by Powell, Mark
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Mark Powell
117
down the number plate. He then called Stowe.
‘It’s McCabe. Run this number plate: 33336.’
‘Roger that.’ Stowe hung up and McCabe headed back into the building.
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FOURTEEN
As Stowe entered the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel just before 8:00 p.m., he paused after a few steps and stood still, scanning the foyer. McCabe, who was seated just inside the lobby café, observed Stowe with a wry smile when he saw him enter. He found it interesting to observe a fellow operative at work. To anyone else it would have gone unnoticed, just a man getting his bearings upon entering a hotel lobby.
But to McCabe and other masters of the covert craft, Stowe was looking for anything that seemed out of place. Where was the exit in case he had to run for it? What obstacles were in his way? What cover could he use in a fi refi ght? Who looked like they did not belong? These were the observation points of any spook entering a building. At that moment whilst observing Stowe, McCabe remembered what Stowe had once taught him: ‘Never go into a building without knowing how you can escape.’ Sound advice, he thought.
Stowe then looked at McCabe, having spotted him seconds after his entry into the hotel. As he approached, Ying appeared from his right and to McCabe’s surprise, greeted Stowe with a kiss on the cheek. Stowe seemed unaffected by the gesture and simply smiled back at her.
‘Come on, darling, let’s grab a drink, shall we?’ Stowe jested.
‘Don’t mind me, you two,’ said McCabe. ‘Shall I just move to another table?’
‘Yes, that would be great. Ying and I have business to take care of.’
With that, Stowe burst out laughing.
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‘Hey, no fi ghting boys, I can handle the two of you just fi ne.’ Ying beamed at them both and elegantly slid herself onto the red velvet stool to the right of McCabe. She then, as she always did, placed her handbag carefully down by her side at her feet.
‘By the way, I managed to trace his car from the registration number you gave me. It’s owned by a shipping company by the name of Al Safad.’ Before Stowe had fi nished speaking, Ying piped up.
‘What? That’s the company Aziz just did a deal for.’
McCabe looked at Stowe. ‘Interesting. What is Aziz doing driving around in a client’s car? So tell us about the trade, Ying. Every detail.
Oh, and make it simple so Stowe here can understand.’
‘Very funny,’ Stowe jibed back at McCabe.
‘Well, he has brokered two deals, basically forward oil option contracts at an agreed price, one for each of the shipping companies.
Al Safad will be buying a forward option worth US$50 million at an expected price of US$175 a barrel. The thing is, they appear to be paying too high a price. Other than that, it seems very normal.
‘TJ Cargo is also buying a forward option at US$50 million. Their price per barrel is an expected US$135, but their price seems to be pegged to the market. The odd thing is Al Safad would appear to make a loss as the oil price is expected to drop from US$145 to US$135.’
Stowe looked at McCabe. ‘So what do you think this chap is doing?’
‘Too early to say, but the trade seems straightforward enough, perfectly normal. The price does, however, seem a bit odd. Best we just keep an eye on him.’
As the three of them sat chatting around the small table, they were unaware of the elegant lady with neat grey, shoulder-length hair sitting just a few tables away. She sat sipping her Earl Grey tea, occasionally glancing up at them with her dark brown eyes. She would not have stood out; her navy blue, perfectly tailored suit looked totally in keeping with the hotel clientele sitting around her. She gently raised her hand and waved to a man standing at the back of the open café as if signalling quantum breach 290709.indd 119
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to him, then sat back and returned to her cup of tea.
Aziz, meanwhile, had returned to the offi ce. He was sitting at his desk mapping out another string of deals for his two clients, only this time the deal size would be signifi cant. His eyes were smiling when he saw that his two clients had, as promised, deposited US$100 million each into the bank’s accounts, despite the fact Al Safad had just overpaid to the tune of ten million for its oil. Conversely, TJ Cargo now had a handsome profi t sitting on its books; it had made US$5 million against the drop in oil prices. Aziz had a powerful idea: he would structure a hedge to protect Al Safad from losing next time, and this would make his fi rst transaction look even more legitimate.
‘I want you all over this Aziz guy, Ying. Let me know every deal he initiates. I’ll get the tech guys to track his emails and phone calls.’ McCabe was now thinking hard about how to track this guy from within.
‘One strange thing I have noticed,’ Ying said.
‘What’s that?’ McCabe said
‘Well, every now and then he takes a portable back-up device out of his bag, seems to download stuff onto a CD and then place it back in his bag.’
‘Well that sounds pretty signifi cant,’ Stowe said.
‘Yes it does. Okay, thanks Ying. Guess we need to just track his movements,’ McCabe injected.
‘I’ll head off now and make a few calls to London. I want to try and get more men out here to help track Aziz and look into this Al Safad lead,’ Stowe said. He then stood up, stretched out his arms and gave Ying a light kiss on both cheeks, then turned to McCabe and shook his hand. He wanted to give the impression they were mere acquaintances who had just concluded a business meeting rather than a group of spooks. Realising this, McCabe half-smiled. If only people knew that they were really a bunch of spooks trying to save the banking industry, he thought.
