The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  Jack says nothing, just staring at the progress of the men walking up through the valley.

  Trevor breaks the silence, “I have been meaning to move to another location for some time now, the cost of this building in the middle of London, you know, somewhere fresh and unspoilt, if I want to have a good conversation I choose somewhere with a view, perhaps you would meet up later with me, we can have a coffee!”

  That is the cue Jack was waiting for, he was under the impression this building would be monitored and Trevor wants him out, whoever compromised his operation last night may have their tentacles all over London.

  Trevor walks over and opens his outdated fridge, if this were a restaurant, he would be in serious violation of the health codes. Glimpsing inside past Trevor’s arm he notices him scribbling on a notepad which is kept inside the fridge. Quite comical and eccentric-looking but whatever it takes to keep things secure and distant from electronic surveillance. A mix of paranoia and tradecraft. Jack remembers some of the intel guys in Iraq used to drape their black and white chequered keffiyeh over their heads and laptops when entering passwords and codes. Amused by this yet admiring their attention to detail he waits for Trevor.

  Trevor returns with some English mature cheddar, coleslaw from Tesco’s and a couple of bottles of orange juice. Offering Jack an orange juice he notices the paper message stuck to the side of the bottle. Jack gathers this and slides it into his pocket after a few minutes. Jack realises it is time to quickly eat, shower, have a staged conversation about sport, weather and cars then make a departure. If Trevor ever gets picked up by an enthusiastic agent, he can then tell them precisely what they talked about.

  The breakfast was a mixture of dinner, lunch, and breakfast in a backward order, but it was immensely satisfying for Jack. After a shower, a shave, an injection of anti-biotics and field dressings applied to his wound, he stepped out into the room where Trevor had laid out some new clothes. Looking at his hard-chiselled body in the mirror Jack thanks himself for keeping up a strong work ethic. His body is a tool of the trade and he is going to use it to maximum effect on whoever stands in his way.

  Ever aware that in London surveillance is everywhere, not even trusting a single building out of your control Jack bites his tongue and refrains from asking more questions when he joins Trevor in the kitchen. He presumes Trevor has not got much knowledge at this early stage anyway. Looking closer he considers Trevor facial movements, the face of a man coming up with a plan, trying to make sense of the situation and establishing a plan or the beginning of one at least.

  Jack feels relieved someone else can assist as it was such a risk coming here. Knowing he is physically safe in such a building for now, stepping outside it will be unknown how serious or which weapons will be pointing in his direction.

  In Jacks line of work and his experience, the slightest loose end could result in exposure if the SIS (Secret Intelligence Service, formerly MI6) felt their actions would be discovered they themselves could unleash hell to eliminate Jack. With several high-quality hitmen at their disposal and apparently unlimited funds to do so, protecting the command hierarchy would come easily to them. Similarly, Jack could put a bullet in Trevor’s forehead and torch the place before making his exit. Deciding that would be overkill, literally, he signals to the door.

  “It was so nice for you to visit after all this time, sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you today, I have a few business meetings to attend to and perhaps I can see you soon,” Trevor says as he walks slowly to the door.

  Jack notices a pair of woman’s shoes, slightly worn, at the door, ‘Made in Portugal’ stamped inside. Jack evaluates this as Trevor being a fix-it man so these should not be a concern, he has everything for special occasions like that of my own. However, those shoes do not look like they would be picked up in a store. Something unique about them, which is building an uneasy feeling, but then again Trevor is one of those guys that nothing is as what it seems. This attention to detail reminds Jack that his focus is coming back strong and his body has returned to operational worthiness.

  Jack turns, “Thanks for the breakfast and clothes, I owe you one.”

  Opening the door for Jack, Trevor glances towards the opposite doors in the hallway “I’ll walk you downstairs.” Once down on the ground level. Trevor opens the door to the basement garage, walking more briskly he descends the stairs and stops suddenly turning to Jack and asks with a sense of regret “Was that you that took out those two cops last night?”

