He hadn’t realised that, but recognised there was a sliver of truth in what had just been said.
“I wish you hadn’t told me that. I suspect you may be right, as you usually are, but I hadn’t realised that was what I was doing, so now I will have to stop coming here.”
“Only when you go on a diet. The rest of the time is OK.”
Hooley was about to say more but decided he was going to make himself look ridiculous so, looking around to double-check there was no-one close enough to eavesdrop, he launched into his idea.
When he finished talking Roper didn’t respond, which was quite usual when he was presented with a new idea. Hooley knew the young detective sometimes needed time to adapt to a new approach, but this silence went on.
Even the reappearance of the waitress, who banged Roper’s plate of cake down with a real sense of relish, did nothing to disturb him. Embarrassed, Hooley tried to smile apologetically but she treated him with the disdain he deserved.
Sighing, he pulled his own slice towards him and cut into it with a fork before placing it in his mouth. It was every bit as delicious as it looked, and he sat in silent heaven as he slowly made his way through it. He had hoped this would encourage Roper to get stuck in, but he remained in silent contemplation, his hands on his knees and his gaze off in the middle distance.
The DCI was just attempting to hoover up the crumbs on his pate when Roper finally spoke. To his relief he didn’t seem angry, it was just that the plan had triggered some intense thinking on his part.
“I don’t always get on with people who are like me.”
The words hung in the air for a moment as Hooley carefully absorbed them and then he had to restrict the urge to laugh as he took them on board, his amusement triggered by a sense of relief that he had an answer.
“I know exactly what you mean, and there have been occasions when I have been accused of not playing well with other people. We are going to be really careful to make sure that we all get on - maybe not as best friends, but with plenty of respect for what we can do.”
Judging by the deep frown that appeared, Roper was still going to need some persuading.
“Look. We have 18 months to get this right and we don’t need to find loads of people - half a dozen will be enough to get us going. To be honest the idea may not work out that well, but I’d really like to give it a try and I was wondering if you might have someone in mind.
“What I don’t want is to get going and then discover that we are having to go elsewhere for help. I want this to be a really tight unit with everyone able to contribute, and to do it in an environment that they can thrive in.
“I know you won’t mind me saying this, but I told Julie Mayweather how pleased I was at the enormous strides you have taken and that’s why so many people are talking about you. But you wouldn’t be able to work your magic in a traditional squad, and we need to remember that.”
While he’d been talking he was pleased to see the frown disappear; Roper looked like he was buying into the plan. He decided to keep pushing ahead and bring Roper alongside.
“Is there anyone you are aware of who might be interested?”
Roper went to say no and then slapped himself on the forehead.
“I got so worried for a moment that it stopped me thinking properly. Peter and Chrissie might be just the people we are looking for. They’re really clever data analysts at GCHQ who I got to know while I was working there. You said you thought we needed people like that and I totally agree. Data mining is always the key and they are happy to go through mountains of work.”
“You don’t think we would have an issue talking to them - I mean, GCHQ would be OK about it, would they?”
“I can’t see any problems; people move around all the time and moving to Scotland Yard would be no bad thing.”
“Fine. In that case why don’t you talk to them? No rush, because we don’t need to see anyone straight away, but find out if they would be interested and stress that at this stage this is only a chat; we can’t be sure this is going to happen.
“Also, can I remind you that the information about the boss possibly moving to the job is for our ears only at the moment? She wanted you to know in advance to give you a chance to deal with it - are you happy about her moving up?”
There was no hesitation.
“She should be in charge.”
“I’m pleased. Before we spoke there were two things worrying me: how you would react to that, and you are fine. The other is what about the name: Odd Bods?”
“I really like that. It sounds just right and it’s a lot nicer than some of things I used to get called at school.”
33
It was a numbers game, and it worked. The Courier knew that if he sent enough kids through the system, some of them would get through, and the one thing he didn’t have a shortage of was children who could be sent into the UK.
The flow of refugees from war zones meant it was inevitable that refugee families were getting separated in the chaos, making easy pickings for the smuggling gangs targeting the young.
At first the kids scooped up by the Courier and his team thought they had been really lucky. They were fed, given somewhere warm and dry to sleep and even had basic medical needs taken care of.
Far from being kind his team was looking to separate out the best prospects, with strong healthy children two to four years old providing the highest and most reliable income.
Those who didn’t measure up were either abandoned on the spot because they were so ill or sent through border controls in an exercise designed to flood the immigration system with children who needed a lot of care and attention.
Among this “border fodder” were the older kids, since he knew demand started tailing off fast once children reached the age of ten and trying to find anyone who would pay good money for teenage boys was tough, although older girls held a better value.
