by Gareth Flood
The man looked like just another consultant as he held a contractor pass up to the infrared reader on the wall. He heard a beep and then watched the bullet-proof glass open with a hiss, allowing him to enter into the interior of the offices.
The pass was a forgery.
It was a testament to the organization he worked for that he could walk into any high security office in the world, within twenty-four hours of deciding to do so.
It was just another weekday morning in these offices and he seemed to be just another ordinary body in a river of bodies streaming into the building and heading for the elevators.
But there was nothing ordinary about this man.
Once encased in the silver elevators, he looked indistinguishable from the other employees around him and that was the point. The best spies in the world were not those James Bond types who came flying out of the top floor with the treasure as the building and bad guys exploded behind them. The best spies were grey people that no-one remembered passing in the hallway. They were people that could go into the villain’s lair every week and have access to the treasure without anyone noticing them.
The man was one of the best field operatives that MI6 had. Sent into the building by William Gladstone himself in an effort to draw the events of the Dalton case into the open.
The man got out on the seventh floor, where there was a thriving café full of people having impromptu meetings and breakfast briefings over coffee. He walked straight to a table where Jorge Armando was already waiting for him with two steaming coffees.
‘Ola! Good morning to you.’ Jorge said as he stood up and greeted the man with a smile and a handshake, as he would any other business colleague within the organisation.
Both men sat down and started pulling out files to pore over on the table.
It looked like one of any number of ordinary meetings taking place in the café and to a certain extent it was, the only difference was that it was an ordinary meeting among two MI6 agents in the field.
They were meeting to kick off a new phase of operations in the case. They were going to try and flush out the nervous contact that had called the MI6 confidential information line and that Jorge had narrowed down to working in the portfolio department.
Their objective was twofold, firstly, flush the person into the open and identify them and secondly, have them in an interrogation room by the end of the night.
Jorge moved his coffee aside and laid out a list between the two men.
‘I have a list of six people I have limited it down to.’ Jorge enunciated through his proud to be Venezuelan accent. ‘Two of them are from internal consulting organisation, like a me.’ he finished this with a loud sniffing inwards through both nostrils and flared his eyes.
‘The reason I have called you in today is because all six have come into the building for work.’ Jorge continued, ‘One of the internal consultant guys in my organisation has been working on a “portfolio project” upstairs. Not has been seen much lately of this guy and when he has been seen, he acting very strangely, no? Everyone assume he is just suffering from the “Two Year Burnout”. He is the prime suspect, okay?’
‘Good.’ The other man replied as he took a pull on his coffee. ‘The objective for today is that we try to corner everyone on the list and ask them some strategic questions about this portfolio project. Given this person sounded highly strung on the phone, we should be able to tell from the body language if we have hit anything close to a nerve with them. We will split the list into two and reconvene here at sixteen hundred hours with the results.’
‘Agreed.’ Jorge nodded.
The meeting was over.
Both men gathered up their files and shook hands before departing in different directions.
Just another business meeting.
The two men met again at sixteen hundred hours for coffee at a different table in the café to share their results.
Jorge went first.
‘I got one guy by the pool, another by the coffee stall on the first floor, another in the gym. No joy on any of them being our boy.’
‘Fine.’ The other MI6 agent said. ‘I got one outside the main entrance on a cigarette break and the rest working on laptops in empty meetings rooms on the thirteenth floor. I think we found him in the second to last one I spoke to. I brought up the questions of him working in portfolio and he vehemently denied it but I could see he was about to crack up. The man was nervous as nervous as hell and wouldn’t even admit to his own name.’
Jorge’s eyes widened.
‘Is it the man I said it was?’ he asked.
‘Indeed it was.’ replied the other spy, with all the excitement his British reserve and training would allow. ‘Let’s put eyes on him for the rest of the day. I feel he will bolt tonight and we will pick him up when he does. Gladstone wants him in the basement tonight – he’ll have him.’
For the second time in the day, papers were shuffled to signal the end of the meeting.
39
Moscow
It was mid-morning in Moscow and Derek Munro was lying fully clothed on his hotel bed. He had been ready to go since before dawn and was still waiting for the call.
Eventually the phone rang and pierced the interminable silence and vast emptiness of the white ceiling he was staring at. He picked up the receiver and was told to get into a black GAZ Volga Limousine that was waiting outside the entrance.
Two minutes later, Munro exited the hotel and started walking towards the car, which was parked illegally directly outside. As they approached the rear door with a view to getting in, the Volga unexpectedly pulled off in a hurry and an unmarked black van immediately replaced it that had driven up from behind.
The side door of the van slid open and before he could move, Munro was tackled from behind into the black interior of the van. Even before the door was slid shut, a black bag was put over his head and his hands were quickly bound.
Munro did not react or try to fight back.
