by Dc Alden
‘Me?’
Roy was suffering from system overload. It looked like him in the photos but he didn’t remember any of it. He must have a double—
‘It’s you,’ confirmed Sammy. ‘You made it easy, leaving your glass on the bar while you popped to the Ladies. I bet you don’t even remember leaving The Duke.’
‘The Duke?’
‘Anyway, I don’t think a night on the gear with a couple of jailbirds would go down too well at work. As for the sexual assault on poor little Sofia—’
‘I didn’t touch her. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
‘The camera never lies, Roy. Your fingerprints are all over her arse.’
Sammy flicked through the images again.
‘Yeah, some cracking shots there. Oh, she reported it to the police, by the way. Made a statement, gave a description—of you, in fact. Not an accurate one, not enough to get you lifted, but she’ll pick you out of a lineup if she has to. You see where all this is going, Roy? You’re at a crossroads, and you’ve got two options.’
He waved his BlackBerry in Roy’s face.
‘Option one; you fuck things up for me and this little photo shoot will find its way into the hands of the law. Then, after you’ve done your bird and you’re rebuilding your shitty little life, I’ll be there to remind you how you fucked things up. And that’ll never stop, Roy. Ever.’
Sammy leaned against the counter, folded his arms.
‘By the look on your face I’m guessing you’re going for option two.’
‘What do you want?’ Roy finally managed to croak.
‘Derek’s going to catch a plane. I’ll let you know which one when the time comes. All you have to do is get him onto that plane, avoiding the usual formalities. You know, stuff like customs and security checks. Walk him through the terminal unmolested and get him to the gate. That’s it. Simples.’
Despite the danger, Roy almost laughed. Smuggle someone onto a plane? Was that a joke? Then he realised Sammy was still talking. He forced himself to pay attention.
‘All the time Derek is here you mustn’t have a single visitor. Not one. No one comes through that front door unless it’s Tank or me. I don’t care who it is—gas man, electricity, Jehovah’s fucking Witness. No one gets in. No one sees him. Got it?’
‘I got it.’
‘Good.’ Roy flinched as Sammy patted his cheek. ‘Now fix him his tea.’
Sammy disappeared into the sitting room.
Roy held onto the counter. He wanted to urinate but was afraid to move. He was in deep with Sammy now, deep enough to have serious, life-threatening consequences. He heard the front door close, saw two shadows pass by the window.
He was alone with Derek.
He forced himself to focus.
He made tea and carried it into the sitting room. Derek was stretched out on the sofa, a cushion behind his head. He kicked his legs off and rummaged in his sports bag. He produced a small bottle of Scotch and poured a stiff measure into his tea. He sparked up another cigarette, the smoke swirling around the room. Roy moved to open a window.
‘Leave it,’ Derek ordered.
‘I had bronchitis as a kid. I can’t be around cigarette smoke.’
‘Do I look like I give a fuck?’
Roy let the curtain drop back into place. ‘I’ll go make up the bed.’
‘You do that. And make sure you get plenty of food in. If I’m staying here I want to eat well. I’ll leave you a list.’
‘I’ve got to work in the morning.’
‘Well, you’d better set your alarm then.’
Derek took a deep pull of his cigarette and exhaled in Roy’s direction. The Scot’s hard eyes bored into him.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘I should be back by half-seven.’
Derek waved at the DVD’s stacked beneath the TV. ‘Your movie collection is shite, all romances and stuff. Get some more. And pick me up a paperback or two. I like to read. Crime, murder, that type of thing.’
Murder?
‘Sure.’
Derek stretched out and reached for the TV remote.
Roy made up the spare bed and retreated to his bedroom. Then he dragged a chest of drawers inch by silent inch across the carpet until it blocked the door.
He climbed into bed and lay beneath the quilt for a long time, staring up at the bars of light that stretched across the bedroom ceiling. He listened in the darkness, to the sound of the TV across the hall, to the pad of feet on the carpet outside, to the echo of Derek urinating in the toilet; and much later, the sound of the spare room door closing. A short while after that, Derek’s snores filtered through the wall between them. They were long and loud, and seemingly never-ending.
