She accepted, he outlined his concerns. She promised she would do her best. It was all anyone could ask. He trusted her. They trusted her.
Did she trust Halford?
As she was whisked through traffic she pondered this question, then made the decision to redact the names of the mission staff from the report, then made a call to James Cole.
“You really believe this is necessary?”
“One hundred and one percent.”
Chapter 57
The squads had been deployed after a hectic twenty-four hours of planning, preparation, checks and rechecks. They would travel lightly, operate overtly as part of a viable team, or remain undercover, speak when spoken to, communicate via their standard operating procedures. No more, no less.
A Squad tore into buildings, executed warrants, arrested seven members of a bank targeting syndicate. All spoke the same language. All bore the tattoo. All hit the ground hard, face down, hands cuffed tightly behind their backs, shoulders screaming in agony.
B Squad sat on the ferries, the airports and tunnels. No one moved.
C and D united and were also working with two members of the Romanian Police, willingly provided by Andre Grigorescu the Capitan from the Special Intervention Brigade in Craiova. They had been provided via a mutual aid request which Interpol had organised. Having the two staff on the team, asking no questions about why, but spotting their own targets in a sea of faces proved to be priceless.
E Squad did what they did best. Monitor Electronics – voices; cell phones, landlines, whatever it took. They listened then provided recordings for translation. That would take weeks. They had hours, but evidentially it would prove to be valuable.
F were the firearms team, and they were wherever they needed to be. They had the training and kit to take the battle to the enemy. Holding a black leather tactical boot tightly on the neck of the man that had inadvertently killed Detective Sergeant Nick Fisher was a highlight. Speedcuffing others, all at gunpoint was intended to send a message.
But still they were playing catch up.
McGee was sat, back against a metal wall, back in a surveillance vehicle with a new partner. It was too soon and far from ideal but they would make it work for Fisher’s sake. The street outside had been dug up, providing a perfect opportunity to blend and watch in a utilities vehicle.
People were joining the site from the south. Two more at the northern side.
The online community was being monitored. Social media was a double-edged blade at the best of times, but sometimes, just once, or twice it gave up its secrets, created a lead.
Carrie O’Shea had sharpened her pencil – figuratively speaking.
David Francis had tuned into all of the Met Police systems and a few that the government had loaned to the department. He wanted to wreak his own revenge.
Remotely, from a sterile bedsit Valentin had also begun to let the intelligence wash over him. Ready to pounce electronically on anything or anyone that provided a chance of success. He owed the British officer that had been gunned down that much. The money would be nice too, a final chance to head back to Europe and disappear once more.
He ran his finger over the mouse pad on one of three laptops. It came to life. Nothing from Remus – as expected. He knew where they were now and online chatter was not likely to happen.
Viduus was there waiting. He had never met Johnnie Hewett the man behind the alter ego, but what he was told made him relax a little. A smart man, savvy and able to adapt, a chameleon just like himself and one who had also been let down by his own people in the past. It seemed that a lot of people on the Op Orion team were trying to make amends or inflict pain.
The cursor was blinking.
Valentin typed. ‘Romulus expects that everyman will do his duty.’
Viduus smiled behind his own screen. Hewett appreciated the reference to Admiral Horatio Nelson. He wanted to type ‘Kiss me Hardy’ but decided against it, instead writing ‘Victory will be ours.’
Sancus appeared online. Watched by Valentin and Hewett and now Francis who had spent nights working out how to read and not be detected.
Sancus wrote ‘Remember the Seven of Swords.’ He outlined a few key components of their own operation, a few less than subtle reminders then finished with ‘Message ends.’
He pushed the keyboard back across his desk, crushed the report that Roberts had supplied, then carefully unfurled it and shoved it into the cross-shredder.
“Bastards. You will all regret the fucking day you met me.” He deleted his search history with a pounding collision onto the enter key, then turned to another screen where a picture of Michael Blake was looking back, an old media shot of him in a pinstriped suit, red tie, smug little prick. Look at you now.
Harold Halford was a man not to be crossed. By anyone.
“Seven of Swords. Let’s find out the relevance team.” O’Shea was in charge now, loving being back in the saddle. Minutes later a voice called out, “It’s about betrayal Carrie. Comes from the tarot deck. Basically, a lesson in trust.”
“Thanks.” It was a topic she considered herself an expert in.
McCall and Stefanescu were walking into their newly adopted workplace with six other workers. The Operations Manager Andy Darkin had been told a team of environmental engineers were attending, were there to monitor the site during the impending tidal surge and were allowed free access. He wasn’t entirely happy but when an instruction was backed by an email from the government one tended to abide by the rules. Tell no one. Not even your wife.
For McCall it was a chance to pay back what he owed – minus a handful of diamonds that he had been convinced to retain, another chance, to give his siblings a brighter future. His partner was to be the man he had rescued from a burning nightclub and one who had yet to fully earn his trust, but, he had led him to safety and for that alone he had earned some credit.