He was not worried that they would do anything to him. It was probably just security goons trying to make a case of earning their keep. Either that or they were sending an early message to his boss. It was too early though to worry about personal safety yet.
They left him to bounce on the corrugated metal floor of the van for about forty minutes. Even with his training and peak physical condition he eventually entered and had to endure a continual state of pain until the van came to an abrupt halt.
Amidst the jabbering of Russian tongues, he was unceremoniously hoisted out of the van by what must have been two huge men with meaty hands under his arms. After being carried a short distance so his feet were just clearing the ground, he heard the clanging sound of metal on metal and then felt the sensation that they were going upwards in an elevator. After being dragged another short distance, the bag was pulled off his head and the bonds cut off his hands at the same time.
He was outside, standing on a massive concrete floor that had no walls around it. It was about ten floors up on what was obviously the top floor of a construction site. There were many other buildings being built all around and cranes littered the skyline. It must have been some new commercial business park that was going up.
The Vice-President of the Russian Federation was standing before Munro in a blue suit that had faint white stripes on it with his arms behind his back. Two huge men in black suits flanked him on either side.
They sure go for effect in Russia. Munro thought.
He still believed he had no tangible reason to fear for his safety yet.
The bundling of him into car was just an opening negotiation piece. Hell, he thought, they do that to their potential brides!
‘Greetings. Welcome to Russia,’ said the Vice-President with a smile, before starting to walk away from the two minders. He half turned back to Munro and motioned for him to follow. ‘Walk with me, as the Americans say.’ he said, with another disarming politician’s smile.
Munro joined him and they
started doing a slow tour of the perimeter of the building.
‘Do you like my suit?’ asked the Vice-President, as he fondled his lapels with obvious pride.
‘Yes, very nice.’ Munro replied.
‘It’s Oswald Boateng, a famous Tailor of Saville Row, don’t you know,’ The Vice-President said in a mock posh English accent.
‘You stiff British people wear these to make money. These pin striped suits. It is your uniform. Look beyond the horizon, what do you see?’ he asked, as his arms took in the expanse of the building work around him.
‘A bunch of cranes?’ Munro said.
‘Exactly!’ The Vice-President replied with delight. ‘Exactly. Russia is rising again to reclaim her rightful place as a world power. The rebirth is everywhere.’
There was a pause that Munro guessed was for, once more, an obviously much treasured effect.
‘Now,’ the Vice-President continued, ‘the deal with your employer is a large part of this. A very important part for Russia to monetize her wealth of resources. Now is not the time to be questioning alliances. Let me ask you my friend, what is the current state of mind of my business partner?’
‘He is wondering what yours is?’ Munro asked in return.
‘Ah,’ The Vice-President considered, as they reached the end of the floating platform of concrete and did a right turn to continue the circuit around the edge of the rooftop.
‘If he could not pick this up from the conversations on the phone, my resolve is as firm as ever, my purpose…unwavering. Now is the time we look to our allies to stay strong at our side.’
‘Oh he is still in the deal-’
‘Good.’ The Vice-President interrupted.
‘He is just feeling some exposure with this trouble in France and potential leaks that have not been cleaned up yet.’ Munro continued. ‘It could mean the end of his leadership of his organisation.’
‘Mm,’ considered the Russian, as they approached the centre of the track of rooftop they were walking. ‘I understand. Such a large pension is obviously a consideration for any man.’
This is not going well, Munro thought, he thinks Tarrant is getting cold feet. Looks like I have to switch to brief number two.
‘That’s not quite what I meant-’ Munro said, making one last attempt to bring the conversation back on track.
‘My friend,’ The Vice-President interrupted as he clapped a hand on Munro’s shoulder. ‘I am glad you have come here with this message. I too have a message for Warren Tarrant.’
With that, he released his hand and scratched the top of his head.
Munro sensed movement behind him and spun his head around too late, only to see one of the men in black suits already in the air coming at him from behind with a flying side-kick, the right leg outstretched and left leg tucked neatly underneath the body.
His attackers foot contacted just under the left shoulder blade and the transfer of force enabled the man in the black suit to land where Munro had been standing only a second before.
All his years of training and preparation were of no use at all as Derek Munro went flying over the edge of the concrete into open air and then flailing ten stories down to the new car park below.
40
Madrid
It had been busy day at Madrid International airport. Many of the top operatives from the world’s most prominent espionage agencies, as well as some of the elite contracted assassins, passed through the arrivals hall.
All of these people had been banging around in France to no avail but much frustration over the past week, knowing it was pointless as all the trails had gone cold there but having to play the waiting game.
That was over now.
The targets had popped up on the grid again.
A wire money transfer of fifty thousand Euros had gone into the woman’s account this morning from a Swiss bank account. The money had gone out again almost immediately in the form of a cash withdrawal.
The targets would be long gone from the bank but it meant they had probably stayed in a hotel in Madrid – it would be found. In this game, clues often left other clues.
