The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  “This is for Mikhail.”

  Another round in the head. Kolmogorov slumps against the steering wheel blood gushing out over the wheel and welling up over his lap, his two arms drop by his side.

  The back door is opened, and the North Face bag is dragged out. Jean-Baptiste walks back to his nineteen seventy XJ6 Jaguar. Once inside he lights one of his favourite Don Francisco Fonseca cigars, eyes closed he sucks in the sweet peppery overtones and gracefully makes his exit. Another committee member off the list that Émilie provided. Another soul took without feeling or guilt, just another day in the streets of London.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Strasbourg, France

  Back in her hotel room Anjeze poured herself a glass of Château Leoville-Barton as she uploaded the photos she had taken earlier. Wrapped in a white cotton bathrobe, freshly showered, damp hair smelling of Leonor Greyl, makeup partially applied she sits at the desk with the lights on and blinds closed. Anjeze considered the quality of the photos reasonable, yet she switched on her laptop and began using a military version of photoshop, software designed by SIS and something Anjeze was an expert in using. This allowed her to enhance the photographs and produce higher levels of clarity. Her photographs of subjects through windows without the long lens attached, no matter how strong the reflection, the software was able to produce a high-quality image. The blurry licence plates in the photographs taken earlier are now straightened out and legible. Having verified identification, she logs on to the email account made earlier for this mission and saves the images of Jack his team and the vehicle to the draft folder, she leaves a new mobile number for the next phase. Once logged out she then sends an emoji to Trevor using her old mobile number and replaces the SIM, her tasks on the surveillance end was complete. Flicking through her makeup bag she selects the tool for the job, a stick of deep velvet Givenchy Le Rouge. Taking a final sip of her wine, Anjeze smiles at her reflection in the mirror, holding her gold crucifix necklace between her freshly painted nails she asks, “Oh God thank you, as you have been too kind, may I be so bold to ask you to watch over me for a few more days?”

  Walking over the deep pile carpet her high heels sink in firmly despite her light frame. Taking a seat at the bar in a low-cut dress with a high split she knows Frank will not stay in the room for long. The new evening wear spectacles neatly matching her dress and with her hair tied in a high bun, thanks to the in-house hairdresser gives her a new height. Her third glass of Margaux starts to bite back, calling the bartender over for a lighter alternative she notices a well-dressed gentleman entering from her right. Removing a mobile phone from her purse she looks at the screen and after a few seconds she scorns the device and slams it down on the bar and rests her head in her hands.

  “Is anything the matter my dear,” enquires Frank, aware of the honey trap being played out.

  Looking up at once Anjeze appears confused and disorientated as if on cue the waiter comes over with a glass of sparkling water with a fresh slice of lime.

  “Excuse me one moment, s'il vous plait." Composing herself she sips elegantly on the glass of Saint-Géron, placing the glass on the bar she retrieves her phone and is glad to see the many cracks on the screen.

  Frank stands patiently as does the bartender.

  “I must apologise for my sudden outburst, I am deeply embarrassed, I have simply realised my youth has long passed and my future seems empty,” going in with all her tricks she slowly looks up at Frank. A lost look upon her face allowing her sad eyes to reel him in.

  Frank, playing along with the somewhat embarrassing position that he has now involved himself in, a personal situation of a glamourous lady, a lady who it appears has been left behind by another person.

  “If I may be so bold to offer you a drink and also confess that I too have been left in such a position that I no longer count them...”

  Placing her hand on Frank’s elbow, Anjeze cuts his speech short, “You are so kind, but I don’t want to interrupt your night, you must have better things to do than to accompany an out of touch...” This was all Frank needed to hear and now it was his turn to step in.

  “My night is free; I came looking for antiques and that is what tomorrow is for, tonight is for listening to my dear.”

  With a smile a seat was pulled up, two drinks ordered and Anjeze went to work on old Frank.