Red digits hovered in the darkness—3:19. An early rise meant less than three hours’ sleep. A black cloud of despair settled over him. His flat, his private sanctuary, had been invaded by another, a man in hiding, belligerent, dangerous. Hiding from who was anyone’s guess but Roy assumed it was the law.
Six weeks, Sammy said. All he had to do was tough it out until then. After that, he’d be free.
Or would he? Would Sammy ever let him go? Would he use this episode as blackmail, demand favour after illegal favour until one day the police kicked his door in? Or would Roy outlive his usefulness and have boiling water poured down his throat? He shivered in the darkness.
He’d managed to avoid the displeasure of Sammy French for most of his life. As kids, both he and Jimmy had been tolerated, allowed to hang around the playground while Sammy and his gang ruled from their fortress of monkey bars. As the years went by Jimmy joined the army, Mum and Dad passed away and Roy was left alone, a permanent fixture on the estate where new gangs had taken over and the football pitch had been converted into a basketball court. Sammy had gone too, the law finally catching up with him.
He’d resurfaced a few years later, a different man. Gone was the wildness of youth, replaced by a ruthless ambition for legitimacy. But for those who knew his past, the stench of gangland hovered around Sammy like a cloud of flies. Despite the nightclub and restaurants, and the big house that overlooked Richmond Park, those who knew him were convinced. Sammy French was, and always would be, a dangerous criminal.
And now Roy was fixed on his radar.
For the first time in his life he considered running. He could pack a bag, grab his passport, empty his paltry savings account and get the hell out. The question was, go where?
So the problem remained; he lay ten feet from a psycho stranger. He was obligated to a gangster who’d ruin his life if he didn’t help in a criminal enterprise that would surely see him nicked and sent down. Roy felt like crying. He was trapped, the walls of his bedroom pressing inwards. Panic ebbed and flowed.
The bars across the ceiling faded and the sky outside paled.
He thought of Jimmy and realised what the dream meant; it was a warning, an omen of bad things to come, personified by Sammy and Derek, brutal prophets of doom about to ruin his life.
Frightened, Roy snuck out of bed and rummaged at the bottom of his cupboard. He found Jimmy’s old army daysack, retrieved the Gerber combat knife from inside and wedged it beneath his mattress. He climbed back into bed, his fingers finding the tough black plastic of the hilt, reassured by its proximity.
But sleep evaded him, and his thoughts turned to the airport, to the task that lay ahead. As the sun crept above the horizon, Roy realised that he was about to face the most dangerous challenge of his life.
The next few weeks would decide if he made it through to the other side.
Chapter Seven
Josh tugged his seatbelt a little tighter as the Gulfstream G650 dipped her nose towards the distant lights of RAF Northolt. He felt the undercarriage lock home with a solid thump, and watched the rise and fall of the port wing as the aircraft levelled for landing.
Beyond the wingtip, patchwork fields surrendered to the grey urban sprawl of outer London. Josh was a native of Ar
izona, born and raised beneath the warmth of its eternal sunshine. By contrast, the view outside looked cold, damp and miserable. Despite this being his first trip to the UK, Josh decided it was another reason not to stay a minute longer than necessary. The plane would be kept on standby. The hunter team would do their job.
They were scattered around the cabin now, six former Special Forces guys and two Marines from Force Recon, all of them with extensive operational experience in a wide variety of countries. The Marines were communications specialists who’d served with the JSOC Signals Team. They would be juiced into a myriad of global surveillance systems, acting as Josh’s eyes and ears. Like the rest of the guys, they were primed and ready to get the job done.
The Gulfstream returned to earth with a gentle bump and a muffled roar of reverse thrust. It taxied around the apron and veered inside a private hangar where it jerked to a stop and shut down its engines. Josh was out of the aircraft first. Two men waited at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t recognise either of them.
‘Mister Keyes?’ said the well-groomed collegiate type wrapped in a smart overcoat and scarf. ‘Mister Beeton sent me. My name is Fisher. I’m from the embassy in Grosvenor Square.’
