Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  Laying his head on the cool pillows whilst the over-sized ceiling fan did its job he could have easily slipped into a deep sleep. He could hear and feel her breathing as he watched the wooden blades revolving. He tried to focus on just one blade, trying to stop time, right at that moment. A softly spoken sea breeze and a naked girl, in the afternoon, in an idyllic location, far removed from reality. It genuinely didn’t get any better.

  She waited for his heart to slow and his breathing to indicate that he was resting, then slipped her head beneath the sheets, heading lower, kissing him, licking his skin then blowing gently onto it. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he responded.

  “No, I’m not ready yet Elena.”

  “Jack. You were always ready.”

  “I need to ask you a question first.” He had his serious face on. She frowned.

  “OK, ask me. I will try to tell you the answer you are looking for.”

  “You survived.”

  She laughed. “Yes. I did. You seem not pleased?”

  “Oh, I’m very pleased right at this moment. But Elena when I left you…”

  “You thought I was dead?”

  He could only nod.

  “Me too. You did what you could. But it would not have been enough. Then, when I felt that I was going to die.” She stopped. It was obvious that she was back there.

  “I heard a helicopter.”

  “I saw it as I left. I knew they would help. The air ambulance teams are great.”

  “No Jack. This wasn’t a rescue team. I opened my eyes for a second, when he spoke. He had a beautiful voice, a soft accent, softer than Australian. He was a Kiwi man.”

  “OK, and what did this covert Kiwi do?”

  “He smiled. He apologised. Then I guess he saved my life.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was wearing green. Camouflaged clothing. He was confident Jack. He knew what to do. He said he would help me. That he was like a doctor.”

  “Army? Medic?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. He had longer hair. Handsome. When I woke up at the hospital…JD was there. I don’t know how he knew, or how he got there, or…”

  “It’s OK. Take your time.” This was new information.

  “He didn’t tell me his name, but I will never forget his voice. He even apologised for undressing me which is more than you ever do.” She sniggered.

  “Then whoever the mystery man is I will find him and thank him. Perhaps JD knows. I will ask him when I next speak. Thank you for telling me this. It sounds like you had great care in hospital.”

  “I was lucky Jack. That is all. Lucky. There was something else.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  She frowned.

  “Tell me. Enlighten means let me know.”

  “He leaned across me, pulled something from the wreckage. I remember he said something then left. I won’t forget what he said.”

  Cade nodded encouragingly.

  “For the girls. No other reason, Scottie.”

  “Well, that helps. And what do you think he took?”

  “The other set of papers. He has no idea of their value. At least I don’t think he did. But why did he take them?”

  She changed the subject. “Anyway, what has changed with us, you used to like me being exciting with you?”

  “The thought of Blake coming back early.”

  “He’ll be gone for hours. He told me he would.”

  “You planned this all along? You knew I would respond to your message?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “You knew I would come?”

  She giggled. “In that area, yes. Two hundred percent.”

  “You are incorrigible Petrova. Then don’t let me stop you. But just be gentle.”

  “Of course, always, Jack. And please, call me El. My very best friends do.”

  “And did the gallant man in green have a name for you?”

  “He didn’t. But he said he was sorry. Truly.”

  “Tell me about JD another time?”

  “Of course. But not now. Are you ready now?”

  His smile said it all.

  Blake checked his watch, a black-strapped Longines Flagship, gifted by a nation that he couldn’t recall – probably China after a trade visit some years before.

  “It’s been delightful meeting you Kim. But I think we need to return to the ranch.”

  “I’m in your hands, Sir Michael.” She giggled, the mojitos and dehydration had taken their toll.

  “I doubt I’ll ever get a knighthood. But I can at least drive you back to your old partner. He’s a good man you know. Shame he doesn’t trust me.”

  “Jack doesn’t trust many people. He always says six is the limit, any more than six degrees is suspicious.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  They pulled through the gates and came to a halt on the gravel driveway. As they walked along the noisy footpath their feet crushed the lavender and rosemary, filling the air with scent.

  They were met by Cade and his recently re-acquainted leading lady – both trying a little too hard not to look suspicious.

  “Been for a swim, Jack?”

  “No. Chance would be a fine thing. We’ve been discussing international security matters.”

  “Oh, how exciting. Does that normally entail leaving your shorts over the sunbed?” She pointed, mockingly at the garment that hung, in situ where they had been left, in a hurry.

  “Ah, those. Yes, I was pushed into the pool after a disagreement. Hence the towel.”

  “Hence indeed. Anyway, Michael and I had a lovely time, and now he’s going to fire up the barbie. They should be dry now. I’ll turn my back so you can get dressed.”

  Elena walked inside and spoke to Blake.

  Cade looked at Helston. “You know I hate you don’t you?”

  She smiled into the reflection as she watched her former partner slip out of the pool towel and regain what was left of his dignity. He still looked good. She remembered when she had stolen the first glimpse; he hadn’t changed that much.

  ‘Lucky girl’.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roberts’ phone rang. Late at night or early in the morning there was always an expectation that he would answer.

