THE ANGOLA DECEPTION: An Action Thriller

by Dc Alden

  ‘Look, once Colin’s out of the picture Derek slips his coat over his travelling clothes, and together we’ll swipe straight through to airside. Once we’re there, Derek goes into a toilet cubicle, stuffs the coat in a bag and loses himself in the duty-free shops. I take the bag and the swipe, head back to landside and wait for Colin. If he’s already out of the toilet I’ll say I took his stuff because I got called airside and didn’t want to leave it. Then I’ll head back and shadow Derek until he boards his flight. Job done.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’

  ‘I’ve got an official cap that Derek can wear. Him and Colin are about the same build. No one will take any notice as long as Derek keeps his cool and sticks to the plan.’

  Sammy leaned back in his seat. ‘Sounds like you’ve done your homework, Roy. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I just want this to be over, Sammy. What about Yasin?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll need his details. Name, address, shift pattern. And a picture. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’ve got one at home, a group shot from our induction course.’ Roy hesitated. ‘The thing is, I need a new phone.’

  ‘Use the one I gave Derek.’

  Roy hesitated. ‘I don’t want to ask him, Sammy. He’s on that thing twenty-four-seven and I—’

  Sammy held up a hand. ‘He’s what?’

  ‘He hammers it, day and night. Non-stop.’

  Sammy’s knuckles turned white. ‘Who the fuck is he talking to? Jesus, I told him not to—’

  He stopped himself. He pinched his nose and flexed the fingers of his right hand.

  Roy had never seen Sammy like this. He’d seen the anger, but this was something else. He was rattled. Roy almost smiled. Welcome to my world.

  Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wedge of cash. He peeled off several crisp fifties and handed them over. ‘Get a BlackBerry on pay-as-you-go. None of that iPhone shit, got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  Roy scooped up the cash. Sammy’s arm snaked across the table and grabbed his wrist like a vice.

  ‘Listen to me carefully, Roy. If plod kick your door in anytime soon you’d better make sure my name stays out of it. Understand?’

  Roy paled. ‘You think they’re going to?’

  ‘Just focus on keeping your mouth shut.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And get me that info on your mate.’

  Roy hesitated. ‘What are you going to do? Have a quiet word or something?’

  ‘You worry about your end. Leave the rest to me.’ He reached for a printout, signalling the end of their meeting.

  ‘Sure, Sammy. Whatever you say.’

  Roy left the cafe in a hurry, the door chiming as it swung shut. He headed for the nearest bus stop. He stood in the cold, rubbing his wrist.

  He imagined the cold steel of a police handcuff clamped over that very same joint and shivered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The longer Josh loitered in Professor Cohen’s office, the harder it was to decide what offended him more; the lifeless body at his feet or the lingering stench of charred carpet and wood. Probably the corpse, he decided.

  He looked down at the dead professor, his hair singed, the blanket that covered him scorched. Frank’s crude IED had worked, kind of. The blast should’ve been much bigger but somehow they’d got lucky. A flash fire, a few windows punched out. Thankfully the viral packs stacked against the wall were undamaged. That was the upside. The downside was the sheer level of heat he was catching from Beeton and Lund.

  He winced, recalling the video link back in Chelsea. Lund still played the ice maiden while Beeton did nothing to curb his temper. He’d bawled at him, promising to break his career unless Frank was found. He hadn’t had a tongue lashing like that since West Point, and it infuriated him. Josh hadn’t hunted men in this way before. He wasn’t a cop, for Chrissakes. On the other hand he could understand Beeton’s anger. Frank had strolled into one of The Committee’s most sensitive facilities on the planet and killed a very, very important guy. Not only that, he’d got away scot-free. The mystery of Frank’s mission remained just that. He’d warned them back in Denver that it wouldn’t be easy. Like they gave a shit what Josh thought.

  The sound of scraping wood interrupted his thoughts. Across the room Villiers struggled to open a cracked window, hefting it up in short, jerky movements. Then the night air swept in, banishing the smell of burning and the pungent odours that were leaking from beneath the blanket. Josh briefly wondered whether Cohen had shit his pants during strangulation or afterwards.

