“Cheers pal.” He opened the bag and offered the remaining one to Bridie, then Fish. He took a bite but couldn’t help replaying the video in his mind. The candle. The wax. The hand. The note.
He swallowed hard.
“Actually, you can have this one too.”
He needed to ring Cade.
It was still a summer evening in Hamilton Island, in the Great Barrier Reef when Cade’s phone buzzed, danced and slid its way across the glass-topped table at Blake’s impressive retreat.
He looked down at the display and considered killing it there and then. He was having a good time. He was almost relaxed. Another month…
“Do you need to get that?” It was Petrova, who had dressed for dinner in a simple summer dress, bare feet and a splash of Elie Saab – Cade loved the hint of orange blossom and frangipani. It made her smell good enough to eat.
He smiled to himself. She could have covered herself in manure and he would have found her attractive.
He blew air across his lips. “It’s Jason. I guess I do.”
“Jason. I hope this is important – you are interrupting a good old-fashioned Aussie barbie on a quite spectacular evening. You should see the colours in the sky – quite simply beautiful!”
He was on hands-free in the office at the Orion HQ.
“Glad you are having a good time mate.”
“OK, you emphasised the word ‘you’ – what’s happening Jas. I only want good news.”
“Cynthia is definitely missing. Presumed dead. Her hand was delivered to my office yesterday. Inside a fucking candle Jack. You know, a candle, which I would light. So the wax would melt and reveal a note. A note to you.”
“Christ, that’s terrible Jason.” He took a breath. “What did the note say?”
“You won’t like this. It said, ‘Jack. He will not spare when he takes revenge.’ And it was signed with the letters A and S.”
“OK. Sounds biblical to me. That’s all we need a religious nut job sending us random warning notes. Look, she could still be alive. You’ve got the resources now. Use them to find her. Get the guys out on the streets, old-fashioned policing. You’ve got the skills.”
“Oh, I’ve got resources to burn Jack. But I need a start point. I have a feeling the shit hasn’t even started to approach the fan yet.”
“I agree. You know who this is from don’t you? Even if it’s not his handy work. Sorry. Absolutely not funny or intentional. Jason, this is them. ‘AS’ is…”
“Yes, I’m fully aware who A bloody S is Jack! Right now I just need to find him. I think this is Constantin Nicolescu’s work. I looked into that bastard’s eyes that day on the train and I saw the devil.”
Cade went to take a sip of the wine that Elena had poured him but placed it back on the table. Now wasn’t the time.
“I was once told that the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns Jason. He comes disguised as everything you’ve ever wished for.”
“And your point, Jack?”
“Jason. You have always wanted to command the best team in the Metropolitan Police. And you have my complete backing. But at what cost? We’ve lost too many staff to this group already…”
He paused. “Jason, am I on hands-free? If so, take it off a second.”
He did, “Go on.”
“Carrie at work yet?”
“Why do you ask? Should be here any moment. You know what she’s like for timing – ever the OCD analyst. Anyway, I thought she was in your past.”
“She is. She was. But she worries me still. I just have a nasty feeling about today. Ring me if she doesn’t show. And Jason, if I were you I’d be rounding up the people you trust. Those dark clouds to the east are bringing a storm with them.”
Chapter Nineteen
He stared down at her. The plastic cable ties had been applied so quickly she never stood a chance. Hooded to disorient her she had little idea of where they were heading. She knew it was a grey van, possibly a Ford Transit. The cargo door rattled on its hinges. An air freshener did its level best to bring a hint of vanilla to the damp interior.
Music. Radio 2. The Cranberries. Linger.
The words were so familiar and poignant.
She knew the date and time and she had counted three males.
Instinct told her they were heading south. Or east. Or maybe south east. God alone knew.
Perhaps the woman to her right – the one who turned, in the street, startled by the man running towards her. Gripping onto her handbag. She had read about it too. Perhaps she would ring, or tell someone?
Do something.
Please.
The voices were Eastern European; her educated and time-served guess was Romanian. She had listened to enough voice recordings back in the day.
One of the voices was somehow familiar – and yet they had never met.
The tape recordings that the former Romanian Intelligence Officer Valentin Iliescu had sent her – back in 2004 – they were flooding her mind now, filling the one small space that remained, the rest crowded out by her fight-or-flight mechanism, somewhere in the brain things were happening. The adrenal medulla – it was a trivia question. She couldn’t recall exactly what it did, but she knew why. Muscles tensed, her digestive system all but shut down, she was now focusing on one thing only.
Her survival.
The hood made the interior of the van even darker, helped her to panic even more. She could count the microscopic holes? Yes, that was a fine idea. She started at one and ran out at forty-six.
Then started again.
Her breathing was rapid, she knew her blood pressure had increased. She needed to calm down. She needed to calm down now.
Talk to them. Don’t reason with them. Just talk.
“What do you want with me?”
There was no response.
“Where are you taking me?”
Again, nothing.
“I don’t have anything worth stealing.” She paused, aware that her next sentence could provide an idea. “Please don’t hurt me.”