  It was early on a bitterly cold day and one that Roberts wished would allow him to do the decent thing and stay under the duvet, wrapped around his wife – any wife for that matter as long as she was attractive and warm. He put a hand out and grabbed hold of the phone and answered it under the sheets.

  “Yes.”

  “Morning Boss. Pete from SOCO.”

  Roberts had never remembered his surname, but he knew he was arguably the best scenes of crime officer in the force.

  “You always this fucking chirpy? Go on.” He shivered. Partly from the cold, more in fear at what he was about to hear.

  “Sorry, guv, no better way of saying this. The prints match Cynthia Bell. No doubt. I’ll sort out the paperwork. Shout if you need me. You there, boss?”

  He was. He just couldn’t find any suitable words for a moment.

  “Yes. Thanks, Pete. I owe you next time you are near the Sanctuary I’ll get you a shandy.”

  He turned over and kissed his wife. “I have to go, babe. Sorry.”

  She murmured something from under the covers and went back to sleep. Roberts ate as he drove and rang the team leaders in turn. The crux of his en route briefing was simple. ‘We need to find Cynthia Bell.’

  What Roberts didn’t know yet was that they also needed to find one of the best human sources he had ever managed, the eccentric and escort Lucy Thomas, who had been turned into an unwitting blood donor, and was now lying in a frigid room in a desolate and bramble-covered industrial cemetery. Alongside her and clinging to life was Bell.

  They were both existing.

  The life that had flowed from Thomas’ into Bell’s veins had somehow sustained her overnight, in spite of the glacial conditio
ns. Despite not being able to move far she was able to turn her head from side to side, just far enough to see that her left hand had gone. All that remained was a dark red, stained but professionally applied dressing. They must be pumping her full of drugs as she couldn’t feel any pain.

  They were. Or rather he was. Fentanyl was extremely difficult to come by – unless you knew how. Its opiate effects were legendary, fifty times, some said a hundred times more powerful than morphine.

  To her right was Thomas, or at least what she thought was a woman – she had a deep voice and was animated – like an off-duty drag artist. Bell remembered laughing at the notion of being held captive in a disused workshop next to someone who used more make-up than she did. Must be the drugs – as his situation was far from amusing.

  To her left a newly arrived and identical table, with straps and the same rudimentary hole, beneath which lay a cheap plastic bucket. This was a red one. She had no idea what colour hers was, only that it must be filling. She hoped it was blue. She liked blue.

  The new table was empty. Waiting.

  Constantin tapped the clear plastic tube, locked off the IV and flushed Thomas’ vein. He did the same to Bell. He really should have been a doctor, rather than a self-taught butcher with a fascination for human destruction.

  “I need to go. You will be fine. Shout for help from all of your friends from the government. Oh no, they can’t hear you. Such a shame. But this is good, because I have many plans for you both. You, my nightclub dancer and you the government analyst who will find typing a little harder now.”

  Thomas was writhing, trying to speak. Constantin tore the tape from her mouth.

  “Yes. You have something to say you slut?”

  “Please. You don’t have to do this. I have money…” The voice was definitely deeper. Lower in tone than it ever was when he had been entertained by her for money.

  The tape was soon drawn across her face and pushed back into place.

  He bent slightly and whispered, “Do you really think this is about money? There is only one whore on display here.” He squeezed her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, leaving a deep white imprint on her cold skin.

  He looked at the doorway.

  “Don’t just stand there staring boy, come in, and if either of these two cause you any problems, just hold their noses and watch them turn blue. Are the others ready?”

  The young male – twenty to twenty-five at a guess – nodded and said something that neither captive understood.

  “OK. But stand them up, strapped to the tables. Do not release them. Expect that they will want to kill you and escape if you give them a chance, that way you will be safe. I agree, feed them, give them water, but do it as I have instructed. Clear? Or do you wish to ring the boss to ask him?” His sentences were deliberately in English.

  Constantin – the evident leader of the group – walked outside, breathing in the cold air and stretching his tired limbs. It felt wonderful to be alive; not to have to depend on that evil that had for so long clogged up his veins, mind and body.

  “Come, we have a job to do. You remember what I showed you?”

  No questions, just a few nervous nods of the head.

  They walked away from the set of buildings, along a rough track, breaking the thin ice on the overnight puddles before getting into a grey van and heading west.

  It was bitterly cold. He was surprised his two prisoners had lived through the night. Getting up at three may have seemed like a humanitarian gesture but he had covered them up in old blankets to save their lives. They were valuable and a dead commodity was of no use to him.

  Cause a distraction the boss had said. Do it how you like. He knew the police, and whoever else they decided to enrol would soon be asking questions. Selecting the old factory from an internet map was resourceful. Picking a warmer one would have been ingenious.

  As the driver navigated through the streets of Erith and joined the commuter traffic, Constantin checked his watch. Their early rise was necessary. They needed to make the journey in under an hour and any later would have almost doubled the journey. Staying in the city overnight was not an option; with so many surveillance systems in the region Constantin knew how intrusive they could be. They had almost caught him last time as he hid in the shadows of their city. But it was only almost. And what a mistake that would prove to be.