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Stowe then turned and walked towards the hotel entrance. As he sauntered out across the large open foyer, a man suddenly rushed from Stowe’s left side and brushed past him. Stowe, reacting instantly, grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it up hard and around his back. The man let out a moan of pain as his arm was wrenched back. Stowe’s other hand was now forcing down on the man’s neck. Onlookers stopped in their tracks, alarmed at what was going on. Within seconds, McCabe rose from his chair and was halfway towards Stowe when Stowe’s eyes and a slight shake of his head caught his attention; it told McCabe to back off.
McCabe, seeing this, immediately changed direction and walked off towards the front desk as if this had been his intended path all along.
McCabe grabbed a tourist leafl et from the counter and headed back towards Ying, who was still sitting in the café. When he reached her, he calmly sat back down. Ying, however, was quite agitated.
‘Don’t move, just stay cool,’ McCabe whispered. Meanwhile, two hotel security guards who looked more accustomed to guarding a building site than a high-end hotel were descending like rats after a bit of cheese on Stowe across the foyer.
‘Hold up, fellas. This man just tried to lift my wallet.’ With that, Stowe let go of the man’s arm and deftly reached into the man’s inside right jacket pocket. ‘Here you go: my wallet.’ Stowe had, in fact, faked the wallet being taken via his sleight-of-hand movements; he wanted to see how he would react. What he did know was that the man had deliberately bumped him.
‘Stand still, sir,’ shouted one of the guards, who then snatched the wallet from Stowe’s hand and opened it. After seeing a photo of Stowe inside, he carefully looked Stowe up and down.
‘Okay, you can go,’ the guard muttered, handing back Stowe his wallet. The guard had clearly not noticed that the picture of Stowe was on an offi cial British Government identity pass. He and his partn
er then took hold of the man and marched him off with not even a struggle or swear word. Stowe observed this reaction with interest.
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Thank God he didn’t search me down and discover the Browning pistol, Stowe thought. With that, he headed straight out of the lobby, not turning an inch to look at McCabe and Ying.
‘What happened there? You could have helped him.’ Ying was shocked and fi dgeting on her stool.
‘You still have a lot to learn, my girl. Stowe warned me off as I was heading in. That was a clear set-up to show how Stowe would react, or to discover if Stowe had help around him.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ying was looking confused.
‘Someone wanted to draw out Stowe’s help; me, for example, thinking I would wade in and help him—and they would have been right. We would have all been exposed. Someone is on to us.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Ying slumped back in her chair and just stared at McCabe.
‘Come on, you get to bed. See you in the morning, yeah?’
‘Okay. Night,’ Ying said.
‘Oh … and Ying —’
Before McCabe could fi nish, she jumped in. ‘I know: lock my door; don’t open to anyone. Right, boss?’
‘Right,’ McCabe responded with a wry smile.
As Ying headed off towards the lift lobby, McCabe watched her.
He then turned and headed out of the hotel entrance. He needed some night air to clear his head. As he entered the revolving doors, he narrowly missed bumping into a lady, elegantly dressed in a blue suit.
‘I’m sorry,’ McCabe immediately responded; he was always polite despite his ability to be hard and oblivious to such pleasantries.
‘That’s quite all right, my dear. My fault,’ replied the lady.
McCabe, thinking no more about it, continued on out of the doors and turned left down the marble steps. He had walked about 50 yards when he noticed two men sauntering up the driveway towards him.
Both men were dressed in white shirts with blue jeans; not local Emirati, but Middle Eastern for sure by the looks of them. An Emirati would not be dressed so casually at that time of the evening; he observed that quantum breach 290709.indd 122
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neither of them was carrying any bags, so they had not been shopping, nor did they have any kind of backpack or briefcase to signify they had come from work.
Though McCabe kept walking towards them, his instincts were now on overdrive. Sensing that something was wrong, he prepared himself—
just in case they jumped him. His adrenaline was now rushing through his veins, his heart starting to beat faster.
Ten yards and closing, McCabe thought, counting down the paces in his head. Just as they were about to pass each other, McCabe tightened up his body and noticed the two men lift their heads at the same time. At the very moment he was about to turn in to them and defend himself, a blue Chrysler pulled up suddenly alongside him, its window rolled down.
‘Get in!’ It was Stowe. McCabe, taken somewhat by surprise, opened the rear door and jumped in. The driver then pulled away sharply and headed off down the drive. McCabe looked back at the two men, who were now just standing dumbfounded by the road side watching them drive off.
‘You okay?’ asked Stowe
‘I’m fi ne.’ McCabe was out of breath. He had been expecting a fi ght and primed himself for it. ‘They were going to jump me, I just know it.’
McCabe felt his heart still pounding in his chest.
‘I suspected as much. After that attempt on me, I fi gured they may also know who you are, so I waited to see. You see, McCabe, I knew you would pop outside, I know you too well. This means they are on to both of us. There’s a leak somewhere. We have to fi nd it and fast.’
Hearing this, McCabe knew that they were about to enter a game of cat-and-mouse.
‘Christ! Ying!’ McCabe suddenly remembered Ying was alone in the hotel. What if they had followed her? ‘We have to go back, Stowe. Ying is alone.’
