Gray Redemption

by Alan McDermott

  “I’m getting a password prompt, too,” he said. “Looks like I’ll have to ask the minister for access. I can’t promise anything, though. If I can’t see the file, there must be a good reason.”

  Ellis sounded disappointed as she asked Farrar to do his best.

  “I will,” he assured her, “but I need to know what information you have about this man. If it can lead us to Levine and Campbell I can put that forward as a case for releasing the file.”

  “Nothing beyond the name,” Ellis told him.

  “Okay, then who gave you the name?” He asked, hoping to confirm that it had come from the CIA.

  “One of my operatives got it from an undisclosed source.”

  “Which operative?” Farrar pressed.

  “That’s not important, James. Please just let me know when you’ve spoken to the Home Secretary.”

  The phone went dead in his hand and Farrar swore half a dozen times before typing his password into the box.

  Whatever was in this file, he had to find it quickly.

  * * *

  Ellis still had her hand on the receiver when the key-logger began spitting out new characters. She copied and pasted them into the password dialog before hitting the Enter key. A moment later a picture appeared, underneath which was the name Sam Grant.

  “James Farrar, you’re a lying shit!”

  They read through the brief biography and found nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it appeared decidedly sterile. Born in London during the early seventies, worked for a few small companies after leaving school, single, no driving licence, lived in rented accommodation until his sudden move to Manila a year earlier.

  “It looks like a legend,” Ellis commented.

  “And a poor one at that,” Harvey confirmed. “I’ll have someone check these firms, but I’ll bet they’re no longer trading, if they ever existed in the first place.”

  Legends are cover stories created when an intelligence operative is required to go under cover. It creates a believable personal background should anyone do any checks into the operative’s history.

  Ellis nodded and scrolled down through the entries. If the bio was brief, the last entry was even more succinct: Deceased.

  The entry was dated Thursday the 19th of April 2012, a day before the attack on Camp Bautista. Harvey wondered how that could be: According to Wallis, the three prisoners had escaped during the attack, and he told Ellis as much.

  “Then to paraphrase Mark Twain,” Ellis said, “it looks like reports of his death have been grossly exaggerated.”

  Harvey studied the picture, which also appeared to be contrived. It was like a collage of facial elements, with a large flat nose that didn’t seem to naturally fit with the size of the face. Despite this, there was something familiar…

  The image disappeared as Ellis clicked the History link to see who had been responsible for each of the entries. The last recorded user, the person who had declared Grant dead, was none other than James Farrar.

  “So Farrar thinks Grant is dead, but when the CIA requests his details, a team from the UK is sent to pick up him and his friends. We know that team wasn’t one of ours, so I’m guessing Farrar is behind that, too.”

  “It certainly looks like it,” Harvey agreed, “which is why he doesn’t want you looking for Baines and Smart. He already knows where they are and has someone waiting for them when they arrive in Durban.”

  Ellis nodded, having come to the same conclusion. “I want you to go out there,” she said. “Find them and bring them home.”

  Harvey told her that he was happy to oblige, but was also aware that there could be some serious fallout. “I don’t think the Home Secretary is going to be too happy if we interfere with one of his operations,” he warned her.

  “I know,” Ellis said, “but when I joined the service I vowed to protect Britain from all threats, foreign and domestic. We don’t know why Farrar is looking for these people, but whatever it is they’re supposed to have done, they are still entitled to a fair trial. It isn’t up to the Home Secretary to decide who lives and dies.”

  “Not even in the interest of national security?” Harvey asked.

  “If it was national security, we’d have heard about it,” Ellis said indignantly.

  Harvey suspected the real reason she was taking this course of action was that she had been left out of the loop by her superiors. She might also be looking to settle an old score with Farrar, but whatever her motive, they were reading from the same page.

  “I’m going to need some help over there,” he said. “We don’t know if it’s just one man or a whole team waiting for the Huang Zhen to arrive. The only thing that we’re certain of is that someone will be waiting to kill those passengers.”

  “Then you’ll need to establish that as your priority. You’ll be looking for someone who’s just entered the country and is booked into accommodation until the seventh of May. Cross reference flights from Malaysia with hotel reservations and run any matches through the system.”

  Ellis brought up a new screen and searched for information on their people in South Africa. She was rewarded with the bio for Dennis Owen, whose cover was that of a senior advisor in the UK Trade & Investment department.

  “I’ll let him know you’re coming,” She said. “Draw up a list of anything you’re going to need and choose your legend. Farrar may be watching the airport departure lists and I don’t want to have to explain what you’re doing over there.”

  Harvey nodded and went to his station to book his flight. He chose one the following evening to give himself time to try to discover just who was waiting for Baines and Smart in Durban. He was too pumped up to sleep and knew an all-nighter was on the cards, so he set the search running and grabbed his jacket before heading out of the building. He was back twenty minutes later with a large coffee, two sandwiches and a selection of chocolate bars, once again thankful that there was no-one waiting for him at home.

