Harper knew that plastic explosives were not hard to find on the international black-market in arms, providing you had the necessary funds, but they were almost always from corrupt sources in Russia and the former Soviet republics. However, the PE-4A labelling showed that this batch was of British origin, which was a worry.
There were other items inside the shipping container, but even with the endoscope it wasn’t possible for Harper to identify all of them. Harper withdrew it, removed the light from the end and swapped it for a miniaturised camera. He then fed the endoscope back through the hole in the container wall and took a number of photographs for later analysis.
The contents of the second container were equally alarming. It held a variety of weapons, including a number of British SA-80 rifles and a tripod-mounted AT-4 Spigot anti-tank missile, a piece of ex-Soviet equipment that, despite its age, still packed a very formidable punch. The SA-80s were the L85 IW version, with IW standing for ‘individual weapon’. It was the standard issue rifle for the British armed forces.
‘With what they’ve got in the other container,’ Hansfree said, ‘that is some very heavy-duty kit.’
‘Right,’ Harper said. ‘And you don’t need to put something like this together just to carry out some penny-ante operation. They must be planning something big and we need to discover what it is pronto – before we find out the hard way when the bombs go off.’
Hansfree recorded everything they had seen and made a note of the serial numbers stencilled on the outside of the containers, so that their origins and the route by which they had come to the site could be traced and their onward movement tracked, if the jihadists later transferred them to a different site.
While Hansfree was doing that, Harper did a quick walk-around of the main warehouse unit. There was only one way in, which was locked and shuttered. He spent several more minutes carefully erasing every trace of his presence, including scooping up a little mud from a puddle and rubbing it over the drill holes he had made in the container walls, obscuring the thin line of bright metal that had been just visible around the edge of each hole. He slipped off his jacket and dragged it along the ground, using it like a brush to erase his footprints and the marks where the dog had dug its paws into the ground as it launched itself towards him, then took a final, careful look around, searching for any other incriminating traces he might have missed. He climbed back over the fence and walked away, with Hansfree, at a steady pace, without any visible sign of haste but putting distance between himself and the compound as quickly as he could.
CHAPTER 44
As soon as he got back to central London, Hansfree dropped Harper close to an all-night internet cafe in a side-street on the fringes of Soho, a few blocks north of Leicester Square. As usual, Harper seated himself at the furthest terminal from the cash-desk, then left a message for Charlotte Button using the usual drafts folder technique. He kept it short and sweet: WE NEED TO TALK. ARE YOU IN LONDON?
He ordered a coffee and sipped it as he waited for a response. After half an hour he gave up and went back to his room in Bayswater. In the early hours of the morning his phone beeped and he rolled over to look at the screen. It was a text message: YOU’VE GOT MAIL. He cursed, got out of bed, dressed, and headed out. He managed to find a black cab and had the driver drop him in Soho. The area was still busy, with more than its fair share of gay couples walking home arm in arm, and Harper received a number of admiring glances, which he managed to ignore, on the way to the internet café.
Button’s message was in the draft folder: I’M IN LONDON BUT AM PRETTY SURE I’M BEING FOLLOWED MOST OF THE TIME. I CAN LOSE THEM IF NECESSARY BUT IF I SLIP UP AND THEY SEE YOU THEN WE WILL HAVE ALL SORTS OF PROBLEMS. CALL ME ON THIS NUMBER ON THE HOUR FROM SIX A.M. ONWARDS. He scribbled it down on a piece of paper, rearranging the last four digits, then deleted the file.
He put a new message in the drafts folder, SIX IT IS, and signed off. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock, which meant he had two hours to kill. He bought another coffee and passed the time on the internet, reading up on the weapons and explosives he’d seen in the containers and studying Google Maps of the area.
At five he caught a black cab to Bayswater, which, like Soho, was one of the areas of the city that never seemed to sleep. He spent forty-five minutes running all the anti-surveillance techniques he knew, made easier by the fact that the streets were much quieter now than they were during the daytime, then walked to Paddington station. At precisely six o’clock he called the number from a public phone on the station concourse and Button answered on the third ring. ‘I’m so sorry about the cloak-and-dagger,’ she said.
‘Who’s after you?’ he asked.
‘Israelis, I think. An Israeli company anyway. Though it looks as if they’ve subcontracted it to a UK security firm.’
‘So not the government?’
‘I don’t know. They could be doing it at arm’s length . Same as they did with the Pool. And whoever it is has access to airline manifests. I’m working on it but I can’t risk putting you and your team in the firing line, so I’m going to have to steer clear of you until it’s resolved.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Harper. ‘But there’s a lot you need to know.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Your man is getting ready to move. No question. He has a team in place, some Asian, some white, and he has two shipping containers filled with gear, including British Army uniforms, SA-80 rifles, anti-tank missiles and a hell of a lot of plastic explosives.’
‘Explosives?’
‘PE-4A, which can only have been sourced – I’m assuming stolen – from within the UK.’
‘And where is this equipment?’
