by Gary Tulley
Fortunately for Eastern, he was afforded a welcome compromise to his enforced sabbatical, in the form of Joan herself. To her way of thinking, good conversation complimented therapy to the extent that the commitment she endorsed, especially coming from a woman, seemed to carry more weight. "Why beat yourself up over somebody else's problem, Mike?" she was quick to enforce, "You're not the one on the loose. Not only that. No news is good news surely? I strongly suspect that, sooner or later, Brezznov will feel the need to surface, even if it only means that he has to show the world that his over-played ego hasn't been dented as yet."
The valid expression, 'follow that', wouldn't have gone amiss, although it would have taken a good man to overshadow her frankness. Instead, it was left to Eastern to state the obvious. "And here's me thinking that I knew it all, Joan. Next time I'm feeling despondent, I'll exercise some lateral thinking...right?"
Meanwhile, in the West End of London, an imposing and dapper well-dressed figure of a man, could be seen entering a highly renowned international art dealers. An hour or so later, he exited the gallery and drove off in a private hire car, after having purchased four exclusive works at a total cost of £275K. For exclusive reasons, known only to himself, the signature on the credit that he used for the transactions, were clearly visible as being registered to one Reginald Stockfield.
During the hours that followed, three other notable galleries in the surrounding vicinity of Mayfair, were unwittingly subjected to sales misrepresentation as Stockfield continued to flaunt the same credit card. All in all, he had collectively amassed by fraud, the total sum of four hundred and thirty five thousand pounds in illicit purchases and then retreated into obscurity. Shortly after his alleged client Reginald Stockfield had departed the premises, the proprietor of the first art gallery that he had visited, found himself facing an unwanted quandary, attributed to Stockfield's actions when verifying his fraudulent pin number. Without further ado, he decided to share his dilemma with the local police.
It didn't take him too long to realize that you can't choose just whom you want to converse with. Unfortunately, and just to add to his pain, the Desk Sergeant at West End Central was nearing the end of a hectic shift, when the call came through. And his long-suffering patience was about as rare as the proverbial Dodo. "Hello Sgt Drake speaking how can I help?"
"I'm sorry. The receptions not that good. Who did you say you were?" came back the reply. There and then, Drake decided to dump the etiquette and join the club of one.
"You're talking to the police, Sir. What seems to be the problem?" he demanded in an over-patronising manner. A minute or so after relating his ID details, the gallery owner, Rupert Helligan, as he was known, endeavoured to outline the circumstances that instigated him into placing the call. Having salvaged enough SP to warrant Helligan's problem, the Sgt hastily played his 'get out of goal card'. "Stay right where you are Sir. In the meantime, I'll organize a DC to drop in and interview you say in twenty minutes. Bye now." Slamming his receiver down, he consulted his watch.
Unbeknownst to the Sgt at the time, a certain DI Warring, purely by chance, had found himself party to their conversation, just as he was about to use the security exit button granting him access to the public lobby. In an instant, his digit froze, as did his intentions. Slowly he lowered his hand and averted his attention toward the Sgt. Assuming that a reprimand could be on the cards, Drake then took the initiative. "I'm sorry, Sir if it was about ..." By allowing a brief moment of guilt to creep in the equation, then he had completely misread the situation. Moving swiftly, the DI dismissed the apology out of sight and insisted that they focus on his last phone conversation. "This is more important, Sergeant, so think hard. Do you recall the name Stockfield during your call just now? Or maybe I completely misheard you. In which case, just forget that I asked." Apart from the fact that Sgt Drake was now holding an all-important redemption card, in remembering the content of the call, gave him the impetus to use it to good effect.
"On the contrary, Sir, you heard right the first time. The person behind the call was indeed a Mr Stockfield; a member of the public. He was part and parcel of the report that I was dealing with. In fact, I left it with him that as he'd be shortly getting a visit, I thought it was the best way round it, as he was beginning to get agitated." The Sgt's confirmation that his enquiry was in the same ball-park as his own gut-feeling, now convinced DI Warring that the name Stockfield, coincidental or otherwise, had struck a synonymous chord, alluding to an ongoing enquiry, previously circulated by HQ. This one, in particular, could be found related amongst other interlinked crimes associated with a major international cyber fraud. Without further ado, Warring pursued his hunch.
"In that case Sgt, you'd better give me the log details and I'll take over from here. I strongly suspect that there's more to your call than meets the eye." Fifteen minutes later, DI Warring, accompanied by plain clothes DC Collins, identified themselves to the gallery owner, Rupert Helligan. "What led you to make the initial call, Sir?" enquired Collins, in a subjective manner.
