by Tomas Black
“The Russians,” said McKay.
“Which ones? There’s so many,” said Brock.
“Vladimir Abramov,” said Drum. “He’s trying to close me down – or has been told to. Fern and I stumbled on his money laundering operation run from a club in Mayfair. Somehow its connected to this bank vault and the gold bullion market. Harry must have figured it out. She has information on the operation. Harry is the key.”
“It’s important we find this Harry then,” said McKay.
The three soldiers looked at each other in confusion.
“I don’t understand. Why did Thames House close down the initial RBI investigation?” said Brock.
McKay turned to Brock, his eyes narrowing. “Because we do obey orders.”
Drum shook his head. “You’re being played, McKay. Someone in government is colluding with the Russians – someone with connections to the security services.” McKay was silent. Drum pressed on. “It was probably a back channel request. On a need-to-know basis. You were singled out because of our history. Warn Drummond off, you were told. Low-key stuff. Do a soldier a favour. For old times sake. Don’t kick up too much of a fuss. No paperwork.” McKay looked down and gave the slightest of nods.
“He probably asked you deal with him directly, which means you know him. Someone connected to the service but not in an operational sense. Someone with enough weight in the government that no one questioned his demands.” Drum paused. He looked down at the gun in his hand and realised that he still had his finger on the trigger. He relaxed, removed his finger and flipped on the safety. “But something didn’t feel right, did it, McKay? Things didn’t add up. Which is why you’re here.”
McKay stared at Drum, his eyes narrowed into two thin slits. He wanted a name. A name that would either confirm his suspicions about the whole operation or prove that Drum was full of shit and was working for the Russians after all. “Just give me the fucking name.”
“Sir Rupert Mayhew,” said Drum.
McKay’s face dropped and softened. Then something happened that none of the men had seen before: he smiled. “I knew you were full of it, Drummond.”
“If Mayhew didn’t contact you, who did?” said Drum, surprised.
McKay looked behind him and sat down. He was working something out. That’s what McKay always did. Thought through the moves. Drum reflected on the operations they had worked together. It was always McKay who saw the fly in the ointment, McKay who would question, probe, explore all the angles.
“You’re half right,” said McKay, eventually, “I’ll give you that. And it was a back-channel request. Doing you a favour, as you said. Then things started to get a bit weird. Not exactly kosher. I was told to close you down. In the national interest. I was asked to hand over all data retrieved from the bank. Again, it didn’t add up. So I put you under surveillance. And that’s when things got interesting.”
“I’m lost,” said Brock, also sitting down. “If this Mayhew wasn’t pulling strings, who was?”
McKay said, “Mayhew is almost certainly the puppet-master. From what Drummond tells me, it now makes sense. But it wasn’t Mayhew who approached me. It was Tim Weekes.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Vlad's Play
Alice heard talking. A conversation in Russian. A man and a woman. They were speaking softly, making it hard to understand what they were saying. She slowly opened her eyes. Her head was fuzzy and she felt spaced out. There was a sour taste in her mouth and her throat felt dry.
She was in a large space, brightly lit, sitting in a chair beside a wrought-iron column. The walls of the space were bare brick and the floor was rough wooden boards. Industrial chic, she mused. A converted warehouse. Her eyes travelled up and found wrought-iron roof beams and a rusty pulley wheel. Not a good sign. A large oak desk sat in the centre of the space and was where the conversation was taking place. A man with a short-cropped beard in a dark suit gave the appearance of being in charge; the woman he was talking to was slowly raising her voice. Alice recognised her as the agent pushing the pram in the market, only now she was dressed in dark jeans and a short black leather jacket.