  Frank in his boyish old English charm was unconcerned this lady was working him, he walked into her lair with open arms as he too was able to play the same game.

  As long as Frank keeps Trevor’s piece of work busy Ben has time upstairs to go through her belongings. Accessing her laptop and searching for anything related to the old spy master’s intent. Gordon has the more relaxed job of babysitting, sitting in the far corner near the window. Drinking a glass of Highland Park Scotch he calmly reads a copy of Le Monde, listening to the honey trap in play from the mic hidden in Franks cigar case, he wonders if old Frank will take one for the team.

  Anjeze speaks again, “May I trouble you by asking to borrow your phone dear to call my daughter? I’m afraid my phone didn’t take too well with the impact of this marble top.”

  Frank agrees without hesitation to avoid suspicion and respectfully retreats to the men’s room affording Anjeze her privacy. Anjeze using her favourite technique to trace her targets phone, dials the number from memory. No answer and none expected, Trevor now has the number and will access the phones GPS, he now has live intel on part of the team he so desperately wants to kill.

  Gordon too is delighted; they now have Trevor’s number, his location and hopefully details of his next calls. ‘Two can play the same game, old boy.’

  ***

  London, England

  Using his contacts in the intelligence world Sam acquired air-condition engineering passes allowing him to access the most secure buildings throughout London. Hacking into the heating, ventilation, and air conditioning systems he quickly disrupted their supply. Approaching security at the front desk he removed his newly created pass and told the staff that he received an alert, there was a fault and he needed access to the plant equipment. Minutes after the appropriate access was loaded onto a contractor’s swipe card Sam had complete access to the rooftop. Choosing a covered area inside the HVAC room he found the perfect vantage point across the River Thames covering Jack as he approached the north end of Tower bridge. Removing from his work bag Sam quickly set up his Arctic Warfare sniper rifle, the distance from the rooftop to the North end of the bridge was no more than five hundred meters. Even firing from a cold bore and without a chance to zero his weapon Sam would have no problem at this range. He understood every one of his weapons, an old friend took out of storage only hours ago. Relaxing behind the Nightforce optics on his rifle he began his work.

  Checking all vantage points for movement or disturbances then all exit routes from the meeting point. Satisfied he scrutinises everyone on the bridge and surrounding streets. The number of people out today is reduced due to the cold wet wind, he can feel his own forehead becoming numb. Moving his attention to Jack’s prepare route he makes the call.

  “Location secure, no issues on route, proceed as planned,”

  “Copy that,” replies Jack as he pulls the same tweed flat cap down over his ears, similar to the one he took from the house in Crimsworth Road days earlier, when he was disorientated and working on subconscious directions. ‘If I get cracked on the head today what safe house or target location will I stumble towards,’ Jack asks himself. Moving through the light crowd past Traitors’ Gate he takes a moment to marvel at the entrance of the old prison. Ironic given the circumstances, but a great place to lure and kill Trevor if he had the chance, almost smiling Jack marches onwards to access Tower Bridge Road.

  “Approaching, do you have eyes on,” he asks Sam through his hands-free.

  “Affirmative, she is there, black scarf, black coat, blue jeans, brown hiking boots, holding a takeaway coffee cup… hold…Starbucks.”

  Satisfied J
ack now picks up the pace, walking south on the bridge he sees Émilie looking west towards the Shard.

  “Good afternoon, Émilie,” Jack unzips his jacket as if to look for his mobile to the casual sightseer, but the purpose is for Émilie to observe no weapon or similar object of harm on him.

  Giving a quick glance over him Émilie removes a glove from her right hand, offers a handshake.

  “I’m freezing Jack, hope you trust me!”

  “No need to be carrying because of me, but I hope you have lost your friends Émilie,” Jack enquires as he slowly looks around if only to take his gaze off the beautiful woman standing before him.

  “Word going around Jack is that yourself and your crew have formed a Terror cell, assisting Islamic State to be precise, planning a big spectacular in Paris of all places, how naughty is that?”