  Villiers was bent over the carpet by the window. ‘Got a crushed cigarette butt and a burn mark here. I’d say this is where Frank put the choke on Cohen.’

  ‘Figures. Probably distracted him.’

  Josh picked around the blackened and overturned desk, the piles of scorched and burned paper, the cracked and partially melted computer. Broken crockery crunched under his feet.

  ‘Looks like the desk took the main hit.’

  ‘We got lucky,’ Villiers said.

  ‘No, lucky would be Marshall lying dead at our feet. Ask Doctor Wyman to step in.’

  He squatted down and sifted through the wreckage of Cohen’s desk. There had to be something here. He righted an overturned chair and wondered if Frank had sat in it only a few hours ago. He winced again. Local records confirmed that Frank had been here before, an unscheduled detour made while transiting back to Iraq. That’s why the visit hadn’t been recorded in Frank’s personnel jacket. Another glaring oversight. Copse Hill was a key installation. He should’ve checked.

  He stood up as Doctor Wyman entered the room. She was a small, middle-aged, stick-thin woman. She stiffened when she saw Cohen’s body.

  ‘Jesus Christ, poor Jon.’ She looked away, saw the open window, a night breeze plucking at the paperwork scattered across the floor. ‘Shouldn’t this all be sealed off? I thought this was a crime scene.’

  ‘You want to call the cops?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Wyman bristled. ‘All this is very sensitive. We don’t want a stray lab report drifting on the wind, do we?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Josh reminded himself to be careful. Cohen’s death meant that Wyman was now in charge. He signalled Villiers to close the window. ‘What can you tell me about Frank Marshall?’

  ‘I only met him briefly, the first time in reception and again in this room. A strange man. Rather intense, I thought. He said he knew Jon.’

  ‘Did the professor know him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They shook hands like strangers.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘Not to me. We don’t get many visitors here but when we do they’re normally people directly attached to the Messina programme.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘If Marshall was on a threat list, how did he get through our security?’

  ‘He was buzzed in,’ Josh told her. ‘He had a Security Division pass but he didn’t swipe it. He timed his entrance to coincide with the arrival of another member of staff. CCTV shows him entering the secure lobby with a female and signing in. She swiped, he didn’t. You waved him through.’

  Wyman shuffled her feet. ‘I came down in Jon’s absence. He greeted me as if he knew me. I thought I—’

  ‘Don’t let it trouble you, doctor. Marshall knew that swiping his card would’ve sent this facility into lockdown. So, what happened after that?’

  ‘I left him in the canteen. Shortly after the meeting began Jon passed me a note. He wanted Alan to run a background check.’

  Josh had already spoken to the erstwhile head of security, now locked in an interview room downstairs. He’d pleaded his innocence but it wouldn’t make any difference. Webber was done.

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  Wyman chewed a knuckle, shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’d left the room by then. The atmosphere seemed cordial enough. We were in good spirits because we’d made a breakthrough today.’

  Josh raised an eyebrow. �
�Oh?’

  ‘A significant one. The Transition is now on the horizon.’

  Josh felt a flush of excitement. ‘That’s great news, doctor.’

  ‘We’re not there yet but we’re very close. The Committee has been informed.’ She glanced at the charred grey lump on the sofa. ‘Poor Jon. It’s so sad that he won’t get to see the culmination of his work. Still, he knew we’d achieved our goal. We must take comfort in that.’

  Josh bit his lip, his elation snatched away by a cold wind of disquiet. If Frank was still on the loose when the Transition began then Josh would be stuck in England. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be back in his rightful place, at FEMA, managing the crisis that would quickly engulf the globe. There was so much to do; the preparation of the detention camps, the public health incinerators, the military mobilisation orders, the deployment of Homeland Security troops. Josh had to be there, had to be a part of it.

  But first he had to find Frank.

  ‘What about the police?’ he asked.

  ‘They came to the main gate but they didn’t linger. You think Marshall made the call?’