Her heart suddenly leapt at the memory of Sunday morning. Where was William? She slowly turned her head to her left and he came into view, slumped in a chair beside her, his breathing shallow. What time was it? What day was it? She had no idea. How long had they been here? A little further to her left was a glass window stretching almost the entire length of the wall. It was dark outside, but exterior lights shone on a small balcony – a wooden deck and, below that, a small mooring. They were beside the river. She strained her eyes and many more lights came into view, moving along a stretch of inky blackness. It must be the Thames. They couldn’t be far from the office. Where had Ben been taken? Wapping. They must be in Wapping. A low rumble of thunder filled the room.
The man stopped talking and walked over to her. He spoke to her in Russian. “Ah, Alice – if that is your name – you are awake at last.”
Alice shifted in her seat and was surprised to find she was not bound. She moved a hand to her hair which was loose around her shoulders. “Where are we?” she asked.
The woman moved closer to the man. “You should tie this one up. She is dangerous.”
Alice smiled, remembering how she had lost her pin.
The woman scowled, stepped forward and slapped Alice hard across the face almost knocking her off the chair.
“Enough,” said the man. “Alice. Do you know who I am?”
“Vladimir Abramov,” said Alice.
“So, you know my name. That is good.” He stepped back and sat on the edge of the desk. “She is angry with you, Alice. I don’t blame her. You killed her partner. They had been together a long time.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a battered gold cigarette case. He flipped it open and withdrew a long black cigarette and placed it between his lips, unlit. “My God, Alice. That trick with the pin …” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and mimed stabbing it in his ear. “Amazing.”
He reached over and grabbed an old battered table lighter and lit the end of his cigarette. He sucked in the smoke with a look of lazy satisfaction. “I remember speaking to an old KGB man, back in Moscow, many years ago. He tells how he also lost a partner to a hairpin such as yours. He claimed the assassin was a petite woman – attractive. A British agent. But no one believed him.” He inhaled the smoke, deep into his lungs. “Was that you, Alice? Are you British Intelligence? MI6, perhaps?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Alice. She turned to look at William. He was still unconscious. His breathing was becoming irregular. She was worried. Why wasn’t he awake?
“He is a problem,” said Abramov. “He did not react well to the drug. I hope we can wake him up. Otherwise …”
Alice looked at Abramov, her eyes narrowed. “Why are we here?” she spat.
Abramov ground the end of his cigarette into an ashtray and stood up. “I need you to call Benjamin. We need to persuade him to cease his investigation. He is digging too deep and upsetting people. He also has something we need.”
Yes, thought Alice, he saw you with Sir Rupert Mayhew. And Giles – poor, poor Giles – he paid the price. She never imagined that Mayhew would stoop so low. But why? Was it some play – a means to an end? What did he gain by dealing with these gangsters? And if he was in bed with the Russians, then it meant that the security services were compromised. Who could be trusted?
“What is it you think he has?” said Alice.
“He’s been looking for a ROD agent – Seymour-Jones. So have we – or more precisely, so have the GRU. I think he knows where she is hiding. I propose an exchange. You and the old man for this Seymour-Jones.”
“What makes you think Ben knows where she is?”
“Come, come, Alice. He’s been asking questions at the bank and been spotted at her apartment. He knows her. She’s a fellow ROD agent. He pretended to look for Pinkman, but he was looking for Seymour-Jones.”
> Alice couldn’t think straight. Her head was spinning. “I don’t understand. Why are the GRU interested in a ROD investigator?”
The woman stepped forward and struck her again.
“Alice, Alice,” said Vlad. “Does it matter?” He shrugged. “She has something – stole something. Information that could harm our operation here in London. Then we need Benjamin to finish his work at the bank. Write a nice report and piss off. Simple.”
“Ben won’t give up Harry,” said Alice. “Not for me.”
“You’re right, Alice. Not for you. For his father. William. That is his name? Come, come Alice. Don’t play games with me. William doesn’t have time. He needs a hospital. Make the call, Alice.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Insertion
It was 11 pm and preparations were being made for the raid on the vault. Drum was still angry at the revelation concerning Weekes. He and McKay had both been played. If Mayhew was the puppet-master, did that make Weekes the puppet? Where did that leave Anna? Was she a player or a stooge? And who was Weekes ultimately working for? The thought of his ex-CO being a double agent didn’t sit well with him. The other men were struggling with the same realisation.
