by Ray Christie
Working in London has its advantages, one being the knowledge of the tube and bus maps and how you develop an ability to walk quickly through these crowds without being noticed or engaging in meaningless conversations. Perfect when you are tired, jumpy, and unhinged whilst wearing someone else’s clothes, smelling of sauerkraut with bloodshot eyes oozing of coffee. The last person you want to bump into is work colleagues or family and friends, London is a place where you can live for years and feel both crowded but lonely. Murphy’s Law is always at the back of his mind, meaning he must look at every face in front of him to avoid the unthinkable. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong. Jack wants to ensure he will not run into a long-lost aunt or worse, a member of a security team assigned to look for him.
The train pulls up within a minute, he quickly darts on board before the doors close, next to about twenty others. Standing and observing whilst an outstretched hand holds the overhead steel bar for stability, the train darts through the tunnel-like a disinterested metal snake. Sixteen long minutes on this thing gives enough time to assess all his fellow commuters, most people have been replaced three to four times within the nine stops to Bank Station north of the Thames. Now located in the heart, right slap bang in the city of London.
If Jack needs answers the one man that can provide it will be in his usual haunts, being the sharp-witted, ex-special forces operator, the most trusted, well-connected intelligence officer in the City. A key figure around the corridors of Whitehall, the designer of new agencies and their appointed members. One would think finding a particular person in a large city such as London would be difficult, but it is not impossible. Some people are meant to be found, they make their living helping those in desperate circumstances, so they need to be somewhat accessible to those that are within their most trusted circle.
The tube train halts unceremoniously allowing the rapid flow of semi-unconscious passengers to disembark. Jack waits until everyone gets out of the train and the remaining passengers are settled, then he springs out through the closing doors, making sure if he were being followed the pursuers would have no time to exit after him. With the grace of a man who appeared to almost miss his stop Jack follows behind the commuters towards the exit. The pace of the foot traffic is somewhat faster in the City of London, salaries in this part are some of the highest in London and those few minutes of lost time on the pavement are costing them dearly. Some are off to their work to show the boss how eager they are, the rest are headed to their ‘box’ a quick thirty minutes of cross-fit followed by their physio appointments to help ease their deteriorating joints.
Navigating the grey streets sided with a mix of steel modern buildings and old sandstone historical architectural delights takes years of practice. The street is full of dark clothed men and women, coffee cups in hand with the latest smartphone pressed firmly to the ear. Gadget friendly commuters answering calls via their smartwatch with a smug sense of appreciation whilst Jack, without a phone has a firearm instead, equally important in some areas of London. Quite content to drop the first person that approaches him, his experience can tell the difference between a friendly and a threat within a fraction of a second. The Equestrian Statue of the Duke of Wellington shines brightly against the fading strength of the streetlights. Well maintained and clean area of London, unlike the areas surrounding Clapham Common, pigeon droppings, syringes and broken bottles lined the park edges. Crossing the street with the flow of commuters heading East on Threadneedle Street a gold-framed clock reads the time at Seven O’clock. Road traffic is surprisingly empty allowing easy crossing, only the red London double-deckers and cycle couriers using the bitumen. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Jack crosses the street and passes by the Royal Bank of Scotland. Knowing he has a safety account in there he could withdraw some cash, unfortunately, without a card or a phone he strides onwards to Old Broad Street, even if he wanted to, he doesn’t want to leave an electronic trail, not yet. Rows of four and five-level sandstone buildings sit proudly in the shadows of their recent steel and glass neighbours. Jack moves towards another mahogany door, one that he has been through many times before. The well-worn brass buttons connected to the intercom greets visitors with a sense of mystery. Only a handful of the twenty buttons have a scribbled business name beside each button. The one Jack is looking for has the name Jakarta Shipping Inc., and without hesitation, the button is pressed making the electric connection resulting in a faded buzzing sound. Heritage-listed buildings prevented drilling and the placement of additional Security cameras, this only allows the less than adequate 1970’s intercom. The stock standard model requires Jack to use his hearing intently in detecting voice patterns, reluctance, and hesitation from the resident once they acknowledge his greeting. This will allow him to make an instant decision based on his knowledge and experience of this complex man.