‘I will send a car to pick her up and bring her to the safe house, which is where we are heading, by the way. I have a villa on the other quantum breach 290709.indd 123
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side of town. We will be safe there.’ Stowe then took out his mobile and made a call. ‘Room number?’ Stowe asked.
‘Uhh … 508,’ replied McCabe. Stowe informed one of his men to collect Ying, then hung up.
‘Just like the old days, huh, McCabe? Come on, we have some planning to do.’
It was 10:00 p.m. by the time the car pulled into the driveway of the safe house which Stowe had arranged via the British Embassy. The local authorities were also being very helpful. Relations between the two countries were good, mainly due to the fact British Intelligence was providing training to a few Emiratis on maritime security, now a big issue in the seas of the Gulf. As McCabe stepped out of the car, his nostrils were fi lled with the sweet scent of frangipani and orchids.
His past experiences with safe houses were less pleasant, more often the scent of old socks and blocked toilets fragranced the air. McCabe was a practical man, so it made no difference to him if the safe house was clean or dirty; it was not his home.
Stowe eased out of the car and walked up the driveway towards the villa. McCabe stood for a few more seconds just pondering. He felt alive, and he loved this life despite its perils and nomadic nature.
‘You okay, mate?’ asked Stowe.
‘Yeah, I am. In fact, I’m good.’ McCabe patted Stowe on the shoulder and went in search of food. Stowe knew McCabe was a cold hard warrior; his instincts were the best he had seen. McCabe was a man of iron will; no better man to have working with him.
The fridge door slammed shut as McCabe emerged with a folded bit of bread with what seemed to be layers of ham hanging out the sides. No time for fi nesse and neatly cut sandwiches; eating was a luxury when on alert, and both Stowe and McCabe knew that it would not be long before things started to accelerate. Both had already escaped several attempts to bump them off.
‘You hungry?’ mumbled McCabe with his mouth full.
‘No thanks. Later.’ Stowe shuffl ed to the large bay window situated quantum breach 290709.indd 124
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to the front of the villa. From there, he would be able to see anything that dared to approach unannounced. The road was well-lit; no sign of any cars or people, only one parked car in the street about 40 yards away.
‘Get some rest. I’ll keep an eye on the road. I’ll let you know when Ying arrives, okay?’
‘Okay. Thanks,’ McCabe muttered
‘Besides you have to work tomorrow,’ laughed Stowe.
‘Ha, bloody ha,’ said McCabe, as he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
‘God, you can sleep anywhere,’ said Stowe.
Seeing McCabe lying there made him recall a time when he and McCabe were pulling stag as part of a four-man SAS operation in Ireland. It made him suddenly realise how much the two of them had been through, and how close they in fact really were, each man having saved the other’s life more than once during their friendship.
The events of that night would in fact remain etched in both Stowe’s and McCabe’s memories. It was a bitter cold night in November; the wind was howling above their heads as they lay hidden in a shallow drainage ditch, full of rotting leaves and the odd dead rabbit, observing a small farm cottage 300 yards in front of them, just on the southern border near Tyrone.
The cottage was a suspected IRA safe house, often used for cross-border gun running. The rain could be seen driving hard across the open farmland just in front of their position. Despite the rain, McCabe lay fast asleep in an inch of muddy water; he could have been tucked up
in a king-sized bed by the looks of his relaxed face. It was only when Stowe smacked his face hard with a wet branch that McCabe came to, instantly focused and alert.
The fi refi ght that followed was not such a comical affair. McCabe and Stowe had edged their way around the perimeter of the fi eld under the cover of darkness and the driving rain towards the house.
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recalled vividly the events of that night: McCabe had edged his way around the small cottage, lying fl at against the wet stone wall, water pouring down over him from the rusty gutters above.
Meanwhile, Stowe had crept around the other side heading towards the back door leaving McCabe to peer through the kitchen window. Through the yellow-stained lace curtain, he had seen two players sitting at the kitchen table and detected two Kalashnikovs on the far end of the table; this confi rmed the prey as IRA gunmen and clearly not farmers.
It was then, as McCabe started to walk back to the fi eld, that both heard the crack, McCabe’s left leg burning from the bullet that had just struck him. A player had been taking out the ash from the fi re and come out of a hidden side door just on the other side of the kitchen.
McCabe had not noticed the door which was hidden by a pile of logs and old bath tubs.
McCabe was waiting for a second shot to fi nish him off when Stowe returned fi re. As if in slow motion, the man’s eyes rolled back, his white pupils facing the moon, as a bullet passed through the side of his head and exploded out the other side. The man dropped to his knees like a sack of shit and fell face forward over a small wire fence which surrounded what looked like an old vegetable patch, the blood from his head spilling out over the muddy ground as the rain diluted it into a river of pink.
The two other players who had been sitting in the kitchen then appeared out of the side door. Stowe took only a few seconds to dispatch them: a burst from his MP5 sent the pair of them fl ying back against the door opening and into the house. They had clearly just bolted out having heard their fellow player’s gun go off and, not having heard the silenced Sig Stowe had used to kill him, they had stupidly rushed out, only to be met by Stowe’s welcoming hail of bullets.