Drum had gone over the plan with the Major. He had agreed to sanction the operation. At least they now had MI5 on their side. After their conversation McKay had been on the phone for most of the evening.
He pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on prepping the gear they would need for the op. It was going to be a lot of equipment to carry. Sidearm, the H&K, which at least had a folding stock, knife, flashlight, webbing, ammo and assorted tools. And that didn’t include the scuba gear. It wasn’t going to be an easy swim.
Brock was prepping the weapons for a water borne assault. He wanted to make sure they fired after a soaking. Poacher was stripping down the AS50, checking and re-checking every piece of the mechanism, and going through the ammo he’d brought. McKay had camped out in the small conference room and had set up a makeshift command and control centre. He was currently arranging for the Blackfriars Underpass to be temporarily closed for maintenance around midnight clearing the area of traffic and civilians in case a full-blown firefight ensued. Stevie had been in contact with Baxter who had provided remote access to the vault’s security cameras. Stevie would be their eyes and ears once inside.
At 11:30 pm the buzzer sounded in the reception area. Drum moved to the main office door and cautiously opened it, the Sig in his hand.
“Expecting trouble?” said Fern. She was now in civilian clothes: black jeans, a black waterproof jacket. She was hauling a large nylon bag. The rain outside was lashing down, flooding the decking of the wharf walkway. “The police launch is moored up and waiting. The rest of the scuba gear is onboard.”
Drum smiled and lowered the gun. “Sorry, we had a visitor. We’re all a little edgy.”
Fern frowned. “Everything OK?”
“We’ll see.”
They walked into Drum’s crowded office. Fern held up the bag. “Your wetsuits. I had to guess sizes: lean and not so lean.”
“Very funny,” said Brock grabbing the bag. “Let’s go change upstairs.”
Drum and Brock made their way to the apartment above. Fern followed. Both began to strip down to their briefs.
“You gonna just stand there?” asked Brock.
“I’m not shy,” said Fern. “Anyway, Drum owes me an ogle.”
Brock rolled his eyes. They proceeded to pull on the wetsuits.
Fern walked over to Drum. The top half of his wetsuit hung around his waist. “You're really going to do his?” she said, her finger tracing the scar across his chest.
“I have to.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but did you bring the van, Fern?” said Brock, padding over to the stairs in his wetsuit.
It’s outside,” said Fern not taking her eyes off Drum. “Don’t worry. I know what to do.”
“Right,” said Brock. “I’ll see you downstairs in five,” and he headed down the stairs.
Fern smiled, wrapped her arms around Drum’s neck and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Make sure you come back in one piece.”
Drum was about to say something when his phone started to ring.
“Can’t a girl catch a break?” sighed Fern.
Drum picked it up. He didn’t recognise the number.
“Drummond,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
Silence, then in a hoarse whisper. “Ben, it’s Alice.”
~~~
Drum braced himself in one corner of the rolling police launch as Fern heaved a scuba tank onto his back. Stevie was hanging over the side being sick. She had insisted on coming against Fern’s better advice.
Fern shouted in Drum’s ear, trying to make herself heard over the storm. “I’ve given you a small ten-litre steel tank. It’s heavier and less buoyant than the aluminium ones you may have used. I figured the less buoyancy the better in this current.”
Drum nodded.
“Listen carefully,” continued Fern. “Swimming in this current is going to be hard and the tank is relatively small. If you get lost in the flooded tunnels …”
Drum squeezed her hand to acknowledge he understood. He checked his dive watch. Midnight. Brock gave him the thumbs up and he moved to the side of the boat. He took one last look around then pulled down his face mask. Fern had positioned the launch upriver, above the entrance to the tunnels. It meant they would be swimming with the current and not against it. They just had to make sure they weren’t swept past the entrance, or they would never make it back. He took a bearing and fell backwards into the cold turgid water.