  Off guard Jack considers his question “My team was in the area, when things quickly got a bit noisy then those units showed up which shouldn’t have, we all split up, some of my boys may have been picked up, I managed to escape, just”. Jack thinks of their unofficial rendezvous point, their place in Paris, which is known only between those in his six-man team, a place where he is now headed.

  Trevor cuts him off and hands him a set of keys “You need to get out of here, take the Audi, its clean, it has a bag of goodies that I prepared in advance in the back, it’s my personal get out of town car, go and lay low somewhere, don’t tell the world though.”

  Jack replies “The operations were going to plan for the past few months, find out what you know, someone is in the inside and I can’t contact anyone, I don’t know who tried to sweep us up, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “All I know is the Russians are pissed that their savings, their diamonds and gold are being looted, they suspected it was our military intelligence guys and as such, they are using their agents inside to find someone on the team”, Trevor glances around the basement before continuing. “They likely didn’t want to kill you, otherwise you would be in the ground, they want to kidnap you or a team member to find out where your unit is storing their goods,” Trevor studies Jack and notices anger building up in his face, then he adds, “After they find their property, they will kill you.”

  Jack undeterred enquires “Why the hell did the cops show up?”

  “Good question, probably a stuff up between their agent and the intel officer, once everyone moved into position they likely called the police to cover their tracks, make it look innocent, but the response time was too good, likely, but I can’t be sure,” Trevor replies slowly shaking his head.

  “Ok, I’ll get moving, by the way, I acquired a firearm last night, I didn’t think I would need it,” Jack mentions as he slips past Trevor on the staircase.

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t need to know, there’s another one in the bag anyway, keep both, and keep them close.”

  Jack cannot yet figure it all out clearly. Thinking about the robbery yesterday, the close-quarter battle with the uninvited men from the transit van left him with not only the stab wound but with a lump in his head possibly affecting his short-term memory. He suspects his actions killed at least one, before stumbling out of the area, lucky to be alive. With no idea how his team made it out when things turned to shit, Jack was half concussed when he ran for his life moving through the cold streets of London only those few hours before.

  Trevor nodded, “Shouldn’t be too hard to make a clean break from here, now get out of London and dump the car, expect that you have been followed here, I’ll cover my own back, you are on your own for now, don’t expect her Majesty’s Government will cover for you, find your men,” Trevor said as he handed Jack an Audi car key then turned and disappeared out of the basement.

  ***

  Moving down the stairs Jack scans the six cars parked in the basement, the Audi must be the one covered with a cheap tarpaulin. The others were a mixture of Japanese and German cars, all new and each one pointed towards the exit ramp. The tarp is quickly pulled off, folded, and tucked behind an air-conditioning vent. Tapping on the key the hazard lights illuminate then finding the correct button for the boot Jack presses it and the lid opens slowly. True to his word there is a black leather holdall in the boot. A quick check of the contents reveals a handgun with silencer, two magazines, a pair of binoculars, disposa
ble gloves, medical kit, a burner phone, tactical earpieces, mixed currency, and various other items he has not time to pick through. Quickly zipping it shut and removing it from the boot Jack climbs into the driver’s seat. Placing the holdall on the passenger seat for easy access he then goes about assessing the car. Keyless start, automatic, indicators on the correct side and a full tank of fuel. He removes the firearm from his waistband then checks its mechanisms, impressed with it he places it comfortably under his leg for a quick draw. Reminding himself of when he was in Afghanistan a few years ago, yet the enemy here in the UK is yet to be determined and likely to be surrounding him soon. He checks the message that Trevor wrote for him in the fridge, ‘René Descartes - Le Bistrot du Poinçonneur.’

  Starting the car and moving up to the exit ramp, the metal gate begins to rise allowing Jack a view of the streets of London once again. This time the stakes are raised, suspecting he is both a kidnap target by the Russians or Albanians and a rogue operator by his own government, he needs to get away.