Walking through London, using the Tube and sitting in coffee shops meant that if the government were looking for Jack, and more specifically an intelligence agency, he could have been picked up long ago. Facial recognition technology may be fooled for a short period and from various angles with a well-placed hat and scarf around your mouth. But with only a couple of hours passed Jack knows things may or may not become interesting.
FOUR
“Delivery?” the unmistakable husky voice of a heavy smoker barks through the intercom. “Only to shoot the breeze if one has the time, Chief,” Jack responds. A few tantalising seconds pass-by whilst thoughts run through Trevor’s mind. Picking the voice, reason, and willingness to provide whatever it may be asked. One for wanting to be in the middle of things and the fear of missing out on something the greedy and confused Trevor responds, “I’m about to have breakfast, has it been long since you last ate?”. A sigh of relief comes over Jack, Trevor has kept up his code phrases and has established that Jack has issues. Further to this, he enquired the timeline since whatever happened to now. “I haven’t had a decent feed since yesterday morning,” replies Jack. A magnetic clicking sound from the door mechanism is accompanied by the intercom white noise and the words from Trevor “Best come up, the kettle is on.”
Jack enters into the hallway, leaving Old Broad Street behind him, the heavy door slams shut drowning out the chatter of the commuters pounding the pavement. The heavy marble staircase and ornate furnishings resemble something of a 1970’s upper-class office block. Nowadays these buildings are mostly owned by lawyers, diamond merchants, shady firms, and banking corporations. Nevertheless, they play an important role when dealing with clients that require personal meetings out of the public eye. No workplace code of conduct or heavy surveillance applies to such an office space. This allows the senior employees a space to be ‘creative’ in their dealings with other like-minded businessmen and their ventures.
Briskly making his way up the sweeping staircase keeping his face down and ears tuned to every sound behind the heavy doors of other owners. The place may have well been soundproofed as the only sound is the squeaking of his shoes and the slight breathing resulting from his weary lungs. Jack notices Trevor’s door is ajar, the top floor came easy but in the event of an immediate evacuation he mentally traces his knowledge of the buildings fire escape route. He goes by many names, including Russian, German, and even Kazakhstani, Trevor Lloyd-Cromwell is someone that you can trust, never getting his hands dirty but simply advising others on how to wash theirs and getting paid by favours for this expertise. His rise to one of London’s most lawful, talented, ethical, and yet corrupt masters of the underworld is one of mystery. Only those in close circles know fully what he spent most of his life doing before choosing the Semper Occultus ‘Secret Intelligence Service’ as his final career point. When he studied in Oxford whilst employed by the military his name spread quickly through the halls. Even when he was an undergraduate the academics addressed him with respect, such as his bright intellect and services to his country demanded. Spending his early years at ‘Stirling Lines,’ the regimental headquarters of 22nd Spe
cial Air Service, he learnt the skills which would go on to serve him through a career in intelligence work throughout Europe and Asia. Probably only one of three persons still alive that Jack confides in and receives well-meaning advice and someone whom he can truly trust.
“No Sugar,” Jack says through the gap in the door, standing there cautiously waiting for another cryptic message providing the all-clear.
“Don’t worry, sugar is too fattening for an old slow guy like me,” growls Trevor. Feeling a sense of relief Jack enters and slowly closes the door behind him whilst noticing the heavy-duty locks and hinges on the solid teak. The door must weigh about one hundred kilograms, but the appearance would not be out of place in the old library in the house of commons. There is so much to take in visually as Jack gazes quickly across the room to lock eyes with Trevor. These first few moments will tell the most about the visit.