McCall slipped his hand into his kit bag and gained immediate comfort when it met the plastic pistol grip of a Sig Sauer 9mm. Stefan had one too and a spare magazine. Their overt role was to at least try to look as if they knew what they were doing. McCall had studied the floorplan until he dreamt about it. Ask me a question. No one did, they knew he knew the answer.
His frame was slightly bulkier than normal due to the presence of a SlashPRO full sleeve slash resistant shirt, the rest of his outfit was the same as everyone else’s.
His knife was where it always was. Within reach.
He turned to Stefanescu. “Now I guess we wait.”
The cloud bank had settled offshore, out in the Thames estuary. To the north, open water, to the south an island and then a shore that had defended against invaders since Roman times. A series of sea forts fought for attention against a swathe of windmills, all rotating silently out in the channel, up close, blades whipping through the air, creating much-needed power for the colossal city nearby.
McCall had found a small office within the structure, had sat down, feet on a table and was talking to Stefan.
“Nothing. Why we don’t just walk up to him and shoot the bastard is beyond me.”
“We were told not to. You being a soldier should know how to follow rules Scott?”
“What if I do have to shoot him? He’s your brother after all.”
“Only if I don’t first. He was trying to kill me when you burst in onto our argument if you remember!”
And so they waited out of sight. Access all areas, except the one where the man himself was likely to be.
Why? It made no sense.
Cole looked up, saw Lane entering his office. “Shut the door Sassy. Ken you can leave us now and thank you.”
Once alone Cole switched his cell phone off, unplugged the desk phone, turned off the computer, drew the curtains, pulled up a chair as close to Lane as he could and spoke.
“Forgive the ludicrous paranoia?”
“Of course. You OK. This is all very romantic…”
“Another time Sass. Listen things ha
ve changed. I agree Halford is…worthy of attention. Something about him hasn’t sat right with me for a while now. Call it my mother’s intuition. The Orion team have joined forces with the remnants of Griffin as you know. A small team has deployed to the key assets. Another is still watching the bank vaults and one more is trying to locate Michael Blake.” He shook his head. “He’s disappeared off the proverbial face Sassy. No message, no sick leave. His family think he’s at work, we need to enforce this.” He was brooding.
“So where is he?”
“Michael Blake, our most senior man from the Foreign Office, and our talisman for any European deals if this bloody report gets aired – is missing. No phone traffic, no internet. He was picked up from home a day ago. No signs of a struggle. Next to you, or Harry or my Deputy vanishing, it’s just about as bad as it gets. Christ almighty!”
“I’ll get the Orion team onto this right away.” Helpful.
“He’s part of the old Griffin team Sassy. Have John Daniel briefed in person. I want him to lead that aspect, leave the others to concentrate on keeping my city from danger.”
Twenty-four hours earlier a vehicle with blackened windows had arrived at the Surrey home of Michael Blake. It was as normal as any other day in the life of an intensely busy man. Picked up here, dropped off there. He waved to his adoring wife and kids. They waved back.
Theirs had been a successful life thanks to their father and husband. His wife knew of his past, of a life in the Foreign Office and the endless raft of cocktail parties. There was talk of a girl too. Just one. She could ignore all the history in lieu of a rather beautiful six bedroomed place on the edge of London and a retreat on a beautiful island off the coast of Australia.
“Goodbye my darling.” She waved, then closed the door on her husband for hopefully the last time. The offer had been made, backed up by photographs of him in compromising positions with two young and eager girls. Photoshop was a marvellous piece of software.
She was still waving as the Volkswagen minibus crackled across the shingle driveway. “Farewell you bastard.”
“Mummy what’s for tea?”
“Anything you like dear.” She could afford it now.
The children would soon forget a father who was absent for at least half of the year, anyway. They hadn’t seen the stun delivered from a pair of probes that were rammed into his arm. By the time he came too he was PlastiCuffed and gagged and had a solitary small hole in the top of his thigh.
“One down. One to go.” The driver high fived the passenger who was busy calculating how to spend his wages. He made the call. “Yes sir, we have him. On our way now.”
They joined the eastbound traffic and made for a rendezvous near the Thames.
“They have Blake.” Constantin grinned. “I bet you will enjoy this part. Can I do as planned?” He was almost excited.
They had finished their shift for the day, left with everyone else, having pretended effectively that they were maintaining things that needed maintaining. They had chosen the deepest, darkest parts, where no one was in a hurry to go. Once again, it reminded Constantin of his demise in the Channel Tunnel. Not this time. This time would be different, he would emerge in more ways than one.
They made it to the next location.
McGee had called it in, “Targets on the move.” A surveillance unit had followed them, desperate to take them out in an armed stop.
‘Why won’t they just give us the word?’
Then in a moment of madness the minivan lost their observers. Left, right, up a pavement, down an alley. Gone.
The VW Kombi pulled up alongside a solid steel door, its own side door perfectly positioned to extract Blake without attracting attention. Two men dragged him into the void followed by the third who helped manhandle him down a staircase that got mustier the deeper they descended. Paint was flaking from the walls and a noticeable sense of moisture filled their noses. They could hear trickling water too.
