‘We’ll do it. We’ll blow them apart.’ As soon as Linden uttered his statement he sat back in his chair. Jane studied his face. It was one of resignation, not of smugness. He wasn’t happy with his own suggestion and it showed.
‘How?’ Jane asked. Under huge scrutiny and only with the highest possible sanction could the UK think of carrying out an operation of the kind she thought Linden was suggesting. It would have to be Special Forces led, and would require much more intelligence than they had now. Who were the targets? Were they to be killed - or captured? Was the risk worth the international and, particularly now, domestic repercussions? It wouldn’t swim. No, worse than that. It would sink without trace. The JIC wouldn’t consider it.
The US, on the other hand …
‘We could put a recon team together in the next 24 hours and have an attack team ready 24 hours later. Under the closest of holds we would need to pool all of our intelligence resources in order to target the right HVTs (high value targets), and we’d need to know exactly where they were. It’s possible we could be in and out before the Italian government knew of the attack, although I guess POTUS would phone his opposite number as soon as the attack teams were on the ground. And, afterwards, I’m pretty certain we could mop this up.’
‘Isn’t there a line in your Constitution somewhere?’ Jane asked.
‘Maybe. But if we consider the ‘Ndràngheta as a threat to our national security, then no. And if the Italians had formally asked for our help, then it wouldn’t be a problem at all.’
‘But they won’t have.’ Stewart stated the obvious.
‘Not to begin with. But that would be one reason why POTUS would make the call. He can be very persuasive.’
‘And the UN?’ Jane asked.
‘If we can get the Italians to say they’d asked for our support, then the UN will have nothing to shout about.’
Sounds like a plan.
Jane leant forward and poured herself a coffee which she didn’t want and didn’t have the bladder for. But if Linden was as good as his word, the next couple of days were going to be very sleep deprived. And caffeine was the answer. She offered the jug to the two men. They both nodded.
‘My secondee, Sam Green, spent almost 24 hours at Andrea Placido’s villa in Calabria, the night before last - it’s a long story. She has a photographic memory for faces and places. I’m sure she’d be able to give you chapter and verse on the villa’s security arrangements. Also, and I know we have a copy on file, she has a list of 180 or so names of guests at Andrea Placido son’s wedding. If we can match any of those names to any detail you have here or at Langley, that might help.’
‘Thanks, Jane.’ Linden said. He had his phone out and was tapping at it. ‘I’m confident our local CIA office will have a myriad of intel, and I know we have a small team working out of Palermo, Sicily. They’ve been looking at links between the Sicilian Mafia and organised crime in Chicago. We’ll tap into them. Hang on …’
Linden’s phone was ringing. He raised it to his ear.
‘Jim? It’s Linden. Get the whole office in now. No excuses. I’ll be with you in under an hour. And get a video link up with General Franks.’ There was a pause. ‘No, I don’t care what time it is. Not his deputy. No. The general. And, he’ll need the Joint Chiefs and POTUS ready for an emergency briefing at, say, 10.00 pm EST. Got it?’
Linden put the phone in his pocket. Jane and Robin were both looking at him. She realised her mouth was slightly ajar. She closed it.
‘This is going to be something to tell the grandkids.’ Linden said.
Café Sérac, Triftweg, Zermatt, Switzerland
Sam and Frank had circled the chalet twice. There was a sharp uphill road running alongside its boundary, a contouring footpath a couple of chalets above it, a further road which led back down towards the town and another level path below the house that led back to the road where they’d started. Between them they’d given the chalet a detailed once over. Sam was trained to recce a site, both from her early army days and as a case officer at SIS’s training ground at Fort Monkton. Frank was clumsier, but effective enough. Once Sam thought they’d seen enough, they’d left the chalet and walked the short distance downhill to a local cafe. They were lucky, the cafe was strategically placed. Sam was able to use the pair of binos they’d bought at one of the shops earlier (ouch) and given the chalet a further once-over, whilst seemingly focusing on a distant object.