‘An industrial estate near Gravesend, not far from the Dartford River Crossing. This is big. Huge. He’s got arms and explosives and jihadists ready to go, and with the best will in the world all I have is a team of surveillance people. If you’re serious about wanting to stop your man, then all you need to do is make one phone call. There’s all the evidence you need to send him away for a long time.’
‘It’s not about sending him away,’ said Button. ‘The contract is for a cancellation.’
‘Cancellation’ was Button-speak for a killing. Someone was paying to have Caleb McGovan killed. Harper didn’t know who would be paying the bill, but he could think of lots of reasons why someone would prefer a home-grown jihadist to be in the ground rather than on trial. But at the end of the day it wasn’t his place to question the contract: he was just a hired hand.
‘That’s not a problem,’ said Harper. ‘I know where he is and where he usually goes, I can do it from the back of a motorcycle anytime I want. But what about the jihadists? What about his plan? Isn’t that a concern?’
‘Not to the person who wants the cancellation,’ said Button. ‘I can’t go into details but it’s a very personal matter and seeing McGovan behind bars really won’t cut it. He wants a cancellation, end of story.’
‘And that’s fair enough,’ said Harper. ‘McGovan has clearly crossed over to the dark side, and he’s exactly the sort of target you would have been sent after by HM Government in the good old days. I’m not saying he doesn’t merit cancellation, just pointing out there’s a lot in play here. He’s got home-grown jihadists working with him, and it looks as if someone else is pulling the strings. Someone behind the scenes is putting this together because McGovan himself isn’t doing enough. The industrial unit near Gravesend, for instance. He can’t have arranged that. The shipping containers. The money that’s paying for it all. Yes, I can cancel McGovan but all the rest will still be in place.’
Button didn’t say anything and, for a moment, Harper thought that he’d lost the connection. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here. Just considering my options.’
‘Look, we know McGovan is bad. No question. Give me the go-ahead for the cancellation, then make a phone call to the authorities.’
‘Except that if
you cancel McGovan tomorrow, the rest will presumably scatter. You’re not going to keep a street-shooting quiet, are you? The cops will be called in, he’ll be identified and, yes, we’ll get the containers but we’ll lose the jihadists and the mastermind who’s behind it.’
‘Maybe. But if we continue to let them run and the shit hits the fan – what then? If you were privy to what was going to happen and didn’t do anything, we’ll all be accomplices before the fact. People could die. A lot of people.’
‘I hear what you’re saying. Let me take advice and get back to you. In the meantime, keep a close eye on things. And keep me in the loop.’
‘I’ve got to be honest, that’s bloody difficult to do with all this Secret Squirrel stuff.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got any choice,’ said Button. ‘If the people after me are government-sponsored they’ll be able to eavesdrop on any mobile I use.’
‘So you’re sticking to landlines or the draft folder? That’s a pain. A real pain. How about this? Get a throwaway mobile but don’t use it. Send me the number. If there’s an emergency I’ll call you, you can ditch it immediately afterwards and get another. It’ll be expensive but I guess you can afford it.’
‘I’ll do that now,’ she promised, and ended the call.
CHAPTER 45
Harper went straight from Paddington to the ops room to brief the team. It was just Hansfree, the two Barrys and Maggie, as Hansfree was keeping his new hires at a distance, briefing them separately by radio and phone. His man Reggie had spent the night in a van outside the club and was due to be relieved by Nancy. Harper briefed them on what he had found in the containers and Hansfree used one of his laptops to show them the video Harper had taken through the endoscope.
‘That explosive is a worry,’ said Barry Whisper, stating the obvious.
‘It’s all a worry,’ said Maggie. ‘Especially the uniforms. What the hell are they planning?’
‘Hopefully we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Harper. ‘We’re heading out there as soon as we’ve got fixed up with some four-by-fours. Barry Big, can you get on that now?’
‘No problem,’ he said, pulling out his phone. ‘Any preferences?’
‘Just something that can outperform the Land Rovers the bad guys have,’ said Harper. ‘Hansfree, what’s the story with the camera I installed?’
Hansfree tapped on his keyboard and showed them the feed from the camera that Harper had fitted to the concrete tower overlooking the target unit. It wasn’t a great picture and unfortunately didn’t give anything like a clear view of the containers. ‘That’s a pity,’ said Harper. He patted Hansfree’s shoulder. ‘How good are the drones you were talking about?’
‘As good as anything the authorities have,’ said Hansfree. ‘But what about piloting them? Have you got experience with drones?’
‘Enough,’ said Harper. ‘I was on special ops with the Paras in Afghanistan and I got to fly them then. I doubt they’ve changed much.’
‘If anything, they’re easier now,’ said Hansfree. ‘The new models have self-stabilising sensors and GPS hover capability.’
‘Then hook me up and I’ll get back there,’ said Harper. ‘The rest of you guys can follow me down once you’ve got the four-by-fours sorted.’