Their chosen place to hide Blake was alongside the Thames. Underground, beneath a concrete building that was as anonymous as it was abandoned. At one time it had been a pumping station, designed to support the nearby major construction phase. The men that headed into its depths had no idea how the system worked or why, but they knew it offered a solution to a problem.
Simply killing the Foreign Office guru and burying him somewhere was an option – if he had been just a government employee that needed to disappear. However, the instructions were clear. Make him suffer.
And so they had delivered him, bound and gagged to a large chamber that sat beneath the waterline and occasionally flooded. Especially during a high tide. And water eventually rotted a corpse, peeled the skin from the bones, and the foot or so of dank river water that was a permanent feature would hide the rest.
They pushed him down onto one of two old metal-framed chairs that appeared to float in the stagnant basement. The chair was welded to a beam, at the other end another identical one sat out of the water, higher by a few feet.
The large steel tube that they sat within stank of rust and mould. Every word they spoke echoed, but he already knew that shouting for help was futile. So he spoke quietly, tried to retain control, talking to the men that stood on the metal gantry halfway up the tube but hidden in the shadows.
“Whatever it is you want I will provide. Immunity? Money, I can get my hands on about a quarter of a million today. Is that what you want?”
Nothing. Silence. So he tried again.
“My name is Michael Blake but I guess you know that. I’m just making sure you have the right man. There are a lot of bad people in government.” Humour failed too. His words just circulated around the massive tube and came back to their maker.
He looked around, there was a green line halfway up the chamber, which was about twenty-five feet across and three or four times deeper. Above the line was dry, rusty. He guessed that the line was a tidal mark. Twenty feet? Perhaps twenty five?
He tried to discreetly move the chair. It was fixed to the base and he in turn was fixed to it. No handcuffs or chains or fanciful contraptions. Just plastic cable ties; black, thick, single use. One around his right foot and one on his right arm, tightened at the wrist onto a steel hoop that was welded to the beam.
He was left handed. At least that helped.
The only light came from the gantry.
Between him and the second chair was an old oil drum, higher than the water, once green, now rusty and dull.
A bright green Cyalume glow stick was tossed down into the void. Then the door to the gantry closed. He was alone, cold and wet. But at least it wasn’t dark. He watched the green glow for a second, drifting around in the water in a clockwise direction, indicating that whilst small there was a current of sorts.
He waited five minutes then tried to stand. He reached for the drum, managed to put his hand into it. He recoiled, pulled out his hand and saw droplets of blood.
It would be a long night.
“McCall will be fine Jason. Guys like that are harder than woodpecker lips. His biggest problem is making sure Stefan doesn’t give the game away. Hence the decision to brief him to shoot Stefanescu if necessary – I don’t think we trust him one hundred percent. I’m heading to my apartment. Been a long few days, I suggest we all need a rest before tomorrow. The night shift is on and active, all is quiet on the western front.”
“That’s what worries me pal. I’ll be along in half an hour mate.” Roberts needed to clear a few things and clear his mind of the frustrations – why couldn’t they just get the helo up, lock down a street and conduct an armed stop, get him into custody, prevent chaos?
“I’ll come with Jason. Sleep well. Check on the girls on the way?”
“Already done. Elena is asleep, Carrie is searching for evidence of something. I’ll leave her to it. She’s the best I’ve got. Well, her and Dave.” He laughed to himself. “Never thought I’d end up with one of my oldest contacts actually working for me JD.”
“Doesn’t surprise me at all Jack. Was always going to happen.” It was said in a matter-of-fact way that surprised Cade.
“Another bombshell pending here Jason. You may wish to stand by!”
“Don’t be like that Jack. Look, it’s simple. The way this team works is best summed up by saying they like to play with your heads. Kidnapping, torture, humiliation, power. The best way to do this is target a family member.” Daniel knew the bait had been taken, and he was pleased.
“I’m all ears.”
“Dave Francis’ uncle Ted was his only family surviving family member. It was no surprise when Constantin set up shop directly opposite his home. Even less so when they killed him, poor bugger. No better way to unsettle your enemy than pick off members of his team.”
“What? Explain.”
“David was one of our team long before he was yours Jack, best Intelligence Officer Op Griffin ever had. Straight from Northern Ireland and 14 Intelligence Company. Highly trained, very capable. Just a bit of a drink problem since being captured by the opposition. All very political and way too much for here and now. All you need to know is that like the rest of us he ended up on a list…”
“So me meeting up with him in my old policing days was no surprise then?” He seemed slightly disappointed.
“Not at all like that Jack. Your friendship with Dave was genuine. You were there when he needed a contact. He probably helped you more than you realised. And you him. We were watching over him, not all the time, he’s a big boy, but when he rang me to introduce you into the equation…well let’s say people sat up and listened. Drunk or not he made sense – and you were in the right place, wrong time.”
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 56