Does Trevor know why suddenly after one year his old pupil arrives unannounced on his doorstep! Normally they communicate electronically using various methods of encrypted apps. Trevor, standing behind the kitchen island slowly closes the top drawer when he sees Jack enter alone, thankfully Jack acknowledges with a grin knowing that is where Trevor would likely keep his favoured SIG-Sauer P226 firearm.
Beaming from ear to ear, not unusual for Trevor, he walks towards jack with an outstretched hand. Providing a handshake only a bear could match Trevor said the most worrying comment “I expected you last night, I thought you either bugged out across the water or didn’t make it.” Jacks heart banged deep in his chest until his training and composure quickly set in. “Who is after me?” enquires Jack suspiciously, not wanting to provide information too quickly. Immediately Trevor turned around and walked towards his open-plan kitchen, caught in the middle of preparing breakfast he carefully picks up his paring knife and meticulously slices pieces of pork off a huge knuckle. Like a stone-age hunter carefully deboning an animal whilst taking in the moment. Jack could tell Trevor was loving this, knowing something about a man with so many questions. Will the answers come with a price, will they come easy or come at all? Now a game of ‘let us see who knows what.’ Something Jack has not got time for but senses that what Trevor knows is worth playing his silly little games for.
“Not your friends Jacko boy, not your friends, that you can be sure.”
Jack ponders this, “I kind of established that they weren’t anyone close to me, otherwise I wouldn’t have arrived here.”
Trevor studies him, as he leans his back against the kitchen bench “I know that, I know that all too well, otherwise you wouldn’t have got passed the front door, have you eaten?”
“Lightly, believe it or not, I am not especially hungry, thinking someone, perhaps in my own unit, that wants to kidnap or kill you suppresses an appetite you wouldn’t believe,” responds Jack. Sensing the obvious sarcasm Trevor cannot help but play along, dragging out the frustration in Jack, but also testing his mental wellbeing. “Nice clothes, beautiful sweater, a bit short on the sleeves, my ex had a sweater just like it, she bought it in a little boutique in Covent Garden, I should get you her address maybe you would like a skirt too!”
It never occurred to Jack that the polar neck jumper could have been a female one, he’s not sure there are male and female polar necks, whatever, in Jacks mind only the eagled eyed and curious would pick up on something that most normal blokes wouldn’t.
“I didn’t have time to pack my own clothes, which is a hindrance when one feels like taking a trip overseas at short notice.”
“That bad?” Trevor prods calmly and inquisitively as he finishes with the pork and turns to the fridge to retrieve a pot of stew. “I felt that way last night and this morning, I thought I would take in a few sights elsewhere and stay tuned to the BBC, we have an unofficial safe location over the water, where the team would regroup,” Jack says with a smirk, opening up a little with some more clarification.
Trevor stops and looks at Jack with more focus, “You still good with Russkiy?”
Jacks’ Russian was good as he mastered it in language school then had a great working knowledge of it during his posting to the British Embassy in Moscow.
“Выполнимый” Jack replied, knowing his Russian was manageable but the main concern was if the Russians know it was Jack’s team assigned to steal their money. His black op went drastically wrong last night, and Jack did not know if it was due to poor intelligence or if someone was working in the inside. Not knowing who to trust Trevor has provided the first indication he knows what they were tasked with. “You think Russian cuisine is tastier than what you eat?” enquires Jack with a smile, probing tentatively at Trevor knowing he wants this to last for a while. Trevor offering some cryptic clues due to his eccentric mental behaviour “Any cuisine is better than British food at the moment even Albanian food has some good dishes, some people have been upset about your party though and they are coming to collect, quite frankly fingers are being pointed.”
