The dining room was perfect. It was big enough for eight, so it did not feel like they were eating in a huge empty room but had the space to spread out. The waiting staff were incredibly efficient and, once they had cleared away the main course, the two were left with a second bottle of wine and a large pot of coffee.
Yebedev got straight to the point.
“I have a number of extremely valuable items in Russia that I would like brought to this country and I don’t want anyone to know about it. The objects vary in size and importance and I am willing to pay whatever the cost.
“If the initial shipments go well, I would like to discuss even more delicate items to bring here, but there would be no obligation to accept this until I give full disclosure on what is required and it is decided if this would be feasible.”
Sir Valentine blinked slowly as he listened. He had heard many such proposals over the years and now prided himself on his ability to detect if someone was genuine or not. He’d already had background done on this man and it was positive to the extreme.
He noted Yebedev’s body language was open and he showed none of the signs that Sokolov had taught him to watch out for. Accomplished liars are good at avoiding the telltale signs that can give you away. They won’t be caught glancing to the right, or blinking rapidly, but subtle things like wrinkles appearing around the eye or spots of colour briefly popping up on the cheek can catch out the best.
“I am sure there is nothing my colleagues can’t help you with. Before I go on, am I right in assuming all the items are in Russia itself?”
“Some are, some aren’t. Some are hidden away, others are hidden in plain sight.”
Sir Valentine thought this was a very Russian answer. He went on. “That shouldn’t be a problem, although each item will be discussed in detail and we never claim that we can move everything.
“If you wish me to take this conversation further then you will need to pay one million pounds sterling into a bank account for which I will give you the details. The money must be there in three working days, is non-refundable and does not count against further costs.
“In addition, once we have established the exact nature of items and provided the cost of moving them, the money must be paid in advance and we accept no liability for anything going wrong; all work is carried out at your risk.”
Yebedev made to reply but was silenced by Sir Valentine holding up his hand.
“There is one more thing. Once the total costs have been established there will be a two hundred per cent surcharge of all the costs involved, including the one-million-pound cost. This will be payable in advance.”
A very small part of the Russian wanted to tell this insufferable Englishman what he could do with his million-pound bonuses and payments in advance. A much bigger bit of him held out his hand and said: “It will be a pleasure to do business with you.”
Chapter 32
One of the rules that Hooley tried to stick to was ‘never assume’. It was classic old-school stuff and a useful reminder to keep an open mind during any investigation, but it was beginning to dawn on him that he had just made a classic mistake with Roper. He had assumed his younger colleague would be enthusiastic about his plan.
The first part had gone well. He’d suggested they visit one of Roper’s favourite cafes. That part of the plan had gone well. It was French-run, offering table service and a collection of seriously good cakes and pastries. He had waited until mid-afternoon before suggesting they head there for a break and a chance to discuss his idea.
Luck seemed to be on his side; a table came clear as they walked in. It was at back of the cafe and offered a degree of privacy. Had they arrived during the normal lunch period customers would have been queuing out of the door, but at just after 3pm they were able to walk in and sit down.
Or at least Hooley had. Roper had stopped by the counter to carefully study the cake selection and finally joined him at the table to announce that the daily special - an elaborate work of glistening chocolate perfection - was the one to go for. Even sitting a few feet away, the DCI could see this was a special treat and instantly abandoned his latest diet.
They were served by a pretty young waitress with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a crisp white blouse and black trousers, with a French style white apron wrapped tightly around her middle. Hooley thought she seemed interested in Roper, but if he had noticed he was doing a very good job of disguising it and she tossed her head as she walked away having taken their order.
Before he could say anything, Roper jumped in.
“Do you realise that you always choose this place when you have just put yourself on a diet, then every time you say the cakes are too good to turn down and you order one?”
He hadn’t realised that, but recognised there was a sliver of truth in what had just been said.
“I wish you hadn’t told me that. I suspect you may be right, as you usually are, but I hadn’t realised that was what I was doing, so now I will have to stop coming here.”
“Only when you go on a diet. The rest of the time is OK.”
Hooley was about to say more but decided he was going to make himself look ridiculous so, looking around to double-check there was no-one close enough to eavesdrop, he launched into his idea.
When he finished talking Roper didn’t respond, which was quite usual when he was presented with a new idea. Hooley knew the young detective sometimes needed time to adapt to a new approach, but this silence went on.
Even the reappearance of the waitress, who banged Roper’s plate of cake down with a real sense of relish, did nothing to disturb him. Embarrassed, Hooley tried to smile apologetically but she treated him with the disdain he deserved.
Sighing, he pulled his own slice towards him and cut into it with a fork before placing it in his mouth. It was every bit as delicious as it looked, and he sat in silent heaven as he slowly made his way through it. He had hoped this would encourage Roper to get stuck in, but he remained in silent contemplation, his hands on his knees and his gaze off in the middle distance.
