by Adam Hamdy
SIXTEEN
Between the pub, the storage unit, and nights spent on the street, it had been many years since Schaefer had slept in a bed. The mattress was soft and welcoming, and the blankets and quilt soothed him with their cosy warmth. Schaefer did not remember falling asleep; one moment he had been listening to Sally’s rhythmic breathing, the next he was being woken by the sound of his phone. Sally stirred as Schaefer answered.
“Schaefer.”
Sally turned to look at him as he listen to the voice at the other end of the call. There was uncertainty in her eyes. Did she regret what they had done?
“I’ll be there,” Schaefer said, before ending the call, and rolling out of bed.
“I have to go,” he said, pulling on his jeans.
Sally tugged the quilt over herself awkwardly, and watched Schaefer finish getting dressed. Fully clothed, Schaefer approached the naked woman full of regret; he had taken advantage of her vulnerability.
“I’ll let you know if I find anything.” He felt that kissing Sally would send the wrong signal, so he merely took hold of her hand for a moment.
“Thanks,” Sally said as their hands touched tenderly.
Schaefer let go and left the bedroom without looking back.
*
Baker Street Station was quiet. The homeward rush hour was long over, and the late night revellers were yet to spill out of London’s pubs and bars. The platform was peppered with a few white collar types unlucky enough to have had to work late, a group of youths talking excitedly about the party that awaited them in Wembley, and a handful of tired manual workers who had spent fourteen hours working for minimum wage to keep the city’s cogs clean and turning. Schaefer descended the steps that led down from the main concourse to the northbound Metropolitan Line. He saw Noel standing half way along the platform, and could tell by the way that the policeman deliberately avoided Schaefer’s gaze that something had made him very nervous. Schaefer picked his way past the other travellers and joined Noel.
“What have you got me into?” Noel asked abruptly, without even turning to acknowledge Schaefer. “I asked a few people about that symbol. A couple of hours ago I got a call back asking me about my interest. Do you know who it was from?”
Schaefer didn’t respond.
“MI5. The Secret Service. They wanted to know why I was asking questions about it, so I told them about you. They want to meet you.”
“Here?” Schaefer asked.
“They said ten p.m.”
Schaefer looked at the platform clock, which read 21.59.
“I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, Schaefer, but keep me out of it,” Noel said tersely.
Above them, through crackling, old speakers came the platform guard’s voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, the next train to arrive at this platform is out of service. The next in-service Uxbridge train is due in two minutes. Please stand away from the edge of the platform.”
Noel and Schaefer watched empty carriages roll into the station, until midway along the train they saw three suited men on opposing bench seats. As the train stopped, one of the suited men stood, scanned the platform and approached the set of doors nearest Noel and Schaefer. The doors opened and the man stepped out.
“Thomas Schaefer?” he asked.
Schaefer hesitated.
“It’s now or never.”
Schaefer looked at Noel, who shrugged. Schaefer sighed and shook his head as he started walking towards the train. His instincts told him these men were dangerous, but what choice did he have but to step further along the path? Schaefer followed the man into the carriage, and the doors closed behind them. Noel had started walking away before Schaefer turned to look at him. The fearful little policeman couldn’t wait to be shot of Schaefer and his troubles. Schaefer walked along the carriage and took a seat opposite the two men who had remained on the train. The man who brought him on board sat next to Schaefer. As the train pulled out of the station, Schaefer had the unfamiliar experience of feeling like an animal caught in a trap.
As they pulled out of the tunnel that lay immediately north of Baker Street, Schaefer studied the three men surrounding him. The one directly opposite, in the window seat, looked like he could handle himself. The narrow line that ran down the man’s cheek was a razorblade scar. His nails were cut short and his hands and fingers were rough and callused. A pronounced break in the line of his nose, and a mashed-up ear that was hidden under mid-length brown curly hair, suggested someone who had been in his fair share of fights. The tall, athletic black man next to him was looking at Schaefer with careful consideration. No obvious signs of danger, other than the man’s eyes which were cold and dead, like a shark’s. Everything else about him suggested calm civility. The navy herringbone suit was lined with light purple silk. It was the kind of embellishment added by expensive tailors to make their conservative clients feel like adventurous trend-setters. Unlike his neighbour’s shoes, Shark Eyes’ were highly polished and the cut of the expensive leather suggested they might even be bespoke. Semi-precious cufflinks and a Patek Philippe completed the man’s moneyed appearance. The shaven-headed Caucasian who had walked Schaefer onto the train had no neck. Rolls of flesh simply smoothed out from his shoulders to form the bald pate of his skull. His thick arms and barrelled torso were wrapped in a leather bomber jacket, and his eyes watched Schaefer aggressively, almost goading him to try something.
