Gray Redemption

by Alan McDermott

  Her first act had been to deal with the others responsible for the debacle, and while there was no evidence of Andrew Harvey, Diane Lane or Hamad Farsi being guilty of negligence at the disciplinary hearings, Ellis was quick to ensure they were never given anything more important than analysis work for a while. This hadn’t sat well with Lane, who resigned within a few weeks, but Harvey and Farsi still reported to their desks dutifully each morning. Ellis knew that they were very capable operatives, as their performance over the subsequent months proved. There did, however, seem to be some resentment towards her, as if it were her fault that Hammond was ousted. It wasn’t something that concerned her, though. Adding yet another string to her considerable bow was far more important than making friends with the staff.

  This latest request had piqued her interest, though, and if anyone could dig deep enough to get to the real story it was these two.

  Harvey knocked on the door and walked in when called, standing at ease in front of her desk.

  “What’s your workload like at the moment?” Ellis asked.

  “Manageable,” he replied.

  “Good. I have something extra for you. We need to locate a couple of people.”

  “What are their names?” Harvey asked.

  “We don’t know yet. The details will be with us shortly and I’ll pass them on to you.”

  “What’s the urgency?” Harvey persisted.

  “I don’t know that, either. I’ll pass the information on as soon as it arrives.”

  Harvey nodded, her last statement telling him that this was an external request. He left the office wondering why she had bothered asking about the amount of work he currently had assigned to him. Normally she would just dump things in his lap regardless of his other commitments, and this suggested the new task needed someone’s full attention.

  He resumed his seat and from the opposite desk Hamad Farsi asked why he had been summoned.

  “The Oberstgruppenführer wants me to find two people.”

  “Who?”

  Harvey gave a replay of the brief conversation and asked for his colleague’s opinion.

  “Sounds very strange,” Farsi said, but clammed up when he saw Ellis approaching with a printout in her hand. She asked them to follow her as she passed their table and led them into the conference room, closing the door behind them.

  “I’ve just been told who you’re looking for,” she said. “It has come through as eyes only, so it doesn’t go beyond the three of us.”

  She placed the sheet of paper on the desk and Harvey read the names before passing it to Farsi.

  “I know these people,” he said. “I interviewed them after the attack last year.”

  “Yes, they jumped out at me, too,” Ellis admitted.

  Farsi studied the names. “You just want us to find them?” he asked.

  Ellis’s eyes betrayed a conspiratorial glint. “That’s the request that came in, but I’d like to know why someone wants them found. I don’t like being kept out of the loop, and if these people are involved in something I think we should know about it.”

  “So let’s start with who made the request,” Harvey said.

  “His name is James Farrar,” Ellis said. “I don’t know who he works for, though.”

  “Yet you’re granting his request for information? Isn’t that contrary to every protocol we have?”

  Sharing her past with her subordinates was not something Ellis was comfortable with, but she had little choice if she wanted their help in getting some answers.

  “We used to work together over the river,” she said, referring to the Secret Intelligence Service building on the opposite bank of the Thames. “We were… involved for some time, but shortly after we broke up he left Six to join another organisation. Our paths have crossed a few times since but he’d never tell me who he is working for now.”

  “And you want us to find out?” Farsi asked.

  “Discreetly,” Ellis confirmed.

  Chapter 3

  Monday April 23rd 2012

  It was just after ten in the evening when Timmy Hughes walked down the gangway of the Sterling Lines and walked through the Saf Yacht Club to his waiting Bentley. The ten mile drive south took a leisurely twenty minutes and he parked in the Atrium car park just a couple of hundred yards from his apartment just off Orchard Road.

  The streets were still alive despite the hour, with the majority of the revellers tourists taking in as much of the city as they could manage in a single day. As he approached the apartment building the throng had thinned out to just a few locals. He was digging for the keys to the lobby when he felt a dig in his back and a figure appeared next to him, a sports jacket draped over his right hand.

  “Hello Timmy,” the stranger said. Hughes didn’t recognise him but the accent was from his own neck of the woods, just north of London. A second dig in the ribs told him that the man was carrying more than just a Carl Gross coat.

  “You know the drill. Nice and cool, stay calm and follow me to my car.”

  The hire car was waiting just around the corner and Hughes was told to drop his bag and get into the front passenger seat.

  “Roll down the window. There’s a set of cuffs under the seat. Put them on your right hand.”

  Hughes again complied and was then told to thread the other cuff through the door handle and attach it to his left hand. After checking it was tight the stranger climbed into the driver’s seat and set off through the light traffic.

  It was a forty-minute drive to the Sungei Buloh wetland reserve in the Lin Chu Kang area and they made the journey in silence after it became clear to Hughes that his questions were going to go unanswered.

  When they reached their destination Ben Palmer handed Hughes the keys to the cuffs, told him to get out and then followed him through the passenger side door. Hughes found himself in an industrial estate, deserted because of the late hour.