"Well, it was like I explained to the officer on the phone, there was a considerable amount of money involved in the sale. Not that that's unusual, you understand," he hastened to add, "but to make the point, I do have a reputation in the business for our quality of stock."
"I've no reason to think otherwise, Sir, but I need more than self-appraisal. If it wasn't a money issue that brought us here, then maybe you had better have a re-think. I'm a busy man." As he finished speaking, Collins threw Warring a sideways glance in an effort to relay his own thoughts.
"Another damned goose-chase. I wish he'd get to the bloody point!" he told himself. At this point, Helligan appeared to be intimidated by the look on Collin’s and decided on switching to a fresh approach as a distraction.
"Oh, but it was about money....well, plastic that is, Constable."
"Plastic? Would you mind elaborating on that, Sir. I'm not sure where you're coming from."
"Putting it another way, you would expect that somebody parting with £275K wouldn't have a problem with their pin number...would you now?" Subjected into being a bystander, an impatient Warring decided to pull rank.
"Could you endeavour to be more explicit, Sir? We need to confirm exactly what caused you to be suspicious of your Mr Stockfield in the first place. Helligan acknowledged the request in a positive manner and continued where he'd left off.
"As I was saying, I was first drawn to the fact that he somehow seemed to have a problem remembering his Pin number. As a result, when he finally succeeded in entering it, he apologised and aborted the attempt by stating something like, 'I misplaced the last digit', or words to that effect. I reminded him that he needed to enter 'clear', and start again. As a result, I was able to verify that the new sequence had been validated and that the transaction had indeed gone through. If the truth was known, I felt more out of sync than he was. His actions appeared highly irrational at the time."
"Uhm, I can see now why you contacted us. Your Mr Stockfield's actions appear to be unconventional to say the least," a grim-looking Warring implied.
"So what happens now, Inspector?" Helligan enquired tentatively. It was now Collin's turn to jump the queue, and went for the jugular.
"Tell me, would you recognise the man again, Sir?" he demanded.
"Absolutely!" Helligan expounded. "That, and his arrogant attitude toward art, he wouldn't have known a Picasso from a Constable. No pun intended of course, but all-in-all, a horrible little man to deal with."
"No doubt, Sir, but right now we need you to accompany us back to the station to look at some 'mug shots'......"
"Mug shots!?" interrupted a wary Helligan.
"Nothing to get alarmed about, Sir, criminal profiles to you." Warring assured him, "we're hoping you can assist us in a specific enquiry that we're following."
Twenty minutes later, a disgruntled Helligan found himself ushered into an interview room at West End Central. Putting Helligan at ease, DS C
ollin's lost no time in producing an album containing listed known felons, as a warm-up process. Having drawn a blank, he then followed that up with his 'no brainer', namely a 'mugshot' of the alleged Reginald Stockfield, and sat back to acknowledge a result. It was never going to happen today or any other day. Helligan simply shook his head and handed back the 'mugshot' without a trace of emotion. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, I can honestly state that I have never seen or met this person before in my life. Why should I have done!?"
No comment would have sufficed as a reply in Collin's case, as he struggled with the outcome. "In which case just forget that I asked, Sir," confirmed Collin's, dryly. Apart from the fact that Sgt Drake was holding the all-important redemption card, consistent with the conversation, gave him the impetus to use it to good effect. What Helligan hadn't bargained for, effectively became a verbal slap in the face. "I must ask you, once again, to take a much closer look at the face, Sir. I can't emphasise the importance of your judgement in knowing what's at stake here." As before, a somewhat confused Helligan turned his attention, albeit a brief glance, to the photo in question. Only this time, oozing confidence when replying.
"In danger of repeating myself, I can categorically state that I have never, at any time, seen this man before....ever!" Rattled as he was, Collin's wasn't about to throw in the towel that easily.
"In that case, Sir, let's move on. Here, I need you to check out another profile for me and see if this does anything for you?" Within seconds of studying what was now on offer, Helligan's body language could have been guilty of an adrenalin boost, superseded by a look swamped with recognition.
"That face...that...that man! He's the one I sold the paintings to at the gallery. I swear to God that's him alright." Collin's immediate reaction was to sit bolt upright and throw an intense look of utter disbelief at DS Warring, who, by now, was looking completely stunned at Helligan's frank omission. The short hiatus that ensued, served as the time allotted for Collin's attempting to find his voice. When he finally got round to it, the name he uttered with deliberation meant nothing to Helligan. But to the other officers present, their reaction was received like 'manna' from heaven.