The DCI was just attempting to hoover up the crumbs on his pate when Roper finally spoke. To his relief he didn’t seem angry, it was just that the plan had triggered some intense thinking on his part.
“I don’t always get on with people who are like me.”
The words hung in the air for a moment as Hooley carefully absorbed them and then he had to restrict the urge to laugh as he took them on board, his amusement triggered by a sense of relief that he had an answer.
“I know exactly what you mean, and there have been occasions when I have been accused of not playing well with other people. We are going to be really careful to make sure that we all get on - maybe not as best friends, but with plenty of respect for what we can do.”
Judging by the deep frown that appeared, Roper was still going to need some persuading.
“Look. We have 18 months to get this right and we don’t need to find loads of people - half a dozen will be enough to get us going. To be honest the idea may not work out that well, but I’d really like to give it a try and I was wondering if you might have someone in mind.
“What I don’t want is to get going and then discover that we are having to go elsewhere for help. I want this to be a really tight unit with everyone able to contribute, and to do it in an environment that they can thrive in.
“I know you won’t mind me saying this, but I told Julie Mayweather how pleased I was at the enormous strides you have taken and that’s why so many people are talking about you. But you wouldn’t be able to work your magic in a traditional squad, and we need to remember that.”
While he’d been talking he was pleased to see the frown disappear; Roper looked like he was buying into the plan. He decided to keep pushing ahead and bring Roper alongside.
“Is there anyone you are aware of who might be interested?”
Roper went to say no and then slapped himself on the forehead.
“I
got so worried for a moment that it stopped me thinking properly. Peter and Chrissie might be just the people we are looking for. They’re really clever data analysts at GCHQ who I got to know while I was working there. You said you thought we needed people like that and I totally agree. Data mining is always the key and they are happy to go through mountains of work.”
“You don’t think we would have an issue talking to them - I mean, GCHQ would be OK about it, would they?”
“I can’t see any problems; people move around all the time and moving to Scotland Yard would be no bad thing.”
“Fine. In that case why don’t you talk to them? No rush, because we don’t need to see anyone straight away, but find out if they would be interested and stress that at this stage this is only a chat; we can’t be sure this is going to happen.
“Also, can I remind you that the information about the boss possibly moving to the job is for our ears only at the moment? She wanted you to know in advance to give you a chance to deal with it - are you happy about her moving up?”
There was no hesitation.
“She should be in charge.”
“I’m pleased. Before we spoke there were two things worrying me: how you would react to that, and you are fine. The other is what about the name: Odd Bods?”
“I really like that. It sounds just right and it’s a lot nicer than some of things I used to get called at school.”
Chapter 33
It was a numbers game, and it worked. The Courier knew that if he sent enough kids through the system, some of them would get through, and the one thing he didn’t have a shortage of was children who could be sent into the UK.
The flow of refugees from war zones meant it was inevitable that refugee families were getting separated in the chaos, making easy pickings for the smuggling gangs targeting the young.
At first the kids scooped up by the Courier and his team thought they had been really lucky. They were fed, given somewhere warm and dry to sleep and even had basic medical needs taken care of.
Far from being kind his team was looking to separate out the best prospects, with strong healthy children two to four years old providing the highest and most reliable income.
Those who didn’t measure up were either abandoned on the spot because they were so ill or sent through border controls in an exercise designed to flood the immigration system with children who needed a lot of care and attention.
Among this “border fodder” were the older kids, since he knew demand started tailing off fast once children reached the age of ten and trying to find anyone who would pay good money for teenage boys was tough, although older girls held a better value.
The Courier operated on the principle that anything up to ninety per cent of those he picked up would fall into the low financial value and could be used as pawns. One van-load of children would briefly swamp the system, creating the window to transport his most valuable cargo.
It didn’t work every time but those who did make it were the ones he could charge serious money for. Once over there, he had another neat trick up his sleeve. When he had more kids than orders he would allow the excess kids to be found in the UK, maybe wandering around a motorway service station.
These children would be taken into local authority care and placed with foster parents or in children’s homes. Safe and secure, these children could be left “safely stashed” until a buyer had been found, whereupon they would vanish without trace.
Operating this way meant his team had to be alert and organised, but while it could be painstaking at times, his guarantee of quality meant he could charge the highest prices. Like any business predicated on supply and demand, the cost could vary enormously. He once recalled having to sell off a nine-year-old for less than fifty pounds.
He was able to mitigate against these price variations by being able to meet very precise criteria of age, sex, appearance - even down to height or eye colour. Tick all those boxes and it was a top payday. What happened next never entered his mind.
