She looked across from her own business class seat.
“I feel like a movie star. This is so nice. Just a shame the bed is only big enough for one.”
Cade looked at the girl, sprawled in the aisle seat, upstairs in the Emirates A380. Younger. Far lovelier and ever-playful. Only a matter of months before he had considered her dead. Out of his life as quickly as she had entered it, she was now back once more and captivating him with sideways glances and raised eyebrows – but with too many questions left unanswered he was still cautious.
“This plane does have a shower though. You know Jack, for the sake of old time as you say in England.”
“It does. But if you check the door, it clearly states maximum one occupant.” He smiled, wishing it said two.
“When did you become boring Jack?”
He leant across and kissed her. “I didn’t. I just had my life turned upside down by a devastatingly pretty girl, and honestly, I’m still coming to terms with her being alive. Just bear with me?”
“Of course.” She pulled a sad face. “Sorry. I have a lot to tell you I guess?”
“You do. But we’ve got plenty of time. We won’t get to London for a day, so relax, have some champagne or whatever, eat, sleep, shower, do what you want. However, yes, before we arrive, I’d like a few answers.”
“You deserve them Jack.” She held his hand awkwardly over the divider that separated the two comfortable seats. “And thank you for giving me such a wonderful way to travel.”
“Hong Kong. Six thundering horses, drink and a reckless friend see to it that I can afford it.”
She tilted her head. It was new information. The days they had spent together at his home in New Zealand had been more focused on love than life. She had found out what she needed to know, established that he was the man her mother had told her about – the one to trust. But she had never learned more than that. It had been a genuine regret. She had been sent to extract data from him, to elicit his help, not bloody well fall for him.
She raised a glass of champagne and chinked his glass which held a generous amount of Lagavulin malt whiskey and three crystal clear ice cubes.
“Then here’s a toast to those reckless drunken horses.”
Her glass was empty. “OK, let’s talk. Where shall I start?”
He took another sip of his, spotted the crew member approaching her with a top up, waited a second for the bubbles to settle then continued.
“How about the moment you walked into The Oceanside restaurant in Whitianga, my restaurant – and my life? And we’ll take it from there. That should see us heading towards Darwin, you can plan to be finished by the time we reach Dubai. From there we can talk about anything. Even what you plan to do with me once we get to London.”
It was an opening. A small one, but a chance. She was on his side. Always had been. Always would be. She just needed to rebuild the trust and make sure he never fell for Carrie O’Shea again. She had only been jealous once in her life – her looks helped in that department – but when he spoke about her, something happened to him. She sensed a change though. As if someone had covered the flame and watched it slowly die out.
They spoke. Covered old ground, opened up new lines of discussion. Ate. Drank coffee and then talked some more. They were over Indonesia when Cade ended the chat.
“So what you are telling me is that you went to New Zealand specifically to find me. That I was the one who would somehow protect you? It doesn’t make sense. There are plenty of people who can do that. Plenty of agencies. People, better equipped than me. Aren’t there?”
“Not according to the letter my mother sent me. The documents she gave me – the ones she said would provide me with a bright future – they were…”
She scanned through her mind for the right word. “A magnet. Yes, they were the magnet that attracted Alex and his men. He saw it as a chance to make more money than he ever could. All of his other crimes were training for his men, a distraction, a game. He knew that he needed to time his attack and the rewards would follow. His reward is to be feared by people and government agencies. He is a dangerous man Jack. He will not stop until he has that standing in Europe and amongst his own people.”
Cade felt a little nauseous. Long day. Needed to eat. Uncertain future.
“A man that wants a reputation before he wants money, is a dangerous man indeed Elena.”
She was asleep. He needed to follow suit and did so as soon as he laid his head on the pillow. The dreams were no longer what they were in the past; haunting, with darkened corners, vignettes of his deepest thoughts.
This one was of dark-coloured fish, swimming in random patterns, disappearing from sight, into voids beneath the surface. Freud, the eminent psychoanalyst would state his pension on this being an indicator, a sense of sheer frustration, of something out of his control.
Cade the Fisherman. Alex Stefanescu the elusive catch.
Slumber came once more. Unusually, he slept well and for hours. So much so that he was woken by a crew member.
“We are approaching Dubai, Mr Cade if you could prepare for landing, please.”
The cabin became busy. Economy passengers moving around below, stretching legs and rubbing raw eyes, trying to look through the roof panels to business class above them with envy and hatred.
In two hours they would be airborne again, final leg.
Cade had no idea about what had happened in his adopted home whilst he circumnavigated the globe. When he found out, he would decide quickly that he would rather be back on that idyllic island, away from it all. Leave the past where it belongs.
He was heading back to help, to support, to offer a quiet and reassuring level of tactical diplomacy, allowing Roberts to do what he now did best – lead an ever-changing team, all the while knowing that his role was already defined by the British. Cade wasn’t there as a member of the Operation Orion team. Neither was Elena Petrova.