  “Move,” Palmer said, indicating with his silenced pistol that they should head into the darkness. They walked for a minute before Palmer told Hughes to stop and get down on his knees.

  Hughes refused. Instead, he turned and faced the gunman. If this man wanted him dead, it would have happened by now, which meant he needed something from him. That gave him the advantage.

  “Care to tell me why you’re going to kill me?”

  Palmer had the gun pointed at centre mass. “On your knees,” he repeated.

  Hughes was five yards from him and moved closer, hoping to cut the distance in half so that he would have a chance to go hand-to-hand, but Palmer put his left hand behind his back and grabbed the Taser tucked into his waistband. He hit Hughes in the chest with the barbed dart and kept his finger on the trigger, delivering fifty thousand volts down the thin wire. Hughes dropped to the floor and Palmer gave him another jolt for good measure.

  “It’s much easier if you do as you’re told,” he said, standing over Hughes. “Now, tell me where Len Smart is.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Palmer delivered another shock to jog his memory. “I don’t like it when people lie to me,” he said calmly. “You’ve been in contact with Smart and Simon Baines. Where are they?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Palmer brought the pistol up and shot the prostrate man in the kneecap. When Hughes screamed and reached for the wound, Palmer kicked him in the temple, knocking him out cold.

  Hughes regained consciousness a few minutes later and immediately reached for the wound, but his arms wouldn’t obey the command. He lay there helpless, staring up at the night sky, the stars magnificent in the cloudless night.

  For the first time in his life, Timmy Hughes felt truly frightened.

  Palmer could see it in his face, and welcomed the sight.

  “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Timmy. You’re gonna die. It’s just a matter of how long it takes, and that’s up to you. Now, where are Baines and Smart?”

  He removed the tape covering Hughes’s mouth and got a fac
e full of spittle in response.

  Palmer wiped it away. “Okay, have it your way.” He pulled a small bottle from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the lid carefully before pouring a couple of drops on his victim’s hand. The sodium hydroxide solution immediately began to burn through the skin and Hughes screwed up his face as he fought to battle the pain.

  Palmer gave him a few moments to consider just how much suffering was still to come.

  “It’s going to hurt a whole lot more when I put it on your knee,” Palmer said, holding the bottle over the open wound. “After that I’ll do your eyes, one at a time.”

  Hughes knew there was nothing he could do except hope for a swift end. He wasn’t afraid of death, and he knew that there was little point in delaying the inevitable, but he wasn’t about to give up his old friends so easily.

  “They’ve gone,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Home. Back to the UK.”

  Palmer considered this for a moment. If the British security services were after these people, it was unlikely that they’d be on a commercial flight. “How are they getting there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Palmer poured a quarter of the solution into the hole made by the bullet and Hughes screamed with every ounce of breath in his lungs, but the hand placed over his mouth stopped the noise travelling. Palmer waited until there was nothing left but whimpering and tears.

  “Let’s try again. How are they getting back to England?”

  “I don’t know,” Hughes whispered, and Palmer shook his head, positioning the bottle above his left eye.

  “No, wait! Wait! Sammy Li!”

  Palmer moved the bottle and looked into Hughes’s eyes. “Tell me more.”

  “I handed them over to Sammy Li in Malaysia. He said he would get them home.”

  “Who’s Sammy Li? Where do I find him?”

  “I don’t know where he lives, but he is a regular at the Atlanta Club in Kuala Lumpur.”

  Hughes prayed that this stranger would fall for his ruse and end up searching for a fictitious target. Unfortunately for him, Palmer wasn’t about to take his word for it. He took out his phone and hit a pre-programmed number.

  “It’s me. I need information about a Sammy Li from Malaysia. He might be involved in people smuggling.”

  He turned to Hughes. “I have access to several security services throughout the world. If you are lying to me...”

  He returned his attention to the call, listening intently before thanking the other party and hanging up.

  “Sammy Li comes up blank, but I was given another name. Care to guess what it is?”

  Hughes knew the game was up, and any more procrastinating would only lead to more pain. He felt bad for letting his friends down, but this man would get the information out of him eventually. Besides, their boat had already set sail, and the chances of this man getting through Tang’s security screen and having enough time to question him seemed remote at best.

  “Arnold Tang,” he said, and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet. He felt the tape being placed over his mouth, but the shot didn’t come. Instead, Palmer emptied the bottle onto his exposed throat and stood back quickly.

  Hughes began gagging and spluttering, trying his best to expel the corrosive solution, but Palmer had mixed it at such a high concentration that it burnt through the skin in seconds and poured into his larynx. Screaming was impossible with his voice box destroyed, and moments later his heart gave out under the overwhelming assault on his nervous system.

  “That’s for lying to me,” Palmer said, and strolled back to his car. Once inside he pulled out his phone and dialed the number he had called earlier.

  “You were right, it’s Arnold Tang. Tell me about him.”