  Josh nodded. ‘Traced to a hotel in Andover. He was trying to sow a little distraction.’ Behind him he heard Villiers clear his throat. He turned around. ‘What is it?’

  The Brit tapped his earpiece. ‘They’ve found the car.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘About six miles east of here. They’re sending me the grid reference.’

  ‘We’re moving in two.’

  Josh zipped up his jacket, pulled an Arizona Cardinals baseball cap over his neatly combed black hair.

  ‘I have to go, doctor. You’ll supervise the clean up?’

  ‘We have a team en route. If they find anything out of the ordinary I’ll let you know immediately.’

  ‘Yes, anything at all. And please remind your staff that this facility remains in lockdown until you receive word from Denver. Webber’s deputy will head up security for now.’

  Wyman folded her arms and nodded at the covered corpse. ‘What about Jon?’

  ‘He goes into your incinerator. Cohen’s wife has already been informed of his death. She’s in the programme, so she’ll understand. Webber goes with him. That’s straight from Denver.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He shook her bony hand. ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘I hope you catch the bastard,’ she called after him.

  The Audis waited in the darkness outside, engines purring, doors open, the contractors forming a loose cordon around the vehicles, automatic weapons held ready, night vision equipment scanning the shadowy woods. Within seconds they were mounted up and powering along the access road. They passed the security hut, its shattered gate lying twisted by the side of the tarmac, and Josh saw a Land Rover move into a blocking position across the road behind them.

  Six miles east took them across a major highway and back into the countryside. When they got to the location the local cops had the road sealed off. Villiers’ SIS warrant card got them access and the Audis pulled to a stop beside a wooden gate wedged between two hedgerows. Overhead a helicopter clattered around the sky, searchlight probing the nearby wood. Uniformed cops gathered around the gate. Villiers had a huddled discussion with two locals. This would be a big deal for them, Josh figured, a team from London, an operation with global terrorism implications. They’d be tripping over each other to help.

  Blue and white police tape formed a path that led from the gate into the wood. The Mercedes estate was parked beneath the trees, front end crumpled, wheels caked in mud, tailgate open. Josh picked at Frank’s discarded suit, the worn shoes, the cheap blue tie that lay coiled like a snake in the folds of a beige overcoat. He moved around the vehicle, fingering the bullet holes in the bodywork. He slipped behind the steering wheel. He ran his hands over the worn plastic, caught a whiff of burned metal. He popped the glove box. No map, no personal junk, not even a candy wrapper on the floor. He climbed out. Villiers loomed in the dark.

  ‘The locals found some footprints, heading that way.’ He pointed towards the inky darkness between the trees. ‘Map says there’s a road through there, a hundred yards or so.’

  Another car. Or worse, an accomplice.

  Josh swallowed a momentary jolt of panic. ‘You think he had help?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Take a look at this.’

  Villiers shone his torch inside the trunk. He fingered a dark, circular stain.

  ‘That’s oil. There’s another spot, just there. The spacing suggests a pushbike. Looks like Frank got changed here, carried the bike through the trees and cycled away.’

  ‘Right.’ Josh exhaled, a little reassured by the deduction. Formidable though Frank was, working solo had its operational limitations. ‘Did you run the plates?’

  ‘Yes. The vehicle’s registered to a car dealer in Putney. Marshall bought it with cash two days ago. Physical description checks out but everything else is a dead end.’

  ‘Figures.’

  The helicopter hovered overhead, harsh white light washing the scene, flickering through the trees.

  ‘Stand that chopper down,’ Josh ordered.

  He followed the trail until he came to a wooden stile. He climbed over and found himself on a narrow country lane that stretched into the darkness in either direction. Across the lane was a wide field of tall grass, bordered by shadowy woods. Josh took a few steps out into the middle of the blacktop and looked east. Frank would’ve cycled that way, towards Andover, stopping at the hotel, using the lobby phone to call the police.

  Then he’d disappeared.