The coffee was good, but unacceptably expensive. The service perfunctory. The cafe ambience nowhere near as ‘chocolate box’ as similar ones in Austria. Never mind. It was all serving a purpose.
They’d been woken just after six, which, looking across at Frank as he fumbled with his phone, was eight hours too soon for him. Frank had mumbled, ‘Morning, Eithan’, in between yawning. Eithan was the eldest of three case officers in Rome.
Sam was convinced that Frank was hearing Eithan, but not listening, so she jumped out of her single bed and unceremoniously took the handset from him.
‘Eithan? It’s Sam. the sharp-tongued woman with Frank. Wassupppp?’
‘Oh, hello, Sam.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Have the pair of you not found somewhere to get your heads down?’
Sorry?
‘Yes. You woke us up.’
‘Oh.’
I get it.
‘We’re sharing a room. Two single beds. The Queen can’t afford two rooms in Zermatt. Not without selling a tiara or two. Anyhow, what’s new?’
‘Oh. OK. I’ve got some edelweiss news which I thought you’d want to hear about. It’s a bit of a story. Do you want the short or the long version?’ Eithan was managing to sound excited and shattered at the same time. It didn’t sound as though he’d had much sleep.
Sam sat on her bed, her feet on the floor.
Phoneless, Frank had made it to the bathroom. He hadn’t closed the door and there was the sound of water swashing about. He came back in with a wet face. He mouthed, ‘That’s better,’ to Sam.
‘Whatever, Eithan. If there’s too much I’ll hurry you along. I’m putting you on speaker.’ Sam put the phone down on the bedside table and pressed the loudspeaker icon.
‘OK.’ Eithan was loud and clear. ‘The edelweiss search was inspired, I have to say. I’ve got a couple of industrial connections, but key is a Special Reconnaissance Regiment report from 18 months ago. They conducted a three-month observation insertion in central Belize. The team had eyes-on a compound owned by a Xavier Turner, a Belize national with British roots. He was thought to be one of the major players in the export of opium from seven or eight rainforest locations in the centre of the country. At the time the business was said to be worth over £500 million a year. April before last, the SRR team clocked a well-dressed Caucasian man arriving in a hired Toyota Landcruiser. The man stayed overnight and left the next day. The team believe Xavier was in the compound for the meeting. As you know, the SRR report and photograph, they don’t follow up - we do that …’
Yes, I know.
‘Get to the point, Eithan.’ Sam’s stomach was rumbling.
‘What was interesting was whilst the photos of the visiting man were pretty inconclusive, in that he always wore shades and a panama, there is a clear image of his cufflinks sticking out of a cotton jacket.’
‘Edelweiss.’ Sam knew what was coming. She’d seen the cufflinks two days ago.
‘Correct. I’ve looked at all the photos. I’m putting 65% certainty on the man being the same one you photofitted. But I’m attributing 90% certainty on the cufflinks. They are exactly as you described.’
‘That’s great Eithan, and what was the SIS follow up?’
Whilst Eithan had been talking Frank had made them both a cup of coffee. He put them on the bedside table next to the phone. Sam nodded her thanks.
Eithan continued. ‘The hire car was rented to an F Cleaton.’
Sam racked her brain.
‘Cleaton Moor.’ She had it.
‘Correct. That’s the
west corner of the Lake District. It fits the pattern you described yesterday. The SIS analyst working with the obs team here at Babylon had interrogated Cleaton’s route in and out of the country. He flew via Miami to Brussels, at which point the trail goes cold. Although I am on that now.’
‘Good, Eithan. Good work. Anything else?’
Frank was sitting on his bed. He was wearing peejays, with a button-up front shirt and cotton tie around the waist of his loose-fitting trousers. Sam had been too tired to bother last night, but after a couple of hours sleep she was more attuned to his nightwear; red, with white dinosaurs. She shot him a frown.
‘I didn’t know I’d be sharing a room!’ He whispered loudly.