A hand moved the hood up and over her mouth, then another applied a strip of duct tape, pressing down the edges. She began to focus on the one source of oxygen and forced herself to breathe through her nose.
But it was unnatural.
Breathe.
Panic.
Breathe.
Silence would have been a better sound than the drone of the diesel engine, slowing, then accelerating.
South. They were heading south. She tried to listen for familiar sounds – that’s what they did in the crime fiction world wasn’t it? Listen for a train or a piece of music or a bird calling.
‘Jesus a bird could be calling to its mate any bloody where you stupid cow.’
Calm. Down.
Face down, head slightly sideways, lying in the back of a sterile van. She could smell nothing but diesel and body odour.
Half an hour later by her reckoning, they slowed and turned left. The surface changed, it was a track, not the smooth road that they had driven along. The van lurched from side to side, there were potholes – and water; puddles, breaking. They were icy. Icy puddles. On a track – heading away from the main road and civilisation. This was anything but good.
“Jack? It’s me.” Cade could see who it was, but he accepted the introduction, allowing some space to take another sip of the Mt Difficulty Pinot Gris.
“It’s Jason everyone.” He was relaxed, and it was clear to Roberts that Cade was not alone.
The delicate tastes of peach and nectarine were dissipating. There was another flavour. White blossom apparently, but unlike its maker Cade was nowhere near qualified enough to detect it. Nor was he concentrating on his taste buds.
“Stunning evening, almost gone now but nice nonetheless. How are things there?”
“You’ve got an audience haven’t you?”
“Yes, a few now.”
“She hasn’t arrived Jack.”
He placed the g
lass onto the outdoor table, lined up the crest so it was facing him, looked at his fellow diners then spoke.
“I’ll be on the first plane out of Sydney tomorrow. Suggest you round up the old team – from what you said when we last spoke, the budget is fluid.”
“Thanks, Jack. I owe you.”
“Good man, and can you book a few rooms at the nearest decent hotel? We’ll need to rest when we can. This has been a fast turnaround on such a long journey.” It was an understatement – the journey to the bottom of the world was never short.
“How many nights?”
“No idea, push for as many as you can until it becomes obvious and we end up in some barrack room somewhere!”
“How many rooms?”
He looked at Kim Helston. She shook her head.
Elena was also listening. She could hear every word, and Cade wanted it that way. She smiled gently then held up her index finger.
Blake looked sideways at Helston who did her best not to grin.
Cade raised an eyebrow at Helston then said, “Two rooms please.” The younger of the two women looked disappointed.
“One for me and one for John Daniel.”
She was happy again. She mouthed ‘With a deep bath!’
“You want JD back? After all this time?” Roberts had an inquisitive tone.
“Don’t you? He knows as much about this group as we do – and he can support you without stepping on any toes. Can speak his mind…and he’ll be cheap. And Jason he knows more than either of us, actually. He was one of the original degrees of separation.”
“That’s settled then. I guess it will be impossible to keep him away. Especially with the less than subtle budget increase. I’ll ring him next. And what will your role be Jack?” It was a fair question from the man in charge of the operation.
“Whatever you want it to be. I don’t have rank anymore.”
“It would be rude to ask you to be my second in command – after all you led this operation from the front last time. How about my tactical advisor?”
“Sounds good. Do I get a free pen? Or a jacket with it emblazoned on the back?”
“Respectfully…Mr Cade…”
“No need to finish the sentence Jason. See you in twenty-four. Stay in touch and for Christ’s sake, be careful.”
“Yes, you too. I’ll arrange for a pickup at Terminal Three.”
Roberts cleared down and looked at his two most senior colleagues. Two detective sergeants amounted to a massive amount of experience, many commanders had said that the sergeant was the foundation of any police team. He hoped they proved them all right.
“She’s failed to show. Gather round, five minutes, no tea. No biscuits. This just got very personal, and I have lost my appetite.”
Cade drained his glass. It seemed a shame to do it so rapidly; it was a summer favourite, awkward in Helston’s company, her being a winemaker too. But he knew she’d forgive him. She always had. He raised the glass to her.
“Thank you, Kim. I wish you were coming, but I know you have a new life here. If ever you need someone to crush a few grapes, just give me a call.”
She smiled, winked subtly. “You can bloody count on it.”
He turned to Michael Blake.
“And you sir – will you be remaining here?”
“Absolutely not, Jack. I have work to return to – I will leave in a few days. Catseye is just my escape from it all place. A shrewd investment you could say. A long way, but she is here for me when I need her.”
“Just like Elena it seems.”
Blake tipped his head to one side, it was an acknowledgement and a pause.
“Yes, of course. Miss Petrova and I go back a long way. I knew her mother – but I guess you know that? Anyway, I must begin to think about packing up the old girl until next time, close a few shutters, lock her down. It has been a pleasure to have you all here. Normally my guests are quite tedious.”
“It must be a rare chance – to come here to this idyllic spot?”
“No, I travel to this part of the world whenever I can, and wherever possible I allow Her Majesty to fund it.”
