instruction.’
‘From who?’ Helen was stunned.
‘He’s associated with Fawaz bin Nabil.’
It was a bombshell.
Helen listened intently as Sylvia logged on to the database for Interpol’s red notices, of which there were thousands, and it wasn’t long until she found what she was after. The mugshot stared back at her from the screen, and underneath, his name. Ahmad Azzine, Moroccan national. Known by several aliases and code names, most notably ‘Sand Cat’. The photo was black-and-white and grainy, but there was no doubt of the match. Helen noticed the hauntingly familiar deadness behind his eyes, so prevalent in criminals.
‘Do we have DNA?’ Helen asked.
‘Nope,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I’ll reissue the original notice, marking it urgent, and release his photo to the French national press.’
‘What about these two? Are they connected in any way as far as you know?’ Helen brought up the artist’s impressions, aware that things had happened so quickly that Sylvia wasn’t a party to their release. Sylvia studied them.
‘Nope, they’re new to us.’
‘You sure?’ Helen asked.
‘If there’s one thing this job will forever burn into my skull, it’s the ability to memorise faces, Helen.’
‘So, they’re new recruits – it happens all the time. But it’s more evidence of a wider operation, and what will Peter Knowles have to say about the connection to Fawaz?’ Helen asked rhetorically, knowing the answer.
It was a curveball that neither of them had expected. It wasn’t proven, obviously, and criminals work for lots of different people, but it set alarm bells ringing. Sylvia stared back at her, tapping her teeth with a pen.
‘He’ll want to know this – he’s in his office until four. Any news on the cafe?’ Sylvia finally asked.
Helen flicked her screen to the live reconnaissance. ‘Nothing yet,’ she said, moments before the radio feed crackled to life.
‘Suspects spotted approaching the cafe, ma’am,’ one of the officers at the scene said over the airwaves.
Sylvia drew up a chair and sat alongside Helen.
‘Observe suspects,’ Helen ordered. ‘We want to know where they’re based – I do not want them apprehended here. Repeat: observe, monitor and follow.’
The team acknowledged her request. The ideal scenario would be that the two men would lead them to wherever they were hiding here in Lyon. Helen held her breath as she watched body-cam footage of the two men. The likeness from the old woman’s memory was startling. Helen worked quickly on her keyboard to capture still photos of them. They were chatting intensely, and Helen was struck by how relaxed they were in their body language.
‘Is Azzine a pro?’ Helen asked Sylvia after switching her mic to silent.
‘Pristine and slippery, one of the best. We couldn’t catch him,’ Sylvia said.
‘What’s he doing working with these jerks?’ Helen asked, watching the two suspects saunter to their table like old friends catching up after a fishing trip. The waitress brought them coffee, and they sat at separate internet ports and logged on. Everything was captured by the Interpol officer at a table close by. At no point did either of the men look around, check their surroundings or look less than supremely confident. They were amateurs.
Sylvia had the same reaction as Helen. ‘Jesus, talk about holding your cock and not giving a damn.’
‘Let’s hope they’re as stupid as they look and lead us to Hakim,’ Helen said.
‘Well, he was in that Peugeot with two other people, so the very least we want is their DNA to match it,’ Sylvia said.
The vehicles outside of the cafe remained on standby. Three officers would follow on foot, should the men leave that way. If they used a vehicle, then that option was also covered. The uniformed squad would await instructions depending on where the men led them. If they were drawn into the heart of Le Croix-Rousse, for example, then more foot personnel would be needed.
It was a tense few minutes, and Helen and Sylvia continued to watch the men chat and swap information, seemingly amused by titbits from the internet.
‘What the hell are they doing? Passing time? Contacting somebody? Watching cat videos?’
Sylvia’s impatience was mirrored by Helen clenching her computer mouse.
‘We’ll have the premises closed and the computers they used searched as soon as they’re clear of the area,’ Helen said.
Suddenly, the two men got up and paid for their coffees, leaving through the front and walking east towards the Rhône. The officers on foot did what they did best and took it in turns crossing roads, stopping in doorways and reading newspapers, while the vehicles hung back and tried to predict the route planned by the two men. The suspects didn’t even attempt to separate, and it was clear to
both Helen and Sylvia, and all those watching, that these men had no idea that they were wanted.