CHAPTER 46
Harper had no trouble launching the drone Hansfree had given him, and it took him just a few minutes to relearn the skills he had picked up in the Paras, adjusting the throttle to increase and decrease the speed, and altering the pitch, roll and yaw of the four rotors to send the drone rising, falling or moving across the sky. It was illegal to fly a drone above five hundred feet in Britain without official permission, but the legality of his actions was the least of Harper’s concerns and he sent the drone soaring higher until it was no more than a speck in the sky, and the sound of its motor was lost in the traffic noise from the main road on the far side of the industrial site. He had been controlling it manually but now he set the controls to ‘Loiter’, causing the drone to hold to a specific GPS setting, and maintain its position stationary over the industrial unit. He called Hansfree and within five minutes Hansfree reported that he was picking up the video feed from the drone’s camera.
Harper had a laptop with him and Hansfree talked him through connecting it to the video feed. Within a few minutes he was able to view the astonishingly clear pictures from above. He brought the drone down and stored it in the boot of his BMW.
The rest of the team arrived a couple of hours later, Barry Big in a Range Rover, Barry Whisper and Maggie in a Jeep Cherokee. They parked half a mile away from the industrial unit. They didn’t have long to wait. At ten o’clock Harper’s earpiece crackled into life. ‘Tango One is in motion,’ Hansfree said. ‘He’s heading east.’
‘Vehicle?’
‘He was picked up by Yankee Four in a white Honda. We’re on it.’
A succession of messages let Harper and the rest of the team keep track of McGovan’s progress across London and out along the south bank of the Thames. When they were ten minutes away, Harper launched the drone and called his team to full alert as their subject entered the industrial area and drove to the site.
Two other men were with McGovan: Yankee Four was driving and an unidentified Asian male was sitting in the back. Harper watched on his laptop as McGovan and the jihadists got out of the vehicle. McGovan unlocked the main gate and the two men pulled it back. As the car drove through, McGovan spotted the dead dog.
Harper watched him examine the corpse. He straightened, looked around, then peered through the fence. The quality of the video was good enough for Harper to see what McGovan was peering at – the drinks can, sweets packet and kids’ footprints.
McGovan waved for Yankee Four to park the car, then jogged out of the gate and around to where the footprints were. Harper saw him pick up the stick bearing the tooth marks of the dog, then peer at the clumps of the dog’s fur still clinging to the fence. McGovan squatted on his haunches to study the footprints in the mud, then went back through the gate and took another look at the dead animal. He examined the dog minutely, then began a painstaking search of the area, paying particular attention to the locks on the sea-containers. Eventually he seemed satisfied and beckoned to one of the Asians. Together they pulled the dog off the fence, carried it, now rigid with rigor mortis, and dumped it in a nearby rubbish skip.
Harper heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘He’s bought into it,’ he said, into his shoulder mic. ‘We’re in business. Stand by, stand by.’
Slowly, over the course of several more hours, more men turned up at the industrial estate. Three arrived in another white Honda, all Asian. Two white men, who didn’t look long out of their teens, arrived in a van. Two of the Asians began working on the Land Rovers but the rest either went inside the containers or into the industrial unit. There was no way of monitoring their activities because even the sophisticated spy drone couldn’t see through steel.
‘Are you getting all these new arrivals?’ Harper asked Hansfree.
‘I am,’ said Hansfree over the radio. ‘They’re all new faces. Someone is overseeing this, for sure. Tango One hasn’t seen them before.’
At midday a delivery van also dropped off a number of cardboard containers at the site. By narrowing the focus of the telescopic camera on the drone and zooming it in to the maximum, Harper managed to read off the numbers, and within a few minutes, Hansfree had identified the boxes as army patrol rations.
In the afternoon the jihadists began transferring most of the stores and equipment from the containers to the Land Rovers. The task took several hours, and when they had finished they all disappeared inside one of the containers, reappearing with armfuls of uniforms that they carried inside the warehouse. Maggie left her vehicle and came to sit in Harper’s BMW to watch the feed from the drone as she snacked on a cheese sandwich and a can of Red Bull.
Some thirty minutes later, eight of the men came out. Four were Asian, three were white and one was the mixed-r
ace man they had called Yankee Four. They were all dressed in British Army issue military camouflage gear with webbing and backpacks to match. They lined up and McGovan inspected them.
‘They’re getting ready to move,’ Harper said into his radio. ‘On your toes, everyone. Hansfree, I count eight. There are ten jihadists, right?’
‘Affirmative,’ said Hansfree. ‘The other two must still be inside the warehouse.’
Harper brought the drone back down, flying it well away from the area before descending. He stored it in the boot of the BMW, along with the controller.
‘I no longer have eyeball,’ said Harper.
‘I have,’ said Barry Big. ‘Tango One is carrying out a final inspection of the Land Rovers. Now they’re getting on board. Four in each vehicle.’
‘What about Tango One?’ asked Harper.
‘Tango One is getting into a blue VW Jetta.’
‘That means they’re leaving two men behind. Okay, Barry Big and Barry Whisper, you follow the convoy. Hansfree, you need to keep a team in surveillance here.’
‘Understood,’ said Hansfree. ‘Reggie and Nancy are already in place and I have another team of four en route.’
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