“You have a family? Do they come with you? Surely you must bring them too?” Cade was pushing now.
“Of course Jack. Do you think I use this place as some sort of quixotic pied-à-terre? A romantic hideaway?” He laughed confidently. “Nothing illicit ever happens at Catseye Lodge. Well, not until today.” Touché.
They took off the following morning, Cade, Petrova and Helston. Over the harbour, banking across Whitehaven Beach – quite simply the most beautiful spot on earth. Cade made a promise to bring Elena back one day, to allow them both to feel the satin touch of the silica sand beneath their feet.
“Next stop Sydney. Then London. Are you ready to head back into the wolf’s den, Elena?”
Chapter Twenty
The heavily accented voice announced the arrival of the China Southern flight into Frankfurt International.
It had been a smooth journey, across China, over Kazakhstan, flirting with southern Russia, the Caspian Sea then into Europe. Beneath them, for a short while, Poland and finally Frankfurt, with its chaos-organised international airport, a major hub for European flights and still a day’s travel from his real destination.
He picked up his hand luggage, left the plane with everyone else and again moved smartly through the control points until he reached the Lufthansa gate lounge, next stop Budapest, Hungary.
He had studied the airport layout from online imagery. It helped in many ways.
So far, so very easy.
The onward Lufthansa flight had been pre-booked using a credit card.
‘Thank you, Scott McKee.’
A hundred and five New Zealand dollars and an hour and twenty-five minutes on a Boeing 737. That is all he would need to get him to Budapest, where he would overnight in a sterile motel, then travel by car, across the border and into Romania.
He slid the backpack beneath the chair in front, his feet either side. Precious cargo. Looking out of the window he could see the mountains of Austria in the distance. Snow. He missed the winter. Loved the training in his homeland, the colder the better. He had once dug into a snow cave for four days and waited for his hunters to try to find him.
Four days. They had to blow the whistle in the end.
‘Sergeant McCall – will you please reveal your location?’
He smiled now as he looked down at the expanse of green unravelling beneath him, a small town, he had no idea what it was – or who lived there.
Forty minutes to go. Refreshments had been served. Fresh, strong coffee and a strange croissant with ham – he’d eaten worse, a lot worse and often not for a bet but because he was hungry.
Fifteen minutes, seat backs up, tray tables folded. Down, beneath the clouds, banking, people preparing for landing.
Five. Three. One. Down.
It was a perfect landing by an efficient crew. Taxiing, he looked out at the new airport – Ferenc Liszt International.
Like its German equivalent it was efficient, warm and welcoming, but he knew he couldn’t stay. Passport control was a breeze.
“Welcome to Hungary, Mr McKee. The purpose of your visit?”
“Sadly, I am only passing through your beautiful country today – leaving after a short stop.” It was true, and it paid to flatter.
The passport was handed over by the disarming woman who pointed to the baggage hall with a smile. He returned it, with a wink.
Another time perhaps? But she was already dealing with the next passenger.
Twenty minutes later the credit card had been charged. A small two door Hyundai was now his only companion as he left the airport road and joined the M5 motorway heading south east. Ahead lay a seven-hour journey – if he obeyed the limits – which training and common sense told him to. The last thing he wanted was attention.
At a motorway service station, in a car park furthest away from the retail outlets, tucked beneath the s
keletal canopy of winter trees, McCall met an old colleague who was still serving with the Hungarian equivalent of the SAS. A soldier from his past.
A tall, slim man from Debrecen with an inquiring mind and a wiry, strong body. They had trained together and had vowed to stay in touch. They hadn’t managed that part, but when McCall had rung the KMZ member and asked for a few pieces of equipment, his old sparring partner said he would do his best – even if their conversation was at best broken, it was long overdue and good to talk.
Three magazines. Three flashbangs, an incendiary device and an M18 smoke grenade, together with a set of ITT Exilis night vision goggles, as he intended to go in when it was dark – get up close and personal with his audience, convince him to hand over the money without any incident then bugger off quick.
He had everything else he needed.
The Renault backed into a space, quickly, efficiently. Close enough to throw the items across. Both men nodded to one another. The Magyar to the Kiwi. No time to sit around and chat. He didn’t need to know.
“Sok szerencset Mack.” Good luck.
And he was gone.
McCall’s plans allowed for an overnight stop in the city of Arad, in the western region of Romania. It was half way. He arrived at the Hotel Maxim after lunch – it was an affordable hotel with a surprisingly-comfortable bed. Rest had eluded him for twenty-four hours. What followed was the sleep of kings and a chance to plan.
The following morning, three hours south east of his room, two men drank the distilled plum liquor called Tuica and toasted their successes in the luxury apartment above the biggest nightclub in the city called Byzantin.
The club had no opposition, despite there being five other similar clubs in the city. He owned them all.
In the beautifully presented and discreetly secure apartment the once-prized and genuine polar bear rug, scorched by a stray cinder, had been adapted so that the head now sat forlornly on the fireplace hearth.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 20