  It will be a race against time to get in contact with his team members before they are killed, and with their help to draw out the traitor. Jack has absolutely no idea how to do this, for now, he inches his car out of the garage, a quick detailed examination of the pedestrians waiting for him to pass over the pavement and of other cars, then he floors the accelerator and quickly moves the Audi through the streets. Keeping an eye on his mirrors for movement behind him just as much as watching the traffic ahead of him Jack plays with the GPS. London is full of cameras and tolls, easily trackable, the quickest way out of the country is the best option. Jack adjusts the seat and his cap then settles in for a snappy drive.

  FIVE

  Luton, England

  The warehouse was once used to store international cargo, with the items then being sorted and hauled around England and across the Irish Sea to Dublin. Rundown and derelict it is now in the hands of Nadazik Group Holdings UK Ltd. The signage outside warns of high security, armed patrols, and guard dogs, although there are no signs of movement it does provide a sense of unease. The rusty chain-link fence and overgrown weeds around the perimeter highlights a lack of maintenance, however a thick new heavy-duty chain glistens in the sunlight as it is wound tightly around the sliding iron gates. Luton is a not exactly a sleepy town north of London, it has its fair share of gangsters, drug dealers, pimps, Islamic extremists, and football hooligans but now a new breed of confident and well-trained players are in residence. The cameras positioned outside to the untrained eye look dull and old, perhaps a bit of an overkill due to the amount of them which are positioned at strange angles. To the well trained those cameras are military-grade, some of which are directed towards and have the ability to view straight into the approaching vehicles front and side windows. The few cameras that look like they have fallen from their perch have been strategically positioned to record the street from both directions. On closer inspection housed within an inconspicuous additional add on to the roof, there are a number of cameras peering through the pigeon proof wire. With several kilometres of viewing capability, fog reduction and high-speed automatic focus the long-range surveillance cameras rival those placed on the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross. Mainly for use in border areas, airports and harbours having these cameras should attract the attention of the intelligence agencies. As it is, the only government bodies that make their way through the business parks would be waste collection. Counter surveillance from this building is highlighted by the use of such cameras, purchasing, and installing these also indicate a highly organised business operating within.

  A black Range Rover turns off the M1 heading East along Hatters Way, slowing down, and turning into the industrial estate. The vehicle had been monitored since leaving London, the fifty-minute trip was under counter-surveillance as ordered by Hekuran, head of the executive branch from the Mafia Shqiptare, the Albanian Mafia.

  A powerfully built man exits a side door of the warehouse and briskly makes his way across the potholed filled car park to the gate. By the time he opens the heavy gate the Range Rover sweeps through and the gate is slid back shut again. Another man opens the rolling shutter allowing the driver to enter fully inside the warehouse. The driver is met by Jonuz, an Albanian, short in stature but makes up with it with thick shoulders and powerful arms. Balding with strong dark eyes and a deep frown he carefully chooses his words and actions. Slowly the driver exits the Range Rover, leaving his passenger inside, and without a word walks to the rear and opens the tailgate, counting six men in the warehouse he then takes a step back from the vehicle.

  Jonuz approaches gazing at the dead man wrapped in plastic inside. With his tattooed hands, he shoves the corpse onto his back and opens the plastic to view the face. A quick check with the photograph Jonuz has produced from his blazer then he rolls the sleeve up on the dead man’s stiff right arm to reveal a British regiment tattoo, ‘death from above’ inked beneath a skull with a red beret and wings. The chemical changes after death caused the muscles to stiffen, the stage of Algor Mortis had long passed as it has been over 8 hours since Johnston’s death. Rigor Mortis has now finally greeted him. Jonuz has identified the body with the timeline of death and thanks the driver for his duties. “You have done well yet again Besmir, Hekuran is pleased with your work and he asked me to give you what you need.”

  “Faleminderit, Boss” Besmir replies, shifting uncomfortably in his feet. Besmir hated dealing with these men, but no one else would deliver the body. Although they themselves are Albanian, like himself from Shkodër, these sketchy men come from a different region. Besmir wishes he were back with his Xhakja clan amongst his trusted comrades.