  The list of passengers was ready and waiting for him and he immediately filtered out those who were in transit as well as all South African nationals. It was entirely possible that whoever he was looking for could be a resident but he had to focus on the leads he had. If Farrar was using a contractor, it was highly likely that they would be British.

  The filtered list contained just over seventy promising matches and Harvey began the process of comparing them — one by one — with names held on their system.

  * * *

  Tom Gray stared at the ceiling of the container and for the umpteenth time he wondered what he was going to do to James Farrar once he got his hands on him. Vick was having yet another nap, while Baines was busy cheating at a game of patience and Smart was once again engrossed in the new Kindle he’d purchased in Kuala Lumpur.

  “What are you reading now?” Sonny asked.

  “The Bones Of The Earth by Scott Bury. It’s a historical fantasy.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’d say it was closer to exceptional,” Smart said, and returned to his book.

  Vick woke and stretched, doing her best to stifle a yawn in case she breathed in too much of the fetid air. She got up to get the circulation moving in her legs before sitting back down and rummaging in the bag for some food.

  “What time is it?” She asked.

  “Three in the morning,” Sonny told her. “That means about a hundred and thirty something hours until we get to Durban, so go easy on the food.”

  Vick soon realised what he meant. They had brought along enough tins and drinks to last them well beyond the two week journey, but boredom had seen her snacking constantly and there was barely enough left for the next couple of days. Despite this she broke open a tin of peach slices and tucked in with a fork.

  Her actions hadn’t gone unnoticed by one of her fellow passengers. A young Chinese man stood and walked over to her, gesturing at the food and pointing towards his own chest. Vick instinctively cradled the food close to her chest while turning her back on
him. This did nothing to dissuade the man and he began to raise his voice, gesturing towards the bag.

  “What’s he saying?” Grant asked Sonny.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “I thought you took language lessons in the Regiment. I know I signed off at least three of your requests.”

  “That was because the teacher was so pretty. During the lessons I only picked up the most important phrases.”

  “Which were?” Len asked.

  “‘Give me a beer’, obviously.” This brought appreciative nods from the other two former soldiers. “There was also ‘fancy a shag’, and of course, ‘kill him’.”

  “Why do you need to say that in other languages?” Vick asked.

  Sonny grinned: “I don’t. I just need to know when someone is saying it in my presence.”

  Their idle chit-chat was beginning to incense the Chinese passenger and he stepped in among the group and reached down into the bag. Baines grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled it towards him while at the same time getting to his feet, twisting the arm as he did so. The hungry stranger lost his battle with gravity and landed on his back, and Baines was on him in an instant. He put one knee on the man’s chest and grabbed him around the throat.

  “That’s not very polite,” Baines said, as he squeezed with just enough force to bring some colour to the face.

  A howl erupted behind Baines and Gray touched him on the arm, indicating towards a woman who was quite clearly pregnant. “Let him go, Sonny.”

  Baines hesitated for a moment but then climbed off. Gray handed the man a tin of Spam and gestured for him to disappear.

  “Wonderful,” Baines said. “That takes us about ten hours closer to starvation.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Smart said, his eyes still focused on his book. “They’ll be serving breakfast in a few hours.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, but while highly original, curry for breakfast does lose its appeal after a while. I’d rather eat a Pot Noodle.”

  To change the subject, Smart put down his Kindle and asked Gray if he’d decided on a plan of action.

  “I’m still torn between two options, but I’m swinging towards public exposure.”

  “We dismissed that idea a couple of weeks ago,” Baines pointed out. “They’ll have DA notices out and no paper would dare run the story.”

  “I agree that if we just called the BBC or a newspaper they wouldn’t run the story, but there are other ways.”

  He explained what he had in mind but the others were not totally convinced that his plan would work. However, they’d had the same reservations a year and a half earlier but had come so close to pulling off a masterful plan.

  “I know it’s risky, but the alternative doesn’t guarantee results, either.”

  Plan B was to gain control of a television news studio and tell the world what James Farrar had been up to on behalf of the government. However, they would eventually have to hand themselves in, and they couldn’t be sure they would be allowed to see the light of day again.

  The others agreed with him, and so they spent the next few hours developing Gray’s favoured option, suggesting and dismissing ideas until they had what they thought was a workable solution to their problems.

  “It all hinges on you convincing your man to help us,” Smart pointed out. “Fail to do that and we fall at the first hurdle.”

  Gray was well aware that the initial plea for help was crucial to their success. If he couldn’t pull it off, there would be no option but to revert to the back-up plan. “Then I’d best be at my most persuasive,” he said, determination in his eyes.

  Chapter 6

  Thursday May 3rd 2012

  Ben Palmer crept through the darkness towards the chain link fence surrounding the Wenban Freight Management compound, even though he knew there was no camera coverage to record his approach.