The Courier operated on the principle that anything up to ninety per cent of those he picked up would fall into the low financial value and could be used as pawns. One van-load of children would briefly swamp the system, creating the window to transport his most valuable cargo.
It didn’t work every time but those who did make it were the ones he could charge serious money for. Once over there, he had another neat trick up his sleeve. When he had more kids than orders he would allow the excess kids to be found in the UK, maybe wandering around a motorway service station.
These children would be taken into local authority care and placed with foster parents or in children’s homes. Safe and secure, these children could be left “safely stashed” until a buyer had been found, whereupon they would vanish without trace.
Operating this way meant his team had to be alert and organised, but while it could be painstaking at times, his guarantee of quality meant he could charge the highest prices. Like any business predicated on supply and demand, the cost could vary enormously. He once recalled having to sell off a nine-year-old for less than fifty pounds.
He was able to mitigate against these price variations by being able to meet very precise criteria of age, sex, appearance - even down to height or eye colour. Tick all those boxes and it was a top payday. What happened next never entered his mind.
He had been pleased with how fast his operation had ramped back up and the money was flowing in steadily. For all that, he still faced significant issues. After all his costs the money, while very decent, wasn’t so good he would recoup all his losses soon.
He was also facing problems that hadn’t been so acute a few years ago. National governments were getting better at co-ordinating their responses, so finding unsupervised refugees was getting harder, but that wasn’t the most concerning change.
His bigger issue was that there were so many more people working in the field and they were not just ruthless - some of them seemed to be quite unhinged. The worst were the jihadi groups, who had realised that starting wars was a good way to make the money which allowed
them to wage new wars. Where these groups controlled territory and populations, they realised it was far more lucrative to pressurise people into leaving using smuggling gangs the terror groups controlled.
All those involved in human trafficking have ruthless as a default setting, but these people brought a fanaticism no one wanted to encounter. It meant he was having to work with mercenary groups to ensure his people had the protection they needed.
It was yet another cost but he could sense the odds were slowly mounting against him. In the past he had been sure his intelligence, coupled with a forensic attention to detail, would keep him safe. Not anymore. The longer he stayed doing this the more certain it was that he was going to be hurt by it, probably terminally. There were only so many times you could play chicken on the motorway before you got squished.
He rarely drank alcohol or took drugs, but sometimes they helped him to escape. He was back in London, in a rented flat close to Baker Street tube station, while he thought about his next steps.
He’d cracked open a bottle of expensive cognac and poured himself a generous measure. After a couple of sips he felt the soothing sensation of the alcohol and laid back on the sofa. The huge flat-screen TV was on, but he was barely aware of what it was showing; instead he was enjoying the play of light on the amber liquid in the glass he was holding in his right hand. He estimated the measure he’d poured himself cost about five hundred pounds but the soothing effect it was having made it a price worth paying.
He sat up, decision made. He wasn’t someone who needed to run through endless discussions and thought processes to make up his mind. He’d stripped it back to the numbers. His earnings from trafficking were coming under pressure, and that would only get worse.
The really major money was in drugs, but anyone trying to break into that market probably had a death wish. His new plan meant he would need to suffer a short-term cash flow problem before the money started to flow. He calculated that he was close to making a sufficient profit that would give him the cushion he needed. Just a few more weeks would do it.
34
Hooley ended the call and stared thoughtfully at his phone before putting it back down on his desk.
“That was Bill Nuffield. MI5 is planning to give us some more background information and we will get it later today. I know we don’t really know him that well but I got the impression he was still holding something back.
“I suppose that’s second nature to those guys and, to be fair, there have been plenty of times when I have withheld information until I was quite sure I could trust the people I was dealing with.”
Roper was stretching in his seat, raising his arms level with his shoulders, which Hooley thought made him look a scarecrow.
“I expect you’re right,” he said. “I don’t have the full facts but I am willing to make an informed guess. I think they must have a source they trust who is telling them something really bad is imminent.”
“Really? Care to share your analysis on this?”
Roper stood up. “I will, but let me go and get lunch. I’m starving. Smoked salmon and an Americano alright for you?”
“Er, yes, thanks,” said Hooley, who realised that for some reason he was standing up.
The DCI had managed to contain his interest while watching Roper make his way through the usual double sandwich order. He wasn’t feeling that hungry so had tucked his food away for later.
Roper tidied up and reached for his coffee, which Hooley took as a cue.
“Are you going to expand on your theory?”
Roper stared at the bottom of his cup as if trying to see patterns in the coffee dregs. He obviously didn’t find anything, as the cup was tossed into the waste basket.
“I don’t have any information that you don’t, but I do know that intelligence organisations sometimes have information that they can’t discuss, or even admit they know about.”
Hooley’s eyes narrowed. He’d anticipated the answer might not be easy.