  Besmir and his small team of men get their contracts from Hekuran, although they never meet. In return for carrying out business on behalf of the Albanian mafia, Hekuran allows them to conduct their drug dealing and prostitution rings around the outskirts of West London. After each operation, they are then provided with more hardware and further complex ops. Besmir wishfully hopes for a confirmation to be allowed to run his own family and have the complete power of controlling West London.

  Jonuz leaves the back door open and walks to the rear of the warehouse where a black Jaguar has been parked with the lights on and engine running. Slowly Besmir notices the car door opening slowly and a lone figure emerging from the rear seat. The man is smoking a cigar, looking straight at Besmir whilst ignoring the scene unfolding in this grim-looking warehouse. Unsure if this man could be the elusive Hekuran, although that part of the warehouse is too dark to reveal the features of the man, other than to believe he is in control. Two containers are stacked on top of each other next to the Jaguar, marked Jakarta Shipping Ltd., old rusted and again with a fresh padlock. Sophisticated security cameras watch from above, a dog kennel with no dog and a door leading into an office area beyond the Jaguar. Other than that, the place is spotless.

  The other five men around Besmir begin removing the body from the back of the Range Rover. A forty-gallon drum has its lid ajar and a man is laying black plastic in front of it. Besmir knows what is about to happen. The collection of bone saws, butcher’s knives and pliers give the game away. The body will be placed on the plastic and cut into pieces and dumped in the drum, then exported somewhere never to be seen again. A stocky man wearing an Adidas tracksuit with long shiny black hair styled into a man bun approaches Besmir offering a cigarette. They both smoke in silence as the body is chopped up in front of them and placed in the drum.

  Jonuz walks back to the party with a wide smile carrying a briefcase and a bottle of Macallan 18-year-old single malt Scotch whisky. Besmir does not drink alcohol, he detests those that do, yet he will receive it with great thanks. Knowing there will be £100,000 in the briefcase for the body, all information was extracted from the dead man before he was dispatched as agreed, he did everything by the book. This contract was enough to keep him happy and his men loyal. But Besmir knows he needs Hekuran to provide more work, hopefully, today is the
day he receives such news. It is hard to get good loyal men with skills and keep them employed. Besmir nods slowly to himself, he is impressed with how quickly the body has been stripped naked, processed, and put in the drum. An unknown liquid is now being poured in causing a putrid smell. Cigarettes finished attention is now on Jonuz, who sets the bottle of whisky down on an old painters and decorators table carried over by another of his crew. Jonuz begins laying out glasses whilst the Jaguar slowly rolls out of the warehouse, the black tint proves impossible to view the occupants. Besmir simply nods at the car unknowing if his show of respect was noticed, then he turns his head back to the table. Four men now begin approaching the table, their work all but completed, one walks over to the container whilst one looks in the rear of the Range Rover. Six glasses are slowly being filled by Jonuz who is humming a song by Shyqyri Alushi. Besmir decides he will drink the whisky then ask about further work from Jonuz. Besmir turns his attention to the guy at the rear of his Ranger Rover and realises he is wearing earplugs, Besmir turns again and looks towards Jonuz who has a glass of whisky raised as a salute to Besmir when suddenly a huge bang rings out around the warehouse. The windows in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover have turned red Instincts kick in as Besmir quickly reaches his hand inside his jacket to retrieve his firearm as another bang fills the warehouse. Besmir drops to his knees sway for a moment before falling back putting his body in an awkward position. Blood slowly seeps from the open head wound. Two more drums are rolled out.

  All ties to the operation in London have been removed. The occupant of the Jaguar had moments ago confirmed with Jonuz that Besmir’s team have all been despatched. Hekuran’s team had been busy in West London. Albanian gangsters are plentiful, secrets are not. Hekuran knows he can simply groom more men. His legacy lives on.