  * * *

  Farrar looked at the screen and what he saw wasn’t encouraging. Arnold Tang had long been suspected of being involved in a variety of illegal activities, but there had never been enough evidence to bring a prosecution. From gambling dens to fraud, the accusations had been levelled and immediately withdrawn, mainly due to his powerful connections.

  It was also reported that Tang had two personal bodyguards who travelled everywhere with him, meaning it wouldn’t be easy for Palmer to get in close enough to do what he did best, and he said as much to the contractor.

  “What about posing as a customer?” Farrar suggested.

  The line went silent while Palmer considered the suggestion. The reply wasn’t what Farrar wanted to hear.

  “I don’t do undercover. You hired me for my skill set, and I don’t go outside my comfort zone. That’s how mistakes happen. Just give me the names of some known associates and I’ll have a quiet word with them.”

  Farrar looked through Tang’s profile and found two men suspected of being heavily involved in the trafficking operation. He started to read out the details but Palmer cut him off.

  “From now on, no details over the phone. Go to the website and enter this code.”

  He read off a series of numbers and got Farrar to repeat them.

  “Leave a message and I’ll call you tomorrow,” Palmer said, and hung up.

  Farrar did as instructed and gave the names and addresses of Tang’s men. He ended the note with instructions for when Palmer located his targets:

  When you find Baines and Smart, find out what ‘Saturday the ninth of April, option three’ means. It is vital, repeat, vital that you get this information.

  Farrar hit the Send button and then called Veronica Ellis for an update. He found her in a less than accommodating mood.

  “We just started looking yesterday,” she said when he asked how things were progressing. “You have to realise that last year they managed to evade a countrywide manhunt when every police force in the nation was looking for them. If these people don’t want to be found, it will be almost impossible with such limited resources.”

  Farrar knew that her point was valid, but he wasn’t about to cut her any slack. “Can’t you draft anyone else in to help?” he asked.

  “In order to fund some extra overtime I would need to know more about the operation, otherwise I can’t justify it.”

  “It’s beyond your pay grade, that’s all you need to know.”

  The statement didn’t sit well with Ellis, but Farrar’s next words almost had her screaming venomously down the phone.

  “If you can’t get this done with the resources you have, I’ll send over the names of six of my operatives. You can set them up with accounts and give them grade one access.”

  Ellis took a few deep breaths as she formulated an appropriate response: one that didn’t require Farrar to go and fuck himself. She knew that denying him access to the network would simply send him scurrying to the Home Secretary, but the more she considered the request, the more she could see it work in her favour.

  “I guess that’s the only way we’re going to find them,” she said, feigning disappointment. “Email the names, I’ll fill out the paperwork and have the accounts set up within the hour.”

  “No!” Farrar said, a little too quickly. If the accounts were set up through the proper channels, it was possible that his bosses might find out about them and start asking some awkward questions. The last thing he wanted to do was alert them to the fact that Campbell and Levine had skipped town from under his nose. Even worse was the fact that he now needed to bring MI5 into the mix. Despite his earlier bluff about making a complaint to the Home Secretary, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  His men weren’t really cut out for this kind of work, but he wanted to have something in place, just in case Palmer failed to deliver.

  “Just… keep this below the radar. I don’t want other agencies interfering with this case.”

  Intrigued, Ellis promised to do all she could, but made it clear that his latest request meant it might take some time to put things in place.

  Farrar thanked her and hung up, and Ellis went straight to Gerald Small’s office, grabbing Harvey a
nd Farsi on the way. They found the technician tucking into a sandwich in front of a bank of monitors, each one displaying network activity.

  “Busy?” Ellis asked.

  Small pulled his feet off the desk and scrambled into a proper sitting position.

  “I…erm, was just…someone was trying to hack the network. I was just running a trace.”

  “Calm down, I’m not the posture police. I need you to come with me,” Ellis said, and the head of the Technical Operations department dutifully followed her to the conference room, throwing Harvey a look that asked what was going on. He got a shrug in response.

  Once inside, and with the door closed, Ellis explained the situation.

  “I need you to create six new network accounts, all with grade one access.”

  “Sure,” Small said, wondering why this couldn’t have been done in his office. “Just send me the requisition forms and I’ll set them up.”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” Ellis said. She was worried that too many people were being dragged into her little conspiracy, but she had no choice but to involve Small: without him, she had little chance of discovering what Farrar was up to.

  She gave Small a summary of recent events, including Farrar’s request to find Campbell and Levine, his reticence in sharing any further details and the request for network access.

  “Am I right in thinking that every request, every search made through our accounts is audited and reports made available to the JIC?”

  Small confirmed that she was correct. Every database search and VOIP — or Voice Over IP — telephone call was recorded and the Joint Intelligence Committee had access to these reports. It was a way of ensuring that the information held on their systems was not abused in any way.

  “Is there a way to spoof an identity so that their searches appear under someone else’s name?”

  Small thought about it for what seemed an age. “I suppose it could be done,” he eventually said, “but it would take a couple of days to set up.”