They shook hands and Fisher reached inside his coat. ‘These are your temporary passports, all bearing official stamps of entry. I’ll need those back before you leave the country.’ Fisher was younger than Josh, well-scrubbed and impeccably dressed, probably a rising State Department star, cutting his diplomatic teeth at the Court of St James. He was confident, authoritative, and brandished Beeton’s name like a baseball bat.
Josh fanned the Canadian passports like a hand of cards. He saw stamps and mugshots and pseudonyms. He nodded his approval and pocketed them.
The man standing next to Fisher was older and taller, forties, with wide shoulders and receding grey hair that was cut short to a scalp that sported several pale scars. He had a lived-in face that was heavily lined around sharp eyes, and a square chin that sprouted a couple of days of pale growth. He was dressed casually, jeans and a roll-neck jumper, a black North Face jacket. He greeted Josh with a rough, calloused hand.
‘Dave Villiers.’ His voice was deep, the accent London, heavy.
‘Mister Villiers is SIS,’ Fisher announced. ‘He’ll act as your point man.’
‘Good to meet you. Where are we headed?’
‘Mister Beeton has arranged for a house in Chelsea,’ Fisher said.
‘Then let’s go.’
Three vehicles waited nearby, black Audi Q7’s, doors and tailgates open. Villiers slipped behind the wheel of the nearest one and Josh got in back. Fisher rode shotgun next to Villiers. The hunter team squeezed themselves and their gear into the other two. They left the airport in a tight convoy and headed into central London.
Josh didn’t talk and Fisher was distracted by his email inbox. Villiers remained silent, steering the big Audi through the heavy traffic. Josh checked his BlackBerry. There was nothing from Beeton or Lund. All of his FEMA responsibilities had been handed over, his own inbox empty, except for a reminder, a National Advisory Council meeting at the end of April. Not the whole council of course, just the key players who’d been selected for the continuation process. Josh cursed under his breath; another crucial meeting he would miss because of this goddam reassignment.
Fifty minutes later the Audis turned into a quiet street in Chelsea. Expensive properties crowded the narrow road on either side. Villiers swung the wheel into an open driveway that dipped beneath a luxurious period house into an underground parking lot.
Fisher led them inside and up to the first floor reception room. The heavy drapes were drawn, the giant wall-mounted TV muted. Pots of coffee and plates of sandwiches waited on a long sideboard. The hunter team ignored the refreshments, piling their gear against the wall and waiting in silence for instructions. Josh and Villiers sat down on the large sofas grouped around a wide glass coffee table. When everyone had settled, Fisher addressed the room.
‘Welcome to London, gentlemen. This house will be your main base of operations while you’re here in the UK. No doubt you’ll have questions, many of which will be answered by the briefing packets left in your rooms. Please familiarise yourselves with them, and the details of your Canadian passports too, should you fall foul of local law enforcement. This eventuality is also covered in your briefing packs. Bear in mind I have no knowledge of your operation and neither do I need to know. Deniability, gentlemen, is essential. Remember that when you’re outside these walls. Understood?’
Josh nodded. He guessed Fisher was a product of The Committee’s covert executive programme, its secretive alumni liberally sprinkled across every branch of government. While people like Josh and his hunter team got their hands dirty, Fisher and his kind fought a different and infinitely more complex war, in the chambers of Senate and Congress, in front of TV cameras and microphones. Everyone had a role to play, even those who were oblivious to what was really happening around them.
He was reminded of George W. Bush’s visit to the elementary school on the morning of Nine Eleven. He recalled the President’s face, the bewilderment, the incomprehension, when he’d heard about the hit on the Trade Centre. He’d been rooted to his chair, dumbstruck. Frightened. That shit couldn’t be faked.
The conspiracy theorists were all over it, though—Bush was complicit, the good ol’ boy routine masking a sinister, Machiavellian personality. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Some of his administration, sure, but Bush? Not a chance. Every president after Eisenhower had been vetted, groomed and selected. Most had no clue about the power that existed behind the throne. The truth was, it really didn’t matter who was president.