They were being prepared for a carefully sharpened hook.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Emirates aircraft was now on finals. The crew reduced height and began the approach to London Heathrow, over the English Channel, following a path towards the Thames, to their north a swathe of windmills, generating electricity offshore, tall, majestic, bleached white and standing sentinel at the approach to the mainland.
Theirs was one of a number of long haul aircraft coming into London after flying through the previous night, across northern Europe, guided into the iconic airport by the equally famous river. Come to London – all are welcome.
Below them in a desolate part of north Kent, just south of the Thames, three people, captives, were waking. It was early. They had no idea of the time, but one of them, Carrie O’Shea, knew that it was about six. She always woke at this time, she recognised the light levels, as a photographer it meant a time of great hope. Golden light. The dawn of a new day.
She speculated how this one would end.
She was freezing. Her skin tacky. Damp and cold. Her clothes…were gone. She was lying on a rudimentary table, covered in an old blanket, desperate to get comfortable but failing. In a derelict building within half a mile of civilisation but essentially forgotten. They could have been in the middle of the arctic tundra, not within striking range of one of the world’s busiest cities.
She heard the aircraft, its pilot busy adjusting whatever it was they adjusted, reducing speed down to around one hundred and sixty miles an hour. Her hearing was acute, attuned to everything now. She heard birds, a Thrush, no, it was a blackbird, an oystercatcher heading out towards the marshland protested about something.
Distant traffic caused a constant thrum of rubber on concrete. That was the motorway that crossed the bridge, which in turn spanned the Thames, joining Kent to Essex. She could hear smaller aircraft now. A helicopter somewhere.
She could hear her own heartbeat.
And she could hear gentle sobbing.
The room was light enough now, enabling her to strai
n her eyes to the side. To her right was the body of a larger person, clothed but indistinguishable as either a man or a woman. Her instinct told her that despite the clothing it was a male.
She tried once more to relax, going against all of her inbuilt human instincts. ‘Relax for Christ’s sake, Carrie.’
The nausea was coming back. She fought off the inner demons that encouraged her to vomit, knowing that if she did, she would choke to death, strapped to the table, duct tape across her forehead and her arms and legs also restrained.
She had spent the last hour, half awake, pushing her head into the tape, stretching it, slowly allowing another few valuable degrees of vision.
As a result, she was able to scan and that helped her to feel a little more in control. Who was she kidding?
‘Don’t panic. Stay calm, Carrie.’ Her own voice managed to bring her back down to a level that meant of the two people in the room, she was the most stable.
Her left eye was sore, swollen. She must have hit it when they took her, dragging her into the van and forcing the dark hood over her head. Surely by now someone would have reported it? Surely.
Yes, by now her workmates would have been worried. She worked for the police; they were the protectors; they swore an oath they would come.
‘Keep this up, Carrie. Stay focused. Do not give in to these bastards.’
“They will come soon.” She spoke these words out aloud. They were the first she had uttered since being manacled to the table. She was unsure who the words were meant for, but they elicited a reply.
“Hello.” It was the person to her right. A dry, lip-tearing sound.
“Hello.” Was all she could think of saying in reply. Pathetic. She was so cold, hungry and afraid. However, she had been through worse.
She laughed, fear sometimes did that to people. She had been through worse? Worse than being strapped to a table with a hole to piss through. No food, no warmth, naked, no idea of where she was and why, and with who. And for how long? Things could not get any worse.
“For fuck’s sake, Carrie.” She chastised her spirit of hope. But it instantly led to a short conversation that would change her life. She tried to swallow, forcing saliva to gather, allowing her to speak.
“Carrie? Jack’s girl?”
The voice was definitely male, an unknown person, but the words were draped over her like a warm duvet, a log fire and a wholesome meal. And fresh, cool water to revive her parched mouth and throat. They were better than anything she had right now.
“Who are you?” She could hear herself swallowing.
“Are you Jack’s girl, Carrie? I need to know.” Equally arid.
She replied with nothing to lose. “Yes. And who are you?”
“The boys call me Lucy.” The covert intelligence source christened Lucy Thomas – codename Harrier was hissing the words through chattering teeth, cold and terrified of being heard.
“Dear God, of all the places to meet.” O’Shea felt a sense of control. She whispered each of her own words. Aware of the echo of the empty room and the chance of being overheard.
“OK, where are we?”
“No idea. They brought me here in a van. About an hour from home.”
“Me too. Who?”
“I don’t know.” It sounded like a lie.
“Are you sure?”
“No. No, I’m not sure about anything anymore Carrie.” Redemption came. “Look. You need to go easy on me. One of them is called Constantin. He was a…friend.”
Great. Just fucking wonderful. She was isolated and alone; she was starving, naked, her skin so raw from urine burns that she could barely move without feeling pain. That was bad enough. Adding that name to the equation – Constantin Nicolescu, the moon-howling psychopath and then Thomas, a cross-dressing prostitute of dubious morals, it was more than fair to say that her morning just couldn’t get any better.