‘Don’t they check the papers?’ Helen asked.
They walked towards the church of St Bernard and Helen looked at Sylvia. ‘If they disappear into the traboules…’
‘I know,’ replied Sylvia.
They continued to listen to the live commentary from the officers on the ground and the uniformed response team wasn’t far away, ready to move when they were needed. Luckily for them, the two men entered an apartment block close to the church, and Helen instructed the team to secure the exit points, as well as sending two officers up the stairwell behind them to see which apartment they entered. Tense minutes passed as Helen and Sylvia waited patiently for news.
‘Here we go,’ said Sylvia.
They had an address. Now, the operation would take on new life: it was to become a raid on an active location and more squads were called in to seal off the area. The district was well known to police, and the action was swift. It took twenty minutes more before they were ready to move in. Helen and Sylvia watched as pairs of gendarmes advanced with weapons ready. A battering kit was deployed to smash the front door. They heard shouts and warnings as the flat was put into a stranglehold. Helen gave the order. Crashing and the splintering of wood could be heard, followed by boots on the concrete as two teams entered the flat. It didn’t take long to declare that the two men were in police custody, on the floor of the lounge, cuffed and ready to be brought in for questioning. Meanwhile, Helen ordered an emergency forensic team to search the residence and obtain physical evidence.
The two women sat back and sighed. Sylvia clapped her hands and asked Helen if she’d like a coffee, or something stronger, opening her desk drawer and bringing out a half bottle of unidentified liquor. Helen accepted a small glass and necked it.
Chapter 26
Helen took the stairs down to the fourth floor to pay Hilda in Fraud another visit. Her step was light with the giddiness of apprehending their first suspects.
She’d already introduced herself to Hilda yesterday, after Sylvia’s recommendation, and found her officious but more than cooperative. Two junior officers, one an intern, had been tasked with number-crunching information on Nabil Tradings, and Helen wanted to see how far they’d got and if anything stood out. The fact that Ahmad Azzine was associated in any way, no matter how spuriously, with Fawaz Nabil was at best ominous, and at worst, terrifying for Hakim.
She needed to find a motive that might potentially connect Fawaz and Khalil, but at the same time follow the evidence. She went over what she had in her head so far as she trotted down the empty staircase. Everyone took the lift, but she preferred the physical exercise, which kept her alert. Even going up and down one flight perhaps five times a day was better than nothing when she didn’t have time to get out for a run.
Sir Conrad had asked her to look into anything that might compromise the security surrounding the NATO summit at Versailles next week. His motivating factor was intelligence that Fawaz had become more active between North Africa and Europe, so Helen rewound and started from the beginning. The intelligence on Nabil Tradings was extensive. Not only had Operation Lionfish investigated him, the CIA had kept an eye on his multibillion dollar corporation for the last ten years, and Fawaz himself hadn’t tripped up once. The cost of the inquiry was huge, but it wasn’t Interpol’s budget, it was America’s. With all this information at the disposal of multiple agencies, either Nabil was clean or mistakes had been made. It happened. Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes on any inquiry breathed life into it.
She reached the fourth floor and went through the door, walking along the corridor until she reached Hilda’s office. Hilda herself wasn’t at work today but one of the juniors tasked with searching through information and business dealings going back decades was, and he looked suitably caught up in mind-boggling detail. He was young, maybe in his twenties, and he had a mop of shaggy hair, which he ran his hand through frequently, and glasses perched on top of his nose. He was attractive, with looks suggesting some Italian heritage, and Helen thought that bumping into him on a hot summer morning was a happy interlude. She chided herself that he was probably ten years her junior. He recognised her name and held out his hand confidently. His handshake was strong and certain.
‘Angelo,’ he said.
‘What have you got for me, Angelo?’ she asked.
He beckoned her to follow him and he led her to an incident room, where a whole board was covered in bits of paper. She smiled; it was how she’d trained as an investigator on the Special Branch course: the old-fashioned way, where visuals were everything and people relied less on computers.
‘Fawaz stepped back from a lot of his business involvements five years ago when his son died,’ Angelo began. ‘Which is why it’s curious that his activity has increased again. Apparently he’s taking more of an interest now. The corporation is made up of divisions and each one of those is headed by a trusted employee of Nabil Tradings, all of whom have been working with him for over ten years.’