‘Yes. Some good stuff.’ The phone was talking to them again. ‘I’ve checked out Xavier Turner. He’s still in business and still subject to our interests - his file is live. It’s not clear why we’ve not reined him in.’
‘Go on.’ Sam pressed.
‘He has a number of overseas accounts; one in the Cayman Islands. It is managed under the umbrella of Lakeland Industries, the one Freddie, whatever his real name is, has been managing.’ Sam winced at the name. Eithan wasn’t with the programme. ‘A week after Freddie’s visit there were a dozen major transactions through The Caymans.’
‘Gold.’ Sam interjected.
‘Correct. $162 million dollars’ worth.’
‘Wow.’ Frank joined the conversation for the first time. ‘You were right Sam. This is all about gold.’
Sam got to her feet, picked up her coffee and walked to the bedroom window. She pulled back the curtains slightly and peeked out. It was still dark. And it looked very cold.
‘That’s good work, Eithan. Anything else?’ She shouted from across the room.
‘No, that’s it for now. I’ll interrogate Xavier some more this morning.’
‘Have you slept?’ Frank interjected.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Get your head down for a bit. And then get back on task. I don’t think this is going to come to a conclusion anytime soon. We all need to stay as sharp as we can for as long as we can.’ Frank sounded very managerial. If it wasn’t for his horrendous pyjamas, Sam would have been impressed.
‘OK, Frank, will do. Keep safe.’
The phone went dead.
Sam let the curtains go. They were making progress. Baby steps. NT was about money. And Brit-Swiss-man was the man making it, probably for a lot of people. But they were no closer to finding him.
‘We should get dressed, Frank. And eat something. Let’s have a look at your face?’
Frank turned the side that had been closest to the fireball towards her. It was red, but not blistering. He was going to be OK.
As Frank made his way back to the bathroom, she picked up her own phone. There was a missed message. It was from Jane, sent at 03.15 this morning. It read:
Come back to Rome asp. We have an anti-Mafia op going down and need your support here. Give us a call when you’re on your way. J xx.
Sam swiped at the phone and the message disappeared. She wasn’t ready to give up on Switzerland just yet. London may be able to dismantle the ‘Ndràngheta, but until Brit-Swiss-man was behind bars the job would never be done.
Twenty minutes later, having avoided a couple of embarrassing semi-naked moments, they were both showered and were just about to head downstairs to breakfast when Frank’s phone rang again. It was Carla. Frank stuck it straight on loudspeaker and placed the phone on his bed.
‘Go ahead, Carla. You’ve got both of us.’ Frank said.
‘Hi, you two. I now know who our mystery man is! And I might know where he lives!’
Sam, who had been absently staring out the window looking at the orange sun slowly raise her veil on the beautiful mountains, left the window and shot back to the gap between the two beds. Frank was already on his, knees to his chest.
‘Brilliant, Carla. Let’s hear it.’ He said.
‘Yesterday we sent a JPEG mugshot of Sam’s photofit to every educational establishment in Cumbria. We followed it up with phone calls, with the edict we’d take any return call at any time, night or day, should a name be found. National security and all that. About an hour ago, would you believe, I had a Mrs Julia Lefton on the phone, apologising for calling me at an unearthly hour. Anyway, she’s a matron at St Bees College, which is a private school on the Cumbrian coast. She’d been working at the school for over 25 years in various administrative capacities. The school secretary had sent the photo to all staff and, as a poor sleeper, she’d opened her emails in the middle of the night. She recognised the face immediately, even though it was a long time ago. She convinced the photo is Freddie Forester. He was expelled from the sixth form for attempting to set fire to the school chapel, among other misdemeanours. Have you got this so far?’
‘Yes.’ They both replied in unison.