She had a foul taste in her mouth too. Chemical, acrid, and it scorched her throat when she tried to swallow. They had used something to knock her out otherwise her injuries would be sky high as there was no way she was going to go down without a fight. Give her a sharpened pencil and she would have blinded at least one of them.
“He was a client more like Lucy – if that’s even your name?”
“Oh, hark at the Queen of Morals. Anyway, don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.” Thomas swallowed in a laboured fashion.
“So why are you here? Jason Roberts told me that this man loved you? If that’s even possible.”
“He said he did. But he was always a well-paying client, nothing more. He says I betrayed him to the police…” He stopped, listened. He could hear a few people moving around, heard footsteps disappearing, then continued. “Says I betrayed him to your team. Cade and Roberts. That he would have escaped if I’d looked the other way.”
“That bastard tried to kill me. I’ll be damned if he gets the chance to do it again. We have to try to escape if we can. How are your straps?”
“Covered in blood, probably. I’ve been rubbing my wrists against them for hours. I’ve lost track of time. I’m so cold. Why are they doing this to us, Carrie?” He started to sob again.
“Pack it in. I need you to be strong.”
To the left she heard a new sound. Drawn back into life by the pitiful gasps from Lucy Thomas.
“Who’s there?” O’Shea couldn’t see. Despite trying her best to force her eye to focus, all she could see was a blurred outline, her lashes concealing the person from her.
Nothing, no words. And then it came again, a deep, guttural moan, the type that indicated a person was close to death.
Who were these evil people? And why had they taken them to this place?
Constantin stood up slowly, his bed, of sorts, was low to the ground. He shook the cold night air from his pain-riddled body. He stretched out, pushing his body back away from the rotten wooden window frame that offered a foggy view through ancient glass, out across the marshland that bordered the river, down below the mighty bridge that spanned it and took thousands of people into and out of the capital.
His teeth hurt today. They were as rotten as the window frame that powdered between his fingertips.
Some days they were sore, today they hurt. His gums bled. The legacy of ill-health and drug taking.
He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and rubbed it into the concrete with his shoe until it formed a paste and eventually flaked and blended with years of manmade commercial activity.
“Another beautiful day in paradise.” He missed the drugs. He knew if he ever returned to them – his mistress as he called it – it would kill him. And now, with the end in sight, he also knew that the money he made working for the Jackdaw would more than pay for new teeth.
He laughed as he drew a smiley face in the condensation – “I could buy a whole new head!”
“What’s that boss?”
The voice was one of the younger members of his team, also trying to warm up, desperate to regain some level of human comfort.
“I was talking to myself. You shouldn’t listen to my thoughts, they might upset you. Go and get some coffee made. I have work to do. Bring it to me in the main room.” He looked at the male. He was young, just like he was, and hopeful, looking to a brighter future.
“Would you like any food?”
“No thank you. I rarely eat, my system cannot deal with food.”
“Just coffee then?”
“Please?”
The smiley face was crying as he walked out of his room towards what he called the main area – for all intents, a prison cell.
“Good morning, ladies. What a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, people going about their business, free, free of the restraints of life, of misery and the taut feeling of tape across their bodies, holding them against their will.”
He took the offered mug of coffee. “Thank you. Smells good. Stay here. I need some help. And you may learn something from me. One day someone wi
ll need to replace me. May as well be you.”
The male did as he was told. Constantin’s reputation preceded him.
He blew the steam away from the dark brown liquid, let the scent fill his nostrils, then sipped, swilling the remains of the night away.
None of the three captives spoke.
“You must be cold? It was a cold night, no? I know I was cold. I only had four blankets to keep me from freezing to death. God only knows how it must have been for you. Anyway, I have some good news. There will be a period of physical activity commencing in ten or so minutes. I need fresh air first, another coffee and perhaps something to eat.”
He looked at the young male with raised eyebrows as if he was responsible for his sudden hunger. He hadn’t eaten in days.
“Such activity gives me an appetite.”
Cynthia Bell let out another deep and visceral moan. It was the beginning of the end for her.
“Sadly, you cannot join me. I don’t feed you, better that way, less messy. You understand?”
He turned and walked away. The stench was overpowering. The misery pervasive.
“Any news? Anything?” It was Roberts, at work early and asking the obvious questions of his team.
Heads shook everywhere. “Nothing, guv. Not a dickie bird.” Nick Fisher was also at work early. They all were. About time, they moved in.
“I can tell you that Carrie is officially late boss if that helps in some small way?” Bridie McGee, Detective Sergeant and one of Roberts’ favourites. He relied upon her to speak the truth. He knew that Fisher would do the same, but laced with expletives so rich a hooker would blush.
“Are we all prepped for the briefing at eleven?”
“As best as we can be boss. I feel we can’t really add much. No new intel. No new chatter. It’s all quiet on the western. We need to get out Jason, need to start shaking a few trees. OK with you?”
Fisher was old school and all the better for it. He would literally shake a giant oak if it meant getting a result.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 22