The three men said nothing as the train sped through London. Schaefer knew they were testing him. A weaker man would have tried to make conversation, tried to ease the tension, but Schaefer knew better than that. Silence suited him. If they were expecting someone who would do the expected and follow their playbook, they would soon discover their mistake. Schaefer had learned all he could from the three men, so he turned his attention to the world that was rushing past. As he looked out of the window, the train raced through Finchley Road station, and Schaefer saw the blurred faces of travellers waiting on the platform. They were no doubt wondering about the four men on the out-of-service train.
At Harrow-on-the-Hill, the train branched north, and after Chalfont & Latimer, branched north again until it reached Chesham, the tiny station at the end of the line. Of the three, Shark Eyes stood last, adding weight to Schaefer’s supposition that he was their leader. Schaefer followed them off the train, catching sight of a rat-faced, bespectacled, liveried London Underground driver, who did his best to try to hide in the shadows of his cab. As they walked through the station, there were no signs of life. The only things watching them were the ever-present closed circuit television cameras. Waiting outside the station in the otherwise deserted taxi rank was a black Mercedes. A squat, heavy set man, who could have been No-Neck’s twin, leant against the driver’s door and smoked a cigarette. He was holding something in his left hand. As they approached, the smoker tossed his cigarette and revealed what he was holding; a black, canvas hood.
“Put this on,” Smoker said, as he held the hood out.
Shark Eyes didn’t even look back as he got in the front seat; such was his confidence in the predictability of Schaefer’s compliance. Schaefer looked at Scarface and No-Neck, their expressions clearly indicating that he had no choice in the matter. Schaefer bowed his head and allowed Smoker to shroud him. Schaefer felt himself being guided into the back seat, and was squeezed into the middle as two of the men sat either side of him. He felt rough hands search him, presumably for a wire or tracking device, and was deprived of his wallet and phone. Moments later he heard the driver’s door, and then the quiet rumble of the engine, as the car pulled away.
The hood was very effective; all Schaefer could see was darkness. The thick fabric muffled noise, but the soundproofing on the Mercedes was so good that even without the hood, Schaefer wouldn’t have been able to hear much. The driver was twisting and turning, heading one way, then turning back on himself, taking care to ensure that Schaefer lost his bearings. The driver was probably unaware that the Army had trained Schaefer for
just such an eventuality. He used the middle finger of his left hand to approximate direction and the four fingers of his right hand to measure time. Schaefer’s left palm was divided into imaginary quadrants, each corresponding to a compass position. The car had been parked facing due east, and as it changed direction, Schaefer placed his finger in the corresponding quadrant. The system was imprecise, but it was better than nothing. The right hand measured time travelled in each direction. Schaefer’s right fingers were assigned the main compass headings; north, south, east, and west. By counting seconds, Schaefer was able to build a rough estimate of time spent travelling in each direction. By the time the car slowed, and the driver’s window was rolled down, Schaefer had calculated that they had been driving for fifty minutes, but the net effect of all the direction changes was thirty minutes travelling north.
The four men had said nothing throughout the entire journey. The first voice Schaefer heard came from someone outside the car.
“Passes, please,” the voice said. Whoever it was didn’t sound in the slightest perturbed by the sight of a hooded man on the rear seat. There was a pause. Then: “Thank you, sir, please go ahead.”
The car drove for two minutes and sixteen seconds, before coming to a halt. Schaefer heard the doors open, and felt the two men on either side of him exit the vehicle. He was guided out, walked across a hard road surface, up a kerb, across another hard surface, and then up eight six inch steps. He was held back for a second and heard the beep of a swipe card and the dull click of an electric lock clicking open. Nudged forward, Schaefer could feel the change in ambient temperature; they were inside a building. He could hear the sharp heels of shoes crossing a marble floor.
“Good evening, sir,” another voice said.
They had been walking for a minute and forty seconds since leaving the car. Schaefer heard the sound of another security door opening. The floor became carpeted, and it wasn’t the only change that deadened sound; they had moved from an expansive space, to a small one – probably a corridor. Schaefer counted thirty paces, before a hand on his shoulder pulled him to a stop.
The hood was removed, and Schaefer squinted as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden burst of light. The figures around him came into focus: Shark Eyes directly ahead, facing Schaefer; No Neck to his left; Smoker behind his left shoulder; and Scarface behind his right. The corridor was supremely forgettable. White walls, blue carpet, a plain clothed guard at either end. Schaefer noticed a set of black double doors to his right, and guessed it was their final destination.
“What you see next never leaves this building,” Shark Eyes said plainly. “Do you understand?”
Schaefer nodded. Shark Eyes pushed the doors open and stepped into a situation room. Half-a-dozen cold-faced men worked at computer terminals dotted around the large open plan space. Large split-screens displayed images of the aftermath of terrible accidents and terrorist attacks. The walls were covered with dark brown cloth and pinned to the fabric were hundreds of photographs of similarly troubling incidents, violent crimes, murder, arson, bombings, interspersed with posters of missing people, news clippings, and crime scene photographs. Schaefer’s eyes widened when he realised that pinned to the wall, next to each item was a mandala card.