Over the past few months, Jack has been involved in numerous special operations against the Russian oligarchs. Britain began to be uncooperative with Russian diplomats and then various high-value criminals presenting as businessmen were refused residency visas. This followed the Novichok assassination attempt, after which Jacks special ops work intensified greatly. Resulting in a few unofficial bank robberies, taking all the gold, diamonds, cash, bonds and whatever else these Russian gangsters had stashed in high-security vaults around London and Europe. The task was to empty these and make it look like the Albanian mafia has a team doing the work. Hoping to start a turf war between the Albanians and the Russians.
The Albanians had become too powerful, just when the UK was busy with Islamic terrorism, the Russians and the Chinese and now the Albanians, the new addition of these gangs lead to headaches for Whitehall and one which was to be dealt with quickly. A simple but working attempt to play off the Albanians and Russians to alleviate manpower for other tasks.
As a bonus, the special-ops team would covertly transport the valuables offshore to the black-ops banking partners and various storage locations within Europe. Something not entirely legal, but unofficial operations present these kinds of deniable projects. This operation ensures the units foreign offices will have proper funding and those involved will have valued pension plans, something all operators in their team sought.
Trevor moves to the shelf and switches on the radio, BBC 5 plays loudly in the background. Now closer to Jack he speaks with a softer voice. “Russians have so much money in London, one might say they finance London, the Bank of England can’t afford to lose it so easily, those in Threadneedle Street have powerful friends”, he stops to listen to the surroundings before continuing, “Off course the Albanians wouldn’t leave it sitting within our banks and storage locations, you know how ruthless and brazen they are, it was only a matter of time, but those in the Houses of Parliament have no idea how to play this, it’s you guy’s that have to do their dirty work, that is how I understand it, that’s the rumours.”
Jack acknowledges Trevor knows exactly what he has been doing with a slight nod. He really wants to interrogate him more and draw out how much he knows and from whom he gets his intel. Interrogating Trevor is out of his skill set, Jack knows he would be left confused and mentally drained if he set about trying to master the master. “How’s this building treating you? You have been here a while now, never get sick of it? I mean do you feel comfortable here?” Jack probes carefully, concerned about the safety of his surroundings.
Trevor has many dealings in London and this building has been his base, his office away from the office, only the most trusted come here. Although being in the centre of London and with Trevor’s background the Russians, Chinese, Arabs and everyone in between would know this place. Too many important people have from time to time passed over the threshold with meaningful information and intelligence to gather or share, away from the official departmental spotlights. Not knowing if his building is completely
protected from all the sophisticated surveillance products in today’s market. Despite Trevor’s advanced know-how in sweeping buildings and other counter-surveillance techniques and tradecraft, he slowly shakes his head marginally.
Trevor frowns and his eyes narrow, “Once we knew about and controlled the real estate, employed great architects, engineers and builders, unfortunately, my boy those days are long behind us, all master craftsmen are unreliable. We can’t ask for our inside teams to work for us as we are trying to keep things low key, nothing can go through the official books.”
Jack scanned the room making note of everything and looking for anything out of the ordinary, this is an inbuilt skill and after a few minutes, he could probably recount one hundred items memorised within the room. Three monitors placed on the dining table tells Jack that Trevor has been in the middle of something. On the left it appears to be live satellite stream from a valley somewhere in the world, could be Afghanistan or Pakistan, showing several men walking along a trail, the one in the middle display’s a messaging application on the dark web, the screen on the right shows a screen with scrolling stock market prices rolling by, graphs and various data. The dark web sites Trevor would use for his encrypted communications and information buried deep inside complex and eerie places. The stock market site, Jack wonders if he is about to make a transfer depending on the outcome on the screen on the left.
“Who are the guys walking along the track?”
Sensing how calm Jack is, Trevor still notices a troubled man, a man fighting his own meaning in life. He watches Jack and how he looks physically fit yet appears to have injured himself, masking it beautifully as he has been trained to do so, like an animal in the wild. “That’s the Special Operations Group, CIA boy’s, about to deliver a couple hundred million bucks to a bunch of warlords, which my boy, will ensure another few month’s peace in the North of Afghanistan.”