He had been pleased with how fast his operation had ramped back up and the money was flowing in steadily. For all that, he still faced significant issues. After all his costs the money, while very decent, wasn’t so good he would recoup all his losses soon.
He was also facing problems that hadn’t been so acute a few years ago. National governments were getting better at co-ordinating their responses, so finding unsupervised refugees was getting harder, but that wasn’t the most concerning change.
His bigger issue was that there were so many more people working in the field and they were not just ruthless - some of them seemed to be quite unhinged. The worst were the jihadi groups, who had realised that starting wars was a good way to make the money which allowed them to wage new wars. Where these groups controlled territory and populations, they realised it was far more lucrative to pressurise people into leaving using smuggling gangs the terror groups controlled.
All those involved in human trafficking have ruthless as a default setting, but these people brought a fanaticism no one wanted to encounter. It meant he was having to work with mercenary groups to ensure his people had the protection they needed.
It was yet another cost but he could sense the odds were slowly mounting against him. In the past he had been sure his intelligence, coupled with a forensic attention to detail, would keep him safe. Not anymore. The longer he stayed doing this the more certain it was that he was going to be hurt by it, probably terminally. There were only so many times you could play chicken on the motorway before you got squished.
He rarely drank alcohol or took drugs, but sometimes they helped him to escape. He was back in London, in a rented flat close to Baker Street tube station, while he thought about his next steps.
He’d cracked open a bottle of expensive cognac and poured himself a generous measure. After a couple of sips he felt the soothing sensation of the alcohol and laid back on the sofa. The huge flat-screen TV was on, but he was barely aware of what it was showing; instead he was enjoying the play of light on the amber liquid in the glass he was holding in his right hand. He estimated the measure he’d poured himself cost about five hundred pounds but the soothing effect it was having made it a price worth paying.
He sat up, decision made. He wasn’t someone who needed to run through endless discussions and thought processes to make up his mind. He’d stripped it back to the numbers. His earnings from trafficking were coming under pressure, and that would only get worse.
The really major money was in drugs, but anyone trying to break into that market probably had a death wish. His new plan meant he would need to suffer a short-term cash flow problem before the money started to flow. He calculated that he was close to making a sufficient profit that would give him the cushion he needed. Just a few more weeks would do it.
Chapter 34
Hooley ended the call and stared thoughtfully at his phone before putting it back down on his desk.
“That was Bill Nuffield. MI5 is planning to give us some more background information and we will get it later today. I know we don’t really know him that well but I got the impression he was still holding something back.
“I suppose that’s second nature to those guys and, to be fair, there have been plenty of times when I have withheld information until I was quite sure I could trust the people I was dealing with.”
Roper was stretching in his seat, raising his arms level with his shoulders, which Hooley thought made him look a scarecrow.
“I expect you’re right,” he said. “I don’t have the full facts but I am willing to make an informed guess. I think they must have a source they trust who is telling them something really bad is imminent.”
“Really? Care to share your analysis on this?”
Roper stood up. “I will, but let me go and get lunch. I’m starving. Smoked salmon and an Americano alright for you?”
“Er, yes, thanks,” said Hooley, who realised that for some reason he was standing up.
; The DCI had managed to contain his interest while watching Roper make his way through the usual double sandwich order. He wasn’t feeling that hungry so had tucked his food away for later.
Roper tidied up and reached for his coffee, which Hooley took as a cue.
“Are you going to expand on your theory?”
Roper stared at the bottom of his cup as if trying to see patterns in the coffee dregs. He obviously didn’t find anything, as the cup was tossed into the waste basket.
“I don’t have any information that you don’t, but I do know that intelligence organisations sometimes have information that they can’t discuss, or even admit they know about.”
Hooley’s eyes narrowed. He’d anticipated the answer might not be easy.
“You can be sure that MI5 will have been really careful about how they ask around. They wouldn’t want to risk alerting the wrong people that they were aware something was going on.
“I have been trying to think about the most likely way they will have gone and I keep coming back to the idea of a deep cover source. But talking to those people takes time; you can’t just ring up because you would give their cover away.
“And, just because we are dealing with MI5, it might be MI6 that has control over the source and would be unlikely to share any details. The Cold War might be officially over but espionage is still alive and well.
“Of course the biggest problem is that we don’t know what it is that they don’t know.”
Hooley made an effort to get his head round that but sensibly gave up.
“I think you may have outdone yourself with that one.”
Roper tried again. “It makes perfect sense that they may have something that they can’t tell us about without giving away another secret. I wonder if they think this is a rogue team of Russian agents.
“It could be that their source has confirmed it is not any sort of officially sanctioned operation - and that might be the worst case of all.”
(Jonathan Roper Investigates Boxset Page 55