  False plates one way. Another set for the return journey. You really couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘Have fun. But be no more than a distraction.’ The words of the Jackdaw replayed through his mind as he rubbed his hands over the weak warm air emitting from the vents.

  Their arrival required one drive-by. There was no room for error and there had been no opportunity for a dry run. It was now, or never. But the recent days had seen him grow in stature. It was now, actually.

  She was up at the normal time. Early. A creature of habit. More so these days as sleep often eluded her. Nespresso machine switched on, Ristretto coffee selected. It was her favourite. Bitter but fruity, and how she summed herself up sometimes. In the past, with him she had been full bodied and steaming hot.

  She knew the machine gave her time to dress, grab some pre-prepared food from the fridge and walk to the machine in time to grab the cup and take a sip of its warming, aromatic brew.

  Her hair was a little longer than it used to be. She liked it that way. Her make-up said subtle, but sophisticated. Her underwear spoke of seduction. Somethings never changed. Navy blue, trimmed with cream lace. Her father had always said wear clean ones in case you got run over. Her mother disagreed. Wear pretty ones in case you meet the man of your dreams. Worst case, her father added, make sure it’s him that runs you over.

  The pencil skirt accentuated her newly slimmed figure, and the shoes picked out the definition of her calf muscles. The cream blouse concealed what she considered to be her most important assets. Time in the gym was definitely paying dividends – she left a reminder on her calendar to renew the membership before the end of the month then placed the stiletto-pointed pencil back in the holder alongside three others.

  Looking in the mirror, she smiled. Yes, she looked just fine. She despised the government for even thinking of bringing in a law to forbid builders from wolf-whistling at girls. Long may it continue!

  Picking up her shoulder bag and phone she turned, three sixty, checked everything like he had taught her – once bitten – then set the alarm and walked down the stairs. As she entered the hallway she shivered. Was it that she should she have put on something more sensible for the short walk to work? Or more a case of this is where it once happened, in a semi-lit hallway, all those years ago – with him?

  She opened the main door, looked left, right and straight ahead. It was still dark but the sodium street lighting lifted the ambience, making it bearable, navigable and somehow less intimidating. She was much more confident now – but still bore the hallmarks of someone who had been the victim of an attack in her own home many years prior.

  This morning she shivered again as she turned her back to the street to shut the old and heavy black painted door, waiting for its familiar sound.

  Thud.

  There she was. Bang on time. Creature of habit.

  There she was, outside the door, to the minute.

  The van was alongside her, cargo door to the kerbside.

  Must be a courier.

  Up onto the kerb.

  He is early today. Must be busy.

  The larger male was out and matching his speed with the rushing pavement. It could all go wrong. His team mate was leaning out of the door to grab hold of her.

  They were after her handbag. She had read about this only the day before. Bastards. No way. This is not happening.

  She turned to look at the male, taking her eyes off the bigger picture.

  In ten seconds flat. That’s all the one witness would later estimate it took. Twelve at the most.

  ‘Did you get a number?’

  ‘No. I d
idn’t think anything of it. We have vans in the street all the time. Poor girl.’

  ‘Was there any signwriting on the van?’ Pressure.

  ‘Well, now you come to mention it. There might have been. Perhaps a plumber. Yes. I think it might have been a plumber. Sorry I can’t help more.’

  Never lead the witness.

  Twelve seconds. Count it. It’s not very long at all. Not a sound, not a scrap of evidence. Door shut, locked, engine pushed, turning left, towards the bridge, heading south.

  She was gone.

  Roberts was at work early. He found it to be easier to get up and dive into the hot shower than lay in a now cold bed. He cleared the desk phone of overnight voicemails, did the same to his emails and then went for a walk into the main office.

  In a matter of days Operation Orion had established itself as a viable and well-equipped counter to the threat of financial terrorism that they knew would start any day if the human intelligence sources were to be believed. But when?

  “Bridie, Fish. You got a moment? And bring a tea would you. Strong. Three sugars.”

  “But you don’t drink tea, guv?” It was Fish, wearing an up and at ‘em purple shirt and matching tie.

  “I do today, Nick. Nice tie. And can someone grab me a croissant or something from across the road? Preferably hot, with jam. Strawberry. No, wait. Make that apricot.”

  He sat down in his office, spun halfway in his leather chair and back again. Tapped his thumb and fingers on the desktop, used them to grab at his lower lip then spoke.

  “Guys we’ve got a real problem developing and I don’t know whether it’s aimed at me and Jack or the police in general, or, a massive distraction for something that has yet to happen.”

  Both detective sergeants looked at him. Waiting.

  “Cynthia is missing. It’s official. It was her hand in that bloody candle.” He swallowed hard. “I knew I was a vegetarian for a reason.”

  “There you go, guv. On me.” One of the younger members of the team slid a paper bag across the desk which contained two croissants and enough stolen jam to sink a destroyer.