  “Trevor is quite a storyteller, I’ll give him that, what did he say our motive was and what was your part in this?” Jack moved position allowing the wind to hit his face and keep Émilie shielded. Although his primary reason was to concentrate his view on an area of London that would be obscured from Sam’s view, the eastern flow of the Thames.

  “Well our motive to allow or at least turn a blind eye to the attack, from the French side, was due to the fact some of our intelligence staff had a hatred of the European Union, soft borders, open immigration and so forth, your motive was to advance Brexit, both reasons looking back at it were nonsensical.”

  Looking for a response, Émilie for the first time feels so stupid that she believed Trevor in the first place, she attempts to even with Jack.

  “If it means anything, I am sorry I hired men to try and kill you,” an awkward smile across Émilie’s face caused Jack to burst out laughing.

  Shaking his head softly with a huge grin, he looks at her soft face and finally replies, “People have apologised like that when they accidentally tread on my toe in the subway, but I deeply appreciate it Émilie.”

  Both smiling they take a moment to consider the future.

  Jack interrupts the peaceful silence, “Apart from Trevor, we still have a few others that want us dead, as you are a part of this Émilie, your friends yesterday can guarantee that you will never be safe, I mean you can’t simply walk away.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  Tightening her scarf against the harsh wind blowing off the river Émilie holds her eyes upon Jack for a fraction longer than necessary before continuing.

  “My own boss René! That has been playing on my mind, everything is slowly clicking into place, I had my doubts about him a long time ago, but my future was important.”

  “Is that how Trevor tapped you, through René?”

  A slight redness came over Émilie’s face, she looked down at Jack’s boots to hide the shame.

  “Money, Jack, financial security more than a long career I guess, I had a plan, one that didn’t mean decades of work in government meeting shady people in dirty restaurants, I had a hunch there was more unclaimed money out there that no one would legally claim as theirs, I was getting closer to it, so close then the tables turned.”

  Nodding and accepting her story Jack formed a solution, waiting for a few pedestrians to scurry past, as the rain had started, he looked at Émilie and spoke.

  “Ok, Trevor is the main runner, stop him and we will still have René, Kolmogorov Trediakovsky and your favourite best friend Muji to deal with, any other stragglers will likely realise they have bitten off more than they could chew. Politically it should not be a problem as the British nor the French would want to fully investigate this. I suppose what Trevor mentioned to you earlier had some weight, lies or not. This leaves the Russians and at a lesser degree the Albanians, they are still pissed, but again we will only deal with threats if they are presented.”

  With a cheeky and deeply alluring smirk, Émilie adds, “Well we can discount Kolmogorov, he was shot dead in Gravesend earlier.”

  “I see, that helps a lot, I presume it may have something to do with your friend on the yacht, moored six hundred meters down the Thames watching us now, and I also presume to listen to our conversation?”

  Émilie’s face lit up like a schoolgirl caught holding the teacher’s exam answers.

  “Well, London isn’t a safe place for a young girl, we all need a chaperone.”

  Sam had done a wonderful job, he observed Jack looking down the river, so he scrambled to a new position on the rooftop. He then used his long-range riflescope to look at what was so interesting. A ninety-five-foot yacht, named Yuliana was moored on the north side of the Thames, the stern facing Tower Bridge. Just over one kilometre from his position the sniper was spotted laying under a tarp, briefly blowing open during a gust of wind exposing him and what looked like an Israeli DAN .338 sniper rifle. He spoke softly into the mic allowing Jack to be kept informed of the threat.

  “Next time bring him along; I owe him a beer.”

  A smile and a nod before they get down to business. Émilie begins.

  “What do we do now about the remaining three? We can’t ask them to meet us as they will know it’s a trap, similarly they will unlikely reach out to us.”

  “Well, in order to catch a wolf, first we need a sheep.”