That the targets had popped up again was good news for all involved. That someone with a Swiss bank account was funding them was bad news. They did not give these accounts to Mr. Average Employee Who Earned Slightly More Than The National Average Income who walked in off the street.
Neither the man nor the woman had the assets required to open one of these accounts. That meant someone with resources and potentially some clout was helping them. This was intriguing to those at MI6, CIA and Interpol, and downright concerning to the employers of the privately hired hit men on their tail.
41
London
Darkness had fallen on London. A particular consultant, who worked in the portfolio department, exited out of the large glass doors of the head office of the largest oil company in the world and strode into the muggy London night.
In his state of extreme tiredness, the consultant failed to see two dark figures detach from the shadows of the building behind him and begin to trail him as he walked.
The shadows were secret agents who were part of the larger operation to pick up and bring in this particular consultant that Jorge Armando and his colleague had identified earlier in the day.
It was the job of the two shadows to trail the consultant and confirm he had his laptop with him. One of the shadows had already confirmed this was the case as soon as the target head been sighted.
The laptop was often the “smoking gun” in these sorts of affairs. If they could later coerce him into co-operating, then either a lot of the files they needed would already be on his machine or sitting on a server which he could access remotely.
It was quite common in cases involving multinationals that the people in the company were all very bright, but they were incredibly naive when it came to personal and file security.
The shadows noted that it was the same with the current target from the way he moved. He thought he was just a consultant on a project in a big company – not really making the connection that the things he worked on had global consequences and affected thousands of people. He was just sauntering along the Thames on a muggy summers night, carrying some dynamite stuff in his bag but probably just thinking about getting laid.
The agents shadowed him into a tube station and on the journey into north London.
The consultant had no clue at all he was being followed. Even if he did, there where people waiting at his house, so the shadows could simply vanish if spotted and meet up again once he was picked up at his home.
‘Target entering apartment.’ The radio crackled in the lead agent’s ear. He made a hand signal and he and his colleague melted into a wall as they watched the oil company consultant they had been trailing from the company head office enter the front door of his brick terraced apartment in north London. The lead agent lifted his wrist to his mouth to talk into his tiny communications microphone.
‘Hang back for ten. Let him settle. Three and four will go up. Five and six cover the front, eight take the back.’
Further down the road, he watched three more shadows move closer into position as they readied themselves for the next order.
Exactly ten minutes later, the lead agent and his partner emerged from the shadows and walked down the road as though they were casually coming back from work.
They went up to the door the consultant had gone through with all the confidence of someone who lived in the building. It was a three story Victorian terrace where each floor had been converted into a two bedroom apartment. Being London, no-one spoke to or even acknowledged neighbours so nothing looked out of the ordinary. One of the men inserted what looked like a key into the door of the front entrance and they were through. Up and down the rest of the street, it was an ordinary and uneventful night.
Once outside the consultant’s front door on the top floor of the building, the lead agent politely knocked three times. If questioned a
s to who they were, the men had local council authority badges and were enacting by-law 229 regarding inspection for adherence to “Transmissable Spongiform Encephalopathies Regulations”, which was one of just two hundred and sixty six ways local Government was able to enter citizen’s homes in England with the citizen having exactly zero power to stop them.
The agent was surprised however when he heard all the latches being undone in preparation for opening the door.
This was not a good sign as it meant the consultant was potentially expecting other company.
The white door swung open with a creak and the agents were momentarily taken aback at the sight of a young Asian man wearing nothing but a fluffy blue towel wrapped around his waist. No-one else had been seen entering or exiting the apartment since it had gone under surveillance last night. The man must have been in the apartment the entire time.
‘Hi!’ The young man said eagerly. ‘You here for the gang bang?’
‘The-’ Even with his years of training the lead agent was taken aback for the second time in a minute.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The agent demanded as he attempted to take control of the situation again.
‘How rude.’ The young man in the towel said, as he moved to close the door but was stopped short by a finger point chop to the throat that he did not even see coming.
The man staggered backwards clutching his windpipe, which had now been cut off from air. The two agents coolly walked in. One agent grabbed the man from behind to muffle his mouth with a handkerchief. The other pulled out a gun and headed for the bedroom. He burst in on the consultant who was midway through getting into a set of assless leather chaps and some sort of leather harness system that hung bolted from the ceiling. There were all sorts of weird sexual paraphernalia adorning the walls. The consultant screamed and recoiled in horror into the corner.
‘Always the ones you least suspect, eh Mr. Bijlani?’ The agent said as he took aim with the gun, ‘I was going to make you march out, but now I think I’m just going to shoot you.’ The agent pulled the trigger and Lambdon Bijlani screamed as his leg exploded in pain. Lambdon gripped his leg while looking up at the ceiling with his eyes watering.