“This is our case,” Shark Eyes began. “Hundreds of crimes with a single connection. Three days after they occur, a photograph from the crime scene and one of these cards is mailed to the local police station. Murder made to look like accidents. Mass murder disguised as catastrophe.”
“Someone is behind all this?” Schaefer asked in disbelief.
“We think there are multiple individuals involved,” Shark Eyes replied. “But they may answer to one individual. The police got nowhere, so the government tasked my team with bringing the perpetrators to justice.”
“How long have you been working on this?”
“Eight years.”
“You people and your damned secrets,” Schaefer said as his anger built. His eyes dotted from one missing person poster to another. “If I’d have known sooner. If I’d known.”
“You know now,” Shark Eyes said flatly. “Follow me.”
Shark Eyes drew Schaefer away from his colleagues, who went to their desks. The tall man in the expensive suit led Schaefer to a whiteboard that was covered with photographs. It was the familiar law enforcement layout of a criminal organisation, with a number of gnarly faced men and women populating the lower levels. The ranks grew thinner as one climbed the whiteboard, until, at the very top, isolated and alone, was the photograph of one man. Caucasian, about sixty or seventy years old, grey hair, thin face, tight lips, and sad, unyielding eyes.
“This is Edward Lomas,” Shark Eyes said, indicating the photograph at the top of the board. “He leads a cult known as the Collective. We believe he has masterminded all these crimes, including the kidnappings. He knows what’s happened to Amber, Mr Schaefer. Help us locate him and we will get your daughter back.”
“What’s his story?” Schaefer asked as he considered the man who had just become his prime target.
“He disappeared ten years ago. Just vanished off the face of the Earth. We haven’t been able to find anything on him,” Shark Eyes turned to face Schaefer. “We’ve checked you out, Mr Schaefer. You seem to have an impressive ability for finding people. This is a chance for you to do some real good.”
*
Sat alone and hooded in the back of the Mercedes, Schaefer considered what he had just been shown. Evidence of a conspiracy so profound that it would be beyond the wildest imaginings of all but the most paranoid minds. It would involve tremendous planning and effort to inflict such evil upon the world, but the one thing Shark Eyes had not been able to tell Schaefer was why he thought anyone would go to such lengths. How did these people benefit from perpetrating such horror? The journey back to Chesham station was similar to the one out, but Schaefer didn’t measure time or distance. Instead he clasped the thick folder Shark Eyes had given him. Inside was all the information he and his team had on Edward Lomas.
When the car stopped, Smoker removed Schaefer’s hood, and returned his wallet and phone.
“There’s a new number on it,” Smoker said. “It’s listed under Esme. Call when you need to reach us.”
Schaefer climbed out of the car and watched it drive away. When he found Edward Lomas, he had no intention of calling anyone. He would make the old man tell him exactly where to find Amber. When the car was out of sight, Schaefer crossed the road, towards a lone taxi waiting on the other side.
“Hackney,” Schaefer said, as he climbed in the front seat.
“No problem,” replied the bearded Pakistani driver.
As the cab pulled away, Schaefer signalled the taxi driver’s mobile phone, which was charging in a holster on the dash.
“Any chance I could borrow your phone?” Schaefer asked. “One of my mates dropped mine and I need to call someone.”
Schaefer was almost certain that in addition to a contact number, the nameless spies would have added a bug to his phone. He’d have to pick up a replacement in the morning.
“Another mobile?” the driver asked.
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead, mate,” the driver said, handing his phone to Schaefer.
Schaefer dialled the memorised number, which rang out to a generic voicemail announcement. Paul Baker was not known for answering calls from numbers he didn’t recognise, so Schaefer dialled again. On the third attempt, Schaefer heard Baker’s familiar gravelly voice answer.
“Hello,” he said.
“It’s Schaefer.”
“Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?” Baker demanded.
“I’ll be at your office in an hour,” Schaefer said.
“Fuck that,” Baker laughed. “Whatever it is can wait until morning. I’m entertaining.”
Schaefer shuddered. Baker’s idea of entertainment was procuring the services of at least two young prostitutes for the night. Nineteen, maybe twenty
, as Baker put it, old enough to be legal, young enough to feel fresh.
“I can always make a home visit,” Schaefer replied.
There was a pause, as Baker considered the implications of disappointing the man at the other end of the line.
“Okay, okay, I’ll see you there,” Baker relented.
Schaefer hung up and handed the phone back to the driver.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem, mate,” the driver replied as he steered the car towards the bright lights of the city.
SEVENTEEN
Whitechapel Road. No amount of new money could wash away the ingrained filth. New buildings went up and within a few years they had absorbed the rotten aura that permeated the area. Windows covered with grime, doorways soaked in urine, graffiti, garbage – Whitechapel was proof that London’s underbelly could never be bulldozed out of existence. Visible defiance in the face of the forces that sought to tame the city.