  Stepping forward Jack takes Émilie into his arms like a lover. Speaking closer to the mic, whilst absorbing the soft scent of a Guerlain perfume, he allows Jean-Baptiste to listen clearly. As both he and Sam check for threats, Jack lays out his plan.

  With a glint in his eye, Jack takes a step back, immediately Émilie receives confirmation in her earpiece from the yacht. She smiles with a slight nod of acknowledgement and spins her light body to the north and quickly exits the bridge.

  ***

  Oxford, England

  An invite to lunch with the British upper class was usually a time when Trevor had accomplished something others had failed. An occasion where he could discreetly get the handshake and approval to advance the family name up the steep line of the ruling class. Rubbing shoulders with the Knights, Lords and Baron’s, Trevor was seen as no more than a cavalier no matter how many successful false flag operations he helped to make these elites more powerful. Like the bankers and politicians who make their way outside London to seek guidance from these noblemen, Trevor had his own visions, he seen his future options limited by taking directions. His role in their operations, which have been working smoothly for over one thousand years, was security, more accurately it was to ensure those with blue blood would never be toppled.

  Whenever the Russians, Arabs or Chinese got too powerful, too close for comfort within the British economy their political architecture or their legal system, it was men such as Trevor that was called upon to increase the gap. However, over the years his name was now too well known, too much blood spilt, and dead bodies have continually washed ashore. No matter the protection from the Crown, Westminster, and the media corporations, and despite the men from Oxford whose job is to pull all those strings to protect him, nobody is prepared to get this close to him.

  However, on this wet and cold morning, he had been summoned. Sporting his best navy double-breasted blazer with grey mother of pearl buttons, cavalry twill trousers and a woollen trilby hat he sat in the back of a limo heading North West on the M40 from London.

  A copy of the Financial times laid out on his lap provided a makeshift workspace. He set about inspecting and cleaning the Glock 22 copy, produced without a license in a Moscow factory. One which he personally retrieved from a dead Spetsialnovo Naznacheniya operator. The ex-Spetsnaz paratrooper had been working for Trevor when he ran the Russia desk at MI6 some time ago until his mission was complete. Dispatched soon after. Going through the dead man’s apartment Trevor took an emotional attachment to the weapon. In his own sick and twisted way, he chooses his weapons as an instrument integral to a planned sacrificial ritual.

  The car arrives outside the University Church of St Mary the Virgin and without waiting for the driver to open his door Trevor is alread
y out of the car and walking up the pavement. He is no stranger to this street, his moccasin deck shoes feel every lump of cobblestones as he walks past the fourteenth-century spire of Oxford’s university church, the sandstone buildings surrounding it decided the fate of many men years gone past, those found to be on the wrong side of the law were burned at the stake. A ‘fitting place for a man of strong character’ thinks Trevor. Doubling back out on to the street Trevor knows he is being followed, this is Oxford, and a man of his standing would, of course, be watched as he prepares to meet the orchestrators. Nonetheless, he completes his counter-surveillance moves so as not to arouse suspicion.

  Back on High Street, he walks towards the huge building, built from Bath and Portland stone, a carved cupola and cast-iron balcony protruding from the windows mark his arrival. The bells ring out from a nearby Cathedral signalling an eerie moment as he stands on the doorstep and stabs his thick fingertip on the buzzer.

  The door swings open slowly, creaking ever so slightly on the heavy iron hinges.

  “Ahh, Mr Lloyd-Cromwell, right on time as the church bells can attest, please step inside, your appointment is being held in the lounge.”

  “Appointment, is that what you call it? I call it a catch up between friends’ young man, and if you don’t mind, I’ll make my own way there, I don’t need a chaperone.”

  Annoyed at the attitude of the doorkeeper he storms off down the highly polished parquet wood floor leading to the maze of corridors. Hearing only his own heavy footsteps he pauses briefly before opening the double oak doors into the men’s lounge. Turning and closing the doors behind him Trevor’s huge body gives his hand privacy as he discreetly locks the door.