The Committee held true power, because they controlled the global media. They’d fought a secret war for decades, to sanitise and trivialise the news, to disengage the population from the ideas and principles of democracy, to shift focus from the dull grey world of politics to the shining lights of a celebrity culture that dazzled and entertained.
Four Americans butchered in Benghazi? The White House complicit? Screw that, Kim Kardashian is trashing her sister’s boyfriend on Twitter, y’all!
The Committee’s war on reality was almost complete. It was a twenty-four-hour news cycle now—scandalous headlines, salacious gossip, reality TV, the ethnic cleansing of morals, values, traditions, culture, all clearing the way for the Transition, when everything would be wiped clean. Humanity, reprogrammed, rebooted. Josh couldn’t wait.
But killing Frank Marshall came first.
He heard Fisher talking, and refocused his thoughts.
‘—is a highly secure, mission-capable facility with a secure command suite situated in the basement. Where are the comms guys?’
Josh’s Eyes and Ears stepped forward.
‘We have hard-wired, piggy-back feeds routed via the embassy into all major stateside intel hubs,’ Fisher explained, ‘plus encrypted voice and data access to TDL Corporate and our Executive and Legislative sponsors in DC. I suggest you familiarise yourselves with the equipment as soon as possible.’
Eyes and Ears looked at Josh.
He nodded.
The men grabbed their shockproof cases and left the room.
‘That’s it,’ Fisher said. ‘Any questions?’
Josh shook his head. ‘Okay, your confidential briefing package has been pre-loaded on to the AV system. I have to get back to the embassy. My number’s there.’ He snapped a business card onto the glass table and left the room.
Josh worked the controls of the huge LED TV. Two blown-up images of Frank Marshall filled the screen, one in front of the bank in Manhattan, the other a much clearer shot from the immigration desk at Heathrow.
‘This is the target. His name is Frank Marshall, a former TDL senior security executive. I know some of you know Frank and have worked with him in the past, in which case you don’t need me to tell you that he is an extremely dangerous individual with extensive knowledge of our organisation and
its objectives. Frank’s gone rogue, people. The Committee want him located and terminated fast.’
Josh swallowed, conscious of the lie. There was no going back now.
‘Twenty-one hours ago Marshall passed through Heathrow’s Terminal Three using a Belgian passport in the name of Doug LeBreton. The last confirmed CCTV shot we got of Marshall was outside the terminal waiting for a cab. Dave?’
Villiers drained the dregs of his coffee and got to his feet. The screen divided into multiple frames, the Heathrow taxi rank, stills from Automatic Number Plate Recognition systems, street maps of west London.
‘CCTV shows Marshall boarding a taxi outside Terminal Three. The driver was detained, the taxi searched, and the passport recovered. He confirmed Marshall was dropped off in a layby near Hammersmith.’
Villiers blew up the street map to full-screen.
‘He entered this park at eight oh seven pm yesterday evening. The only other exit is directly across the park, which empties onto Chiswick high street. We’ve checked footage from there with a fine toothcomb but we’ve failed to get a hit. We think we know why. Directly adjacent to the park entrance is a row of sheltered bus stops with limited camera coverage. The routes are varied, mostly heading west or southwest. My guess is that Marshall crossed the park and boarded a bus here, out of view of the CCTV. There are several bus companies that operate from that location and we’ve pulled last night’s footage from their vehicles, but reviewing it will take some time. There are a lot of routes, a lot of stops.’ He turned to Josh. ‘Any ideas where Marshall could be headed?’
‘None. His record shows he’s visited the UK before, but only on a layover. He’s never been to London. We need that footage.’
‘We’re working as fast as possible.’
‘Good. Tell me about your set up.’
‘The investigation is being run out of Vauxhall under the banner Operation Talon. A confidential FBI file has been generated at your end and that’s been picked up by Interpol and fed to SIS and Scotland Yard. Marshall is wanted under international warrants for illegal banking practices and money laundering. We’ve also thrown in connections to terrorist organisations in Europe and Pakistan to beef up inter-agency cooperation. Frank’s profile has been circulated on the Met’s intelligence briefing system as a wanted individual and I’ve got two mobile surveillance teams on standby for the legwork.’