‘Good. With that name I’ve found a lot of useful background stuff, like parents and place of birth - and I will follow all that up later. But I know you’ve been pushing for a current domicile and I’ve had a stroke of luck.’ Carla paused for the big finale. Frank looked at Sam. She looked back, betraying no emotion. ‘Mr Forester has a minimal police record here in the UK; a shoplifting caution in 1990. After that there is no record of him anywhere in Britain - on any database. No NHS number, no National Insurance number. Nothing. So I checked Europol and Interpol. Nothing there. Thinking outside the box, I called an estate agent pal of mine in Basel. As a Brit if Forester wanted to buy a property in Switzerland, he’d need a G-permit, which is a cross-border work visa. And to get one of those he’d have to prove his nationality. In Switzerland they need to see a passport and a birth certificate. That led to a full house - bingo!’
‘And Forester got himself a G-permit? Using his original name?’ Frank asked.
‘Seems so. My pal tells me he’s own a chalet in Zermatt. He bought a plot of land with an old chalet on it 20 years ago and had it revamped in the last five. I guess when he acquired the plot he was less worried about his identity being discovered and linked to a strip of land in Zermatt?’
Sam had as much as she needed.
‘What’s the address, Carla.’
Carla read it out.
‘Anything else?’ Sam asked.
‘Nope. That’s it. I’m pressing on here with untying the knots that are the many accounts owned and overseen by Forester. Jane has asked me to press The Treasury to prepare to block all movement in and out of the accounts.’
Sam thought for a second.
‘Just be careful, Carla. The more the accounts transact, the more we’ll be able to track those Forester has been dealing with. We are widening the net - we don’t want to drag it in just yet.’
‘Got it.’
‘And will you keep an eye on the price of gold and value of the FTSE and let me know if they cross?’
‘Sure. I’ve got an alert on that. I’ll let you know.’
Sam finished the call.
Since then they’d had a continental breakfast, recced the chalet and were now a couple of cups of coffee to the better in a downtown cafe, with eyes-on Forester’s home ...
… which they had to break into.
Frank finished his coffee.
‘Have another, Frank.’ Sam suggested.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going up to the chalet.’
‘But all the shutters are closed.’
Sam was on her feet. ‘Not all. On the top floor balcony, at the back, one of the shutters isn’t completely down. I’m going to see if I can get in. If nothing else, peer in.’
‘Don’t you want me …’
Sam put up a hand.
‘No, Frank. I want you to stay here and watch both of the roads up to the chalet. As soon as it looks like anyone in authority is heading my way, call me. But only if we’ve been compromised. OK? No other circumstances.’
Sam smiled at him. He smiled weakly back and nodded at the same time,
the wrinkles on the burnt side of his face showing up dark red.
‘OK.’
And then she was off.
Frank grew more and more impatient as time went on. He alternated between using his binos and then his naked eye. Sam had disappeared around the back of the chalet ten minutes ago and there was no sign of her. He reckoned the building, which was chalet style but a mixture of grey-painted wood, white render and brushed metal - very chic, would have security devices up the yin yang. The shutters alone looked impenetrable. He hadn’t seen one partially closed as Sam had described, but then again Sam had that knack of spotting things others hadn’t.
Wait.
A police car. No light or sirens. It had come from the town centre and had turned up the road towards the chalet. It would be there in a minute. He fumbled for his phone. And dialled.
It rang. And rang. And then went to answer machine.
Come on, Sam.
He dialled again.
The police car had stopped short of the entrance to the chalet. Two uniformed men got out. They were carrying sidearms.
The call went to answer machine. He checked the number.
The policemen were studying the chalet. One tried the gate. It opened. He walked up the tarmac path towards the building.
The number Frank was phoning was the right one. He dialled it again.
The policeman was at the front door. It looked like he pressed a doorbell on a pillar beside the heavy, grey wooden door. He stood back.
The phone went to answer machine.
Shit.
The policeman by the car was using his mobile. The one by the chalet was walking around the back. He’d be out of sight in less than a minute.
No sign of Sam.
Shit.
The policeman by the car stayed on the phone. He was still looking at the chalet. There was no sign of the policeman who had gone round the back.
And no sign of Sam.
The man round the back reappeared. In a rush. He was gesticulating to the second policeman. And …
He’s got a pistol in his hand!
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 38