‘An inner circle? Nepotism at its finest,’ she said.
‘Exactly. That’s the way he likes to work: he keeps people close. But I started with each division and went through them one by one, and I found this,’ Angelo said, gesturing to his computer.
Helen peered towards the desktop screen where Angelo had been working. He tapped a few keys and worked the mouse. The figures and names on the screen meant nothing to her. It was something about canning and argan oil.
‘A quarter of Nabil’s exports go to Spain, and another quarter goes to France. His shipping lanes have been routinely and non-routinely searched for years. Operation Lionfish launched a major inquiry in 2015 but it was cancelled last year. They must have spent millions of dollars on it.’
‘They don’t normally screw up,’ Helen said. It was true; when the joint services within Interpol were requested to come together on such a huge operation, it was usually for a good reason. This time, though, it had come to nothing.
‘They concentrated on Nabil Tradings’ exports of argan oil going into France, beginning in Tangier and landing in Marseilles, but I think they were looking at the wrong channels. Look, his canning industry exports to San Sebastián.’
‘He sends ships all the way around Portugal to land there?’ Helen asked.
‘That’s the thing, they show they do, but I checked the arrival logs and no ships delivering canned goods landed there.’
‘What? How is that even possible?’ Helen asked.
‘Well, if you look at the logs of goods for export and you have paperwork suggesting that it was received, then it all looks legitimate, but if you go further and check Spanish purchases of those goods, then there are none.’
Helen screwed her face. It was as if he was talking in a foreign language. Her head was built for spotting immediate danger, not following paper halfway around the coastline of Portugal. These transactions were imaginary, unsubstantial and floating around in the world of global trade. She couldn’t see the ships, or the goods, and she struggled to conceptualise why somebody would use such complicated tricks to conceal them. She knew, of course, that this was exactly how criminals operated; it was something that had been honed to perfection over the past few decades. A criminal activity is performed, be it arms deals or drugs; the goods need producing and selling; then that money needs to be rendered clean so that the person at the centre of the empire gets filthy rich, else what’s the point? But her head hurt at the intricacy of it. Here, on paper, they had argan oil being produced by Nabil Tradings in Morocco, travelling from Tangier to Marseilles and traded thereafter. Legitimate. Tick. Now, she was being told that Nabil Tradings canned food in Morocco, which was taken by boat from Tangier to San Sebastián and landed there, but it was never traded in Spain.
So where did it go?
‘Either no one in San Sebastián wanted it, or the ships turned back. Or it never existed in the first place,’ Angelo s
aid.
‘Have you told anyone about this?’ she asked.
‘I’ve only just got this far. I didn’t really want to say anything until I followed the transactions.’
‘What transactions?’
‘Nabil Tradings has to register accounts every quarter, for VAT, like every company in the world – legitimate company, that is. It’s taken me a few goes, but I finally managed to match the landing dates in San Sebastián to transactions in the accounts. Every month, on the same day as the ships supposedly landed in San Sebastián, there are large deposits made into a bank in Madrid. It’s all there in the accounts.’
Angelo tapped some more keys and brought up pages and pages of accounts for Nabil Tradings.
‘Here. The money comes in on the same day as the canned goods supposedly dock – but go nowhere and aren’t sold – and then goes directly to a company address registered in Berkeley Square, London. It’s quite a common method, and I’m surprised it wasn’t picked up,’ Angelo said.
Helen stared at him. Interpol’s Operation Lionfish called upon the skill set of thousands of operators worldwide and here in this tiny office, an intern barely out of college had perhaps found something so explosive that she didn’t yet know what to do with or who to tell. Had he made a mistake?
‘How on earth did Lionfish miss this?’ she asked.
‘It was well hidden. They weren’t looking for it. Maybe they only concentrated on Africa to Spain?’ he suggested. Helen wasn’t privy to that sort of information and shrugged.
‘What’s the trading address of the company in London?’ she asked. He showed her, and she googled it on her phone. She knew Berkeley Square fairly well, as she’d worked in close protection for a senior politician who regularly visited a club there. On the days when he spent hours inside, apparently in meetings but more likely catching up with old friends and eating lavish meals, she’d watched the comings and goings of the elite members of London society who either lived or worked there.