“You can be sure that MI5 will have been really careful about how they ask around. They wouldn’t want to risk alerting the wrong people that they were aware something was going on.
“I have been trying to think about the most likely way they will have gone and I keep coming back to the idea of a deep cover source. But talking to those people takes time; you can’t just ring up because you would give their cover away.
“And, just because we are dealing with MI5, it might be MI6 that has control over the source and would be unlikely to share any details. The Cold War might be officially over but espionage is still alive and well.
“Of course the biggest problem is that we don’t know what it is that they don’t know.”
Hooley made an effort to get his head round that but sensibly gave up.
“I think you may have outdone yourself with that one.”
Roper tried again. “It makes perfect sense that they may have something that they can’t tell us about without giving away another secret. I wonder if they think this is a rogue team of Russian agents.
“It could be that their source has confirmed it is not any sort of officially sanctioned operation - and that might be the worst case of all.”
35
For the second visit to Century House they were waved through minimal security where they were met by one of Nuffield’s team, a man who was nodded at respectfully by the guards.
They were taken to what their guide called a secure briefing room. On a desk were two sets of print-outs marked ‘Top Secret’. A stern-looking woman was standing guard. It was explained that they could have twenty minutes with the documents. This time they had to sign a contract to confirm they would not make a record of the information provided.
Hooley’s first impression was disappointment; the first few sheets contained very little that a diligent internet search couldn’t produce. But then he turned the page and read something that set his heart pounding in his chest.
It seemed almost certain that the Russians could not account for an unknown quantity of weapons-grade plutonium. The radioactive material was part of a stash of weaponry that the KGB had ordered to be buried in a heavily forested area of Romania during the 1970s.
The site had been quietly forgotten about for the next forty years, until some documents had surfaced from the Kremlin archives which provided accurate location data. The Russians assembled a recovery team which set off to retrieve the plutonium.
It was especially prized as, not only did it have an intrinsic value on the black market, the material had slipped through the net so there was no trace of it and it could be kept out of the hands of UN weapons inspectors.
But, when the Russians reached the location, it was clear the site had been ransacked many, many years ago. While no one had any idea how much had been taken, the feeling was that, at the very least, it must have been enough to create a bomb.
Hooley had read the documents twice before turning to look at Roper, and saw that his worries were clearly being matched by his fellow detective. The thing about the younger man was that, while he could get anxious about relatively minor things, he was generally calm about the big picture unless there were real grounds for panicking.
He was about to ask him what was going through his mind when Nuffield’s man came back and swapped the documents for a tray of coffee. He placed them in a thick black file and handed it to the woman, who immediately left.
“Bill sends his regards and his apologies because he won’t be able to see you today, although he promises he will fix that very shortly. He’s asked me to tell you that he shares the concerns that you now have and is attempting to get some more context on this, although his exact words are “don’t hold your breath”.
“He thought you might like a few minutes to discuss what you’ve read, which is why I’ve bought the coffee for you, and then I will be back to escort you out. I’m afraid I can’t discuss any of this with you since I don’t have the clearance you two have been given.”
Hooley decided to busy himself with something familiar as he poured out two drinks, blowing on his to cool it down before taking a sip. He grimaced; the drink was far too bitter for his taste. He thought it matched his mood.
“There are times in this job when I wish I didn’t know the things that I do, and this is turning into one of those. This latest seems to be making it all the more likely that making a small bomb is going to be easy to organise, if it hasn’t happened already.
“What amazes me is how they seem to have lost track of something that is so dangerous. I don’t even like to think about what else might have gone missing or people have just forgotten about.”
Roper didn’t respond at first. He confirmed Hooley’s suspicions when he said. “I’ve just been in my Rainbow Spectrum and I think I must be right. This is a rogue operation - and has its origins in the Cold War.
“I’ve been reading that KGB officers were creating cases of money and weapons, then deliberately sabotaging the paperwork. In some cases, they even murdered the people who had delivered the items to be sure of complete secrecy.
“After that, it was just a case of keeping their heads down for a little while and then returning to collect stuff that, to all intents and purposes, had never existed in the first place.
“What my Spectrum is telling me is that the file we have just read has to be an account of an official Russian inspection. In other words they may be as worried about this as we are.”
“Does it really make that much difference whether this has got official sanction or not? Either way we have got people threatening to make a nuclear bomb.” Hooley closed his eyes and shuddered. “Just saying that makes me feel ill.”
“I think it does matter. As I was taught at GCHQ: if the other side are doing something, and we find out, at least we can talk to them and maybe head off a serious incident. If we don’t know who is behind this then there is no one we can talk to, which means we can’t negotiate with them.
The Long Reach_British Detective Page 12