"Brezznov! Sir. Would you believe he's identified Brezznov?" Some fifteen or so minutes later, shortly after Helligan had departed, DI Warring sent a detailed Fax, to Rogon at Spooks HQ. Being privileged apart, even a fly on the wall wouldn't have had a problem spotting it. But then we are talking a rare occurrence here, except to say that the perpetrator could be found on his own at the time in question. It was long, and it was drawn out, and the event was capped by a rare smile exuding from Rogon's face, no less. Gloating over the Fax for the third time, as he did, still felt good to him and only then did he decide that the time was now ripe to share it's contents.
While ignoring the fact that he himself was a confirmed 24/7 man, as opposed to other people sharing normality, meant little consequence to him. In no time at all, he shelved consideration and hastily contacted Eastern, who, in return, took the full brunt of a verbal onslaught. "For Christ's sake, slow down, Rogon, and start again. I realize what you're saying has to be important, but, frankly, your not making any bleeden' sense....besides which, your flaming timing is way out of line, as usual." Having stated his case, he turned and threw a knowing glance at, Joan, who could be found hovering in the background. Judging by the exchange look on her face, she was now fully aware of the situation.
"I know, you don't have to say anything, Mike." she proffered in a habitual manner. "I'll phone the company and put the cab on hold...okay?" Obliterated by reluctance, Eastern nodded and contemplated on a twenty ounce 'rib eye' steak, swiftly disappearing from sight. And just as quickly he returned to their conversation in hand. Five minutes on and with the gist of the call firmly implanted on his mind, Eastern let Rogon go. Joan was the first to break silence. "Judging by that look on your face, Mike, I suspect that our date is still, hopefully, on. Could it be that Rogon has found himself a woman?"
Her impersonal comment on the latter's much-maligned sexual prowess was a topic too hard to ignore, leaving Eastern, to reply in a facetious manner. "That's a stupid question to ask me, Joan. When was the last time you saw a white traffic light!?" At least, Eastern, managed to catch up on his steak later on that evening. This, in turn, gave him some added time, as a bonus, to reflect on at a later date.
CHAPTER 16...Supposition & Poetic justice.
From the very moment that he'd woken up that following morning, Eastern, for the first time, felt a real sense of being. This, in turn, enabled the usual mundane trip to HQ seem like a walk in the park, in comparison. Unlike his nemesis, Brezznov, who, in another world, was set squarely on the road to perdition.Dismissing out of sight the offer from Rogon, aligned to a Government-issue coffee on his arrival, would also prove to be invaluable in terms of decision making, during the sensitive hours that followed. Having tasted the starters via a code red call 24 hours earlier, from Rogon himself, Eastern was still hungry to get to grips with certain secreted SP. And maintain the 'high' that he'd inherited.
Within minutes of entering the briefing room at HQ, it became clearly visible, that a certain something was going around, and that Rogon was plainly full of it. "Hi Mike, good to see you...coffee? Oh no, you don't, do you. I keep forgetting. Well, they say absence makes the person fonder..." And that's when Eastern realized that Rogon hadn't really gone away at all.
"You forget to mention the all-important 'heart' ,Rogon," he volunteered as a reminder, knowing that the latter's heart and soul could be found logged as a statistic, if required, embalmed on a 'chip' in a Whitehall vault. 'So why should anybody else have one? he told himself, as an afterthought. Rogon fidgeted in his chair. Although blissfully unaware of his 'gaff', he was impatient to proceed.
"Do you realize, it's been a couple of days now, since you were here last, isn't, it Mike?" For someone who appeared to be on a high one minute, the ground suddenly manifested itself as being perilously close to the next. Leaving the only available remedy in an upsurge of answers to quell his curiosity. Eastern then felt contracted to make the point.
"Tell you what, Rogon, I've got a better idea. Let's both cut to the chase, forget the crap, and give me one good reason, stemming from our conversation last night, for making this meeting worthwhile," he demanded.
"Just for once, Mike, I don't envisage a problem with that, so try this one for openers. What would your reaction be, if I was to tell you, that our man, Brezznov has finally surfaced at last?"
"Two things immediately come to mind. One, I don't do thoughts, Rogon, as you've been aware of lately. And predominantly, I only deal in facts dependent on how kosher your contact is. Although, having said that, I have to say that you seem to be pretty damned sure of yourself. Frankly, that's quite a statement to throw at me, considering the time of the day."
"And your second being?" enquired Rogon hesitantly. A quizzical look shadowed Eastern's face, and in doing so, caused him to deliberate before replying.
"Are you suggesting to me, that you have a 'mole' (spy) secreted within MI6?" For a brief second, Rogon allowed the hint of a smirk to emerge from behind a blanket of officialdom, before replying.
"You're obviously out of touch where ethics are concerned, Mike. When it comes to internal Government issues, Spