The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “What the hell just happened?” asked one of the council members.

  “We’ve been betrayed,” said another. “How else could they know what we were planning and when?”

  “Who would kill our men so coldly?”

  “We know who,” said the Proconsul, leaning back in his chair. He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray on the table in front of him, the taste no longer pleasing him. All eyes were now on him. “We’ve known this day could come when the one who betrayed us once would betray us again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did you see their equipment?” asked another. “They had to be Special Forces. Those outfits were for the benefit of the cameras on the street.”

  “There’s one way to know for sure,” said the Proconsul as he punched a button on the control panel in front of him. “Get me our friend in Washington.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  The room waited in anticipation, no one saying anything, all fearing their worst case scenario was about to be confirmed.

  “Go ahead,” said a disembodied voice through the speaker. It would have been chilling if he didn’t know who he was talking to, the subterfuge necessary however as not all at the council table knew who was speaking, and if there were any uninvited listeners, their contact’s safety was paramount.

  “This is the Proconsul.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seven of our men were killed minutes ago. The British Museum skull has been lost.”

  “I know, I just heard. The operation was carried out by his forces.”

  “What are his intentions?”

  “I believe he intends to bring the skulls together.”

  “If that is his intention, he may need to be dealt with.”

  “I understand.”

  “We will speak again.” The Proconsul severed the connection.

  “You do realize who you’re talking about killing don’t you?” asked the Paris member.

  The Proconsul nodded as he took in a deep breath.

  “Anyone who gets in our way is forfeit if necessary.”

  The Dorchester, Park Lane, London

  Chaney stopped and gaped at the surroundings as Reading walked purposefully toward the front desk of the Dorchester. Savard’s plane tickets had been booked through an agency and a quick phone call had determined that he was originally scheduled for a stay at the Dorchester, not the Ritz where he was found. Chaney was about to comment to his boss when he noticed he was now standing alone. He rushed to catch up.

  Reading was just flashing his warrant card to the concierge behind the desk. “DCI Reading, Scotland Yard. This is DI Chaney,” he said, glancing at his underling. “We were wondering if you’ve seen this man today.” He motioned to Chaney who pulled a blow up of the Frenchman’s passport photo out of a manila envelope and showed it to her.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t. May I?” she asked, reaching for the photo.

  “Of course,” said Chaney as he handed it to her. She took the photograph and walked away, showing it to several others. Another man nodded and returned with her.

  “This is Michael. He says he saw him earlier,” she said, introducing the porter.

  “DCI Reading, DI Chaney,” repeated Reading as he took back the photo and held it up. “You saw this man?”

  “Yes, sir, this afternoon. I took his bags in from a taxi and waited with him while he checked in. Then he said he was at the wrong hotel and rushed out. I followed him with the bags and put them in a taxi for him. Then he left.”

  “He said he was in the wrong hotel?” asked Chaney.

  “Yes, sir, quite strange if I do say so, sir.”

  Reading turned to the desk clerk. “Can you confirm if a Mr. Serge Savard had a reservation here today?”

  She punched a few keys on her computer and nodded. “Yes, Inspector, he had a reservation for the next three nights, booked a fortnight ago.” She hit a few more keys. “It looks like the check-in process began and then was stopped for some reason. The agent who was on duty is on break now. Do you want me to get him?” Reading nodded and she rushed off.

  He turned back to the porter. “Was there anything else unusual about his behavior that you can think of?”

  The porter thought for a moment. “Well, I thought it kind of odd that he left his friend here.”

  Reading stopped. “His friend? You mean he wasn’t alone?”

  “No, sir, he came with someone else, an American, I believe,” explained the porter. “He asked where the toilets were and then went off in that direction,” he said, pointing toward the bathrooms. “It was then that the gentleman in the photograph left.”

  The concierge approached with another in tow. Before she had a chance to speak, Reading cut her off. “Do you have security cameras here?” She nodded. “We’ll need to see the tapes from this afternoon immediately.”

  They were led to the security room, a cramped affair with one lone occupant who was quickly filled in on the situation and had the lobby footage from the time of the check-in displayed within seconds.

  “That’s him there,” said Chaney, pointing to the video monitor at the Frenchman in the lobby. “And that must be the man he arrived with.” Again he pointed to the screen, this time at a man carrying shopping bags and heading toward the bathrooms. A couple of moments later the Frenchman scurried toward the doors.

  “Okay, show me the entrance camera for a few minutes before so we can see how they arrived,” ordered Reading.

  “No problem, mon,” said the security technician, a black man with a thick Jamaican accent and dreadlocks tucked into a Rastafarian Tam hat. He punched up a different camera view and time code.

  “There they are.” Reading pointed at the two men entering the building. “Back it up.” The image reversed and they saw the men exiting a cab. “Stop it there. Zoom in on the taxi, I want the number.” The image froze and the tech zoomed in on the top of the cab. “Got that?” Reading asked Chaney.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied as he jotted down the cab number and company name. “I’ll call right now and find out where the pickup took place.” He went to the other side of the small room to place a call from his cellphone.

  “Okay, now move it forward inside the lobby and see if we can spot our mystery man leaving.”

  The tech laughed. “Mystery Mon, yaw, gud name for eem!”

  Reading grabbed the back of the man’s chair and swung the startled tech around to face him. “This man is wanted for questioning in the brutal murder of someone earlier today, so you will excuse me if I fail to see the humor!” Reading glared at the cowering tech.

  “Sorry, sir,” replied the tech in perfect English without a hint of his Jamaican accent. “I didn’t know.” He switched the camera view back and played the image at double time. A few minutes later they saw the same man with the shopping bags heading toward the doors. The tech switched the view to the entrance and they watched as he got in a cab. “Would you like the taxi number, sir?” he asked, looking up at Reading sheepishly. Reading nodded. The tech zoomed in on the cab number and Reading jotted it down.

  “Can you give me a printout of his face?”

  “Yes, sir.” He backed up the image frame by frame, looking for a good face shot. When he found one he zoomed in on it and hit a button. It appeared in the printer tray moments later. Swiveling in his chair, he grabbed the photographic paper off the tray and spun back toward Reading. “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Reading looked intently at the picture. Who are you?

  Chaney flipped his phone closed and turned to Reading. “Got a hit on the taxi, guv. They were picked up at Heathrow.”

  “Okay, tell them we’re on our way and to have the video tape ready,” said Reading, striding toward the door. He tore the other cab number off his pad and handed it to Chaney. “And find out where this one went.”

  Fleet Street, London

  Dawson and his men parked their SUV in an alleyway and
climbed out. Two of his men opened a manhole cover then they all descended into the London storm drainage system, walking several hundred feet before Dawson looked up at the next access point. Climbing the metal rungs, he tentatively pushed the manhole cover up and carefully surveyed the surroundings. Seeing everything was clear, he pushed it aside and looked up.

  A vehicle was parked directly overhead. He climbed up a few more rungs, then knocked on the bottom. An access door opened and Smitty looked down at him.

  “Pardon me, sir, but do you have a reservation?” he asked in a fake British accent.

  “Yes, it’s under Hugh, Mr. Eff Hugh,” said Dawson, handing him the bag. Smitty smiled and took it then grabbed his commander’s hand, pulling him into the truck. The cube van, as it turned out to be, had benches on either side. The second team, led by Red, was already there. The rest of the men rapidly exited the drainage system and soon the manhole cover was replaced, the hatch closed and the truck on its way out of the city. A quick detour into some woods and their chopper would take them back to base.

  Nothing but a routine exercise.

  Dawson considered himself a moral man. He had killed for his country before. Many times before. He had even been forced to kill civilians occasionally, but they were never innocent bystanders. They had been in his way, sheltering a target, lying to him, whatever. They were always guilty of something. This was the first mission, however, where he had serious doubts. When Acton had fled to England, Control had provided further intel on the terrorist cell. Apparently their main base of operations was in London, the US cell simply that—a cell—one small part of a much larger organization aimed at bringing down the West.

  But he still had a hard time reconciling that homegrown terrorists could be organized across continents, with so many willing participants.

  And the man at the hotel? He had tortured targets for information before, but this man knew nothing, despite Control Actual insisting he did, ordering the initial torture, and the final, brutal acts that would haunt him for the rest of his days. His morality was being challenged, but every time he started to feel guilty about what he was doing, he was forced to think back on what had happened to this point. The students in Peru were on the Termination List—and you didn’t get on that by accident. The Professor had killed one of his men, and seriously wounded another, then fled not to his University and the authorities, but to the very city his terrorist cell was centered in—London. And he had sent a decoy package, which proved he was hiding something—if he wasn’t, there would have been no need for a decoy.

  As well, his cell had managed to insert an operative inside the White House, only feet from the President himself, which had to mean they had more contacts on the inside. And now a group of armed men had left the very headquarters Control Actual had briefed him on and committed armed robbery, stealing a sculpture from a museum.

  It was this skull that was now gnawing at him. Control had said in the initial briefing that the object was actually a top-secret crystal, part of the Structural Amorphous Metals project that was stolen from a DARPA lab several months ago while in transit. It was moldable, making it very unique; a new form of crystal that had incredible military applications.

  “There isn’t a government on this planet that wouldn’t kill to get their hands on it.”

  The entire idea of moldable crystal had sounded like BS to him, but it wasn’t his job to question the science. It was his job to recover the item. And now for some reason he had a crystal skull sitting in a bag between his knees, seven more were dead, and he had more doubts than ever.

  “Problem, B.D?” asked Red quietly. He was sitting directly across from him at the back of the truck. Dawson knew Red could tell this mission was eating at him. It was eating at all of them. He rarely gave any sign of his true feelings in front of his men, but Red could read him like a book.

  Dawson shook his head. “No, just tired.”

  Red nodded. “You and me both.”

  Dawson could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  Heathrow Airport, London

  Detective Inspector Chaney pulled the car up in front of the administration building of Heathrow airport. He and Reading climbed out and headed toward the entrance, both taking a moment to look up at the never-ending flow of planes landing and taking off. The smell of jet fuel filled the air from the over one thousand flights per day Heathrow handled. They flashed their warrant cards at the guard and entered the building. As they approached the reception desk, a man called to them.

  “DCI Reading and DI Chaney?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Reading, “and you are?”

  “Jeffrey Tilson. I was told by The Chief to escort you to the security center. I’ll need you to sign here,” he said, motioning to an electronic pad on the reception desk, “and then stand here for your picture to be taken.” Chaney signed the pad and stood for his picture, Reading followed. A moment later the guard at the reception desk handed them two laminated security passes with VISITOR emblazoned across them.

  “These must be visible at all times and you must have an escort at all times. We have over sixty-eight thousand employees and can’t recognize everyone!” he said laughing. Chaney nodded as he clipped it on his shirt pocket.

  “This way, gentlemen,” said Tilson as he jogged toward an open elevator. He held the door open for them, waving off a few people who tried to board. Swiping his security card through a card reader, he punched a code and hit the button for B3. An LED readout scrolled “Restricted Access. Doors Will Not Open Again Until Level B3” as the elevator began its descent.

  When the doors opened again they were met with glaring artificial lights and two heavily armed guards who inspected their cards. They swiped them and continued. Tilson led them down the long corridor and into a glass walled room filled with hundreds of monitors being watched by as many personnel. Leading them over to a side office, he knocked on a door that read Chief of Security.

  “Enter!” a voice boomed from the other side.

  Tilson opened the door and the three men entered. A large, well-built man in his fifties rose from behind his glass and chrome desk and approached them with a polite smile.

  “DCI Reading, DI Chaney, may I present Mr. Arthur Pleasance.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” Pleasance extended his hand first to Reading then to Chaney. “Have a seat please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “Do you have time for tea?”

  Chaney was about to answer no, when Reading interrupted. “There’s always time for a cuppa.” Pleasance nodded to Tilson who left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Do you have the tapes ready for us?” asked Reading.

  “Yes, I do. I had my people pull the footage for the entrance where you said the taxi picked him up. Our facial recognition software matched someone to the photo of your man you sent us.” He hit a few keys on the keyboard and nodded toward the large screen on the wall. “Here are your two subjects getting into the taxi.”

  “That’s them all right,” said Chaney, nodding in agreement.

  “Can you back it up and see where they came from?” asked Reading. Pleasance nodded and tapped some keys. The footage showed the men exiting the cab, unloading their bags, then walking backward toward the entrance of the airport. He switched views again and they traced the men back to a bathroom where the image showed them exiting together.

  “Do you have cameras in the loos?” asked Chaney.

  “Of course not, that would violate privacy laws,” replied Pleasance as he tapped a code into his keyboard. A view of the bathroom popped up. He reversed the tape and the two men could be seen talking before the Frenchman headed backward toward a stall. The other man waited at the sinks for a couple of minutes, then backed into a stall himself.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Enter!” roared Pleasance. Chaney jumped in his chair.

  Tilson entered with a tray holding a tea service for the three men. “Ahh,
thank you, Jeffrey.” Tilson put the tray on the Chief’s desk and exited the room. After serving his guests, Pleasance turned back to the monitor.

  The Frenchman entered the bathroom after their John Doe who then exited his stall backward. “Wait,” said Chaney. “He’s changed clothes and is carrying some sort of large bag there. The later footage shows him with three shopping bags and definitely wearing something different.”

  “You’re right.” Pleasance reversed the footage further and switched the view back to the entrance of the bathroom.

  “Can you track him back to which flight he got off of?” asked Reading.

  “Yes.” Pleasance smiled. “Watch this.” He hit a few keys and the system zoomed in on the face. It plotted the required facial recognition points, then the software followed the subject back through the various camera angles, through the main concourses, security, the baggage claims area, the arrivals area and finally right to the gate he first appeared at.

  Reading gave out a low whistle. “Impressive. Now what can you tell me about that flight?”

  Pleasance switched to another computer and entered the time and gate number. “It was a British Airways flight from New York,” he replied. “One moment and I’ll pull up the manifest information.” A few more keys and the list appeared on his screen. He scrolled through the names then shook his head. “Savard was not on this flight.”

  Reading shook his head. “No, we have him arriving on an Air France flight around the same time. And judging by the footage we saw and the witness statements we’ve taken, I don’t think he knew this man at all.”

  “Wait a minute. You were also looking for someone named Acton?”

  Reading nodded.

  “Here he is. James Acton, US citizen.”

  Reading slapped Chaney on the shoulder. “Now there’s a break!” He turned to Pleasance. “What more can you tell us?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. That’s all we’re given by the airlines. It will take a court order to get the rest. You guys can run him through Interpol probably quicker.”