  Overhead, the earlier cloud cover had scattered before a freshening breeze, exposing a dark blanket of sky dusted with stars. The wind stirred the trees around him, swirling through the field in hypnotic waves. Josh took his cap off and closed his eyes, allowing the breeze to wash over his skin, cleansing him, clearing his mind. He absorbed the serenity of the moment, imagined a similar peace that would transform huge tracts of the globe once the Transition had passed. The vision thrilled him.

  He heard the snap of twigs underfoot. Villiers clambered over the fence behind him.

  ‘Anything from this Andover place?’ Josh asked.

  ‘I’m pulling the CCTV for all routes out of town. Checking the rail and bus feeds too.’

  ‘What about the local cops?’

  ‘I’ve briefed them about Operation Talon. They’ll stand down after tonight.’

  ‘Good.’ Josh cocked his chin towards the east. ‘My gut says Frank’s gone back to London. Whatever mission he’s on seems to be focused around Richmond, maybe somewhere close by.’

  ‘I agree.’ Villiers’ phone beeped with a message. ‘The low loader’s here to remove the Merc. I’m having it shipped to a secure warehouse in Wandsworth, get a team to go over it again, properly.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Headlights glowed in the distance, blooming and fading as the approaching vehicle negotiated the twisting lane. Josh slapped his Cardinals cap back on his head.

  ‘Let’s wrap it up here. We’ll head back to Chelsea, start collating the new data. We need something concrete, and fast.’

  Josh took one last along the deserted lane, at the field of swaying grass, at the stars that glittered in the night sky. Over the rise to the east the headlights grew brighter, the sound of the approaching car drawing ever nearer, carried on the night air.

  He climbed the fence and disappeared into the trees.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Here we go, Max. Hold on tight.’

  The child gripped the roundabout with pudgy hands, feet dangling as Roy spun the ride. He gave Max a reassuring smile, but his son began to whine after a couple of turns, his chubby face screwed into a mask of fear. He raised his arms, begging to be plucked to safety. The roundabout spun full circle. Roy lifted him off.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Max, it’s only a roundabout.’

  The child clung to him, watching the spinning ride as if it were a medieva
l instrument of torture, the whine reduced to a throaty grumble. Josh gave him a squeeze.

  ‘Mummy wants to take you away, to a big school across the sea. You don’t want that, do you, Max? You won’t be able to see daddy then, will you?’

  He heard a shout, saw a bunch of kids running across the road. There were five or six of them, early teens, swaggering towards the playground. A few of the mums eyed them warily, calling their kids close. The teenagers headed for the swings, chains rattling as they slouched in the low plastic seats, lighting cigarettes and roaches. The smell of cannabis drifted on the cold wind. Roy cursed the Fitzroy.

  ‘C’mon, Max, let’s go kick the football.’

  He swung his daysack over his shoulder, took Max’s hand and left the playground behind. He found an empty park bench some distance away and sat down. He rummaged in his pack for a chocolate bar and wagged it in Max’s face. His son’s eyes lit up, a goofy smile splitting his rosy cheeks. Roy held it out of his reach.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell Mummy? Our little secret, right, Max?’ He peeled back the wrapper and Max snatched it from his hand. ‘Nothing wrong with your motor skills, eh?’

  Roy smiled as his son took a big bite. The boy bounced up and down on his little legs, school shoes squelching in the mud. Roy fixed his scarf and adjusted his bobble hat. He rolled a football out onto the open grass. Max gave it a mechanical kick, his focus on the sweet that had already painted his lips and chin a dark brown.

  Roy settled on the bench, hands deep in the pockets of his parka, chin nestled in the folds of a thick scarf. It was cold today, a biting wind that whistled through the trees. The park stretched away before him, curving down towards the distant town and the steely glint of the River Thames. Not a soul to be seen, and Roy was glad of it. He needed time to think, because things had taken a turn for the worse at home.

  Last night Derek had hit him.

  Not a punch, just a sharp slap around the back of the head, but it was an escalation none the less, and Roy was now officially scared. He wasn’t sleeping properly, lying awake in the dark of his bedroom as Derek prowled around the flat, jabbering into the mobile phone that Sammy now regretted parting with. Things were coming to a head. Roy could feel it.