Drum felt the force of the impact on his back, followed by a muffled explosion of air and water in his ears. Then the world turned black, the only sound coming from his shallow breathing through the tank’s regulator. There was another muffled thump as Brock followed him into the river. Already the tide was carrying them away from the boat. Drum turned on his torch and struck out for the Embankment and the entrance to the tunnel, swimming just below the surface. They would be invisible in this weather.
Drum kicked hard – strong sweeping strokes of his legs, no arms. He needed to conserve his energy if he was to reach the entrance in decent shape. He checked his wrist compass and kept to a bearing that he estimated would allow them to intercept the entrance. He tried to control his breathing but the sheer physical effort of swimming in the current was causing him to take long ragged breaths. He looked back. The light from Brock’s torch shone dimly in the gloom behind him. He carried on, his legs burning with the exertion, his breathing laboured. He felt a tug on his leg and looked back. Brock was pointing for him to come up. He kicked upwards and raised his face mask just above the surface and looked around. They were about five metres from the iron gate, but drifting fast. Drum gave Brock the OK sign. Brock turned and, with several short flashes of his torch, signalled the boat that they were in position. It was up to Stevie now to disable the security cameras over the gate.
Both men slid under the water. Drum kicked hard, one final effort, to make it to the gate. He was within half a metre when he felt the sharp tug of the tide. He increased his efforts. Despite this, he wasn’t going anywhere. He was within minutes of being swept away.
~~~
Stevie looked green in the harsh light of the cabin. The skipper of the launch applied power to the engines to keep the boat from drifting back, causing another bout of pitching and rolling. Stevie groaned and put her head between her legs.
“There’s the signal,” said Fern. “Get your shit together and do your hacker stuff – and don’t puke in the cabin.”
Stevie stood up and ran outside..
“Good grief,” said Fern. “Now you tell me you’re not good in boats.”
Stevie staggered back inside and grabbed her bag. She unzipped it and withdrew her laptop and started tapping at the keyboard. “Shit, the signal’s too weak.” She turned to the skipper. “Can you get us any clo
ser to the building?”
The skipper nodded and powered up the engines. The boat manoeuvred closer to the Embankment wall. “That’s about as close as I dare get,” he said.
Stevie stabbed her keyboard several times, a frown creasing her forehead. Then her face lit up. “Got you!” A green and yellow schematic slowly appeared on the screen. “I’m in the bank's security system. It’s slow, but it will have to do.” She clicked on two camera icons which turned from green to flashing amber. “There. I’ve not turned them off, just put them in standby. Anyone monitoring the feed should see a frozen picture.”
Fern grabbed a torch and moved out of the cabin into the wind and rain. She flashed the light in the direction of the gate. Four short bursts. I hope they can see this, she thought. She waited.
“Anything?” asked Stevie.
Fern peered anxiously through the veil of rain. Come on, come on.
“Well?” said Stevie.
“Will you shut the fuck up.” Fern wondered if she should signal again. Then she saw it. Four short bursts. They were safely at the gate. “They made it,” shouted Fern. She poked her head into the cabin. “Right, let’s get to the next mooring and meet with Poacher.”
~~~
Poacher drove the van at a leisurely pace, down Upper Thames Street and towards the Blackfriars Underpass. The high-sided van proudly displayed the name ‘Ives in the City’. Traffic was light at this time of night but he checked his watch anyway. It would be bad form to turn up late for a gig, and people were counting on his diversion. His hand moved instinctively to the long case on the passenger seat. All he needed was the right elevation and a fair wind. He hummed a little ditty.
There was the sound of static in his earpiece. “Poacher, sitrep.” It was the dulcet tones of McKay from his makeshift C&C in Drum’s conference room. Fucking McKay. He’d never thought he’d hear from that bastard again.
Poacher keyed his radio. “Approaching Blackfriars Underpass.”