  His initial recce the previous day — a drive-by followed by a walk-past — had revealed just three CCTV cameras covering the vehicle park, all static. Negotiating them wouldn’t be a challenge, but he had no idea what kind of security they had in place to protect the main office building. To get to the office, he first had to get through the fence. It wasn’t particularly high but was topped with razor wire, so going through seemed the most prudent option.

  A quick look around showed no sign of life, either from the tyre yard thirty yards to his left or the warehouse on the other side of the road, which looked like it had long been abandoned.

  He pulled a pair of cutters from his jacket and began snipping away at the wire next to a supporting post, starting at the bottom of the fence and working his way upwards until he had created a twelve-inch gap. He put the cutters aside and pulled the broken part of the fence towards him so that he could squeeze underneath. He stopped when he heard a sound close by, and strained to detect the direction it had come from. A glance to either side showed no signs of movement, but he waited a couple of minutes, just to be sure.

  The compound was quite a distance from the nearest populated town, so he assumed the noise was probably some kind of nocturnal animal scratching around for food. He turned his attention back to the fence and was beginning to roll it upwards when a hundred and seventy pounds of Boerboel came bounding towards the fence, barking for all it was worth. Palmer barely had time to roll the fence back into place before the guard dog began clawing at his fingers, shredding the skin and destroying his surgical gloves.

  Palmer fell on his backside and used his feet to prevent the dog from crawling through the gap he’d created, at the same time reaching for his Taser. By this time, the hound had managed to get its head through the small gap and was attacking Palmer’s feet, though the thick rubber soles of his boots prevented any serious injury. The animal still came at him, inching through the hole while snapping and snarling, saliva dripping from its mouth.

  Palmer finally managed to get the Taser free and fired into the dog’s shoulder, delivering a charge which at first appeared to have no effect but which eventually brought it to the ground. He kept his finger on the trigger while he extracted a syringe, and he cut the charge just before he stabbed it into the back of the dog’s neck with shaking hands.

  With the animal incapacitated, he lay on the ground to catch his breath, wondering where the hell it had come from. He’d looked for a kennel during his earlier observations but there had been nothing whatsoever to point to a guard dog patrolling the compound. The manager must have kept it inside during the day, probably to stop it attacking the staff, judging by its demeanour.

  Palmer decided to keep the Taser handy, just in case there were any more surprises. He also had to get the dog back inside the compound so that his little visit went unnoticed. He moved the animal aside and crawled through the gap he’d made, and it took some considerable effort to pull the mutt through after him. He eventually got it clear of the hole and dragged it behind a stack of pallets, then used his feet to obliterate the trail leading to his entry point.

  With the dog hidden, Palmer wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and then pulled out his lock-picking tools. The main office was bathed in darkness and he stepped carefully, listening intently for the slightest sound that could indicate another dog, or even a night watchman, though the latter seemed unlikely given the amount of barking the dog had done.

  He reached the door and found that his first hurdle was a padlock which secured a deadbolt just above the door handle. It took less than fifteen seconds to defeat it, and another thirty to open the Yale lock. He eased the door open gently, looking for any sign of an alarm but finding none.

  Once inside the wooden structure he found a couple of untidy desks, both with computers at least a dozen years old. He ignored those, instead looking for hard copies of movement schedules. He found these in the single filing cabinet, and using a small torch with a green filter over the glass to diffuse the beam he flicked through the records searching for anything relating to the seventh of May. He was thankful that the operati
on was small, with less than a dozen vehicles, which meant he was able to find what he was looking for within a minute.

  There were just seven entries for the coming Monday, and two of them were pickups for Arnold Tang’s company. His little chat with Tang’s lieutenant hadn’t revealed the fact that there would be more than one consignment arriving, which left Palmer having to decide which container his targets were likely to be in. The first one was a standard forty-foot high-cube container with a declared gross weight of forty-five thousand pounds, while the second was half the size and lighter by around seventy percent.

  Palmer knew that his targets were just four of twenty people making the journey to the UK, so he discounted the smaller container and checked the details of the other one. It was due to be offloaded just before seven in the evening, with delivery to an import/export company the following morning. This suggested that the container would be parked up overnight, most probably within the compound.

  After taking snaps of both records with a compact digital camera, he carefully placed all of the documents back in their respective folders and closed the cabinet, wiping down any surfaces he had touched. At the door he did the same before closing it quietly and re-attaching the padlock. The dog was still where he had left it, and he was pleased to see that it was still breathing; the last thing he needed was a dead dog broadcasting his incursion.

  At the fence he smoothed out the soil around the gap and pulled a pallet up to the post before squeezing through the hole. He then moved the pallet over the hole to prevent the dog from scratching around and bringing it to anyone’s attention. He then used small lengths of wire to fasten the fence back to the post as best he could. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but if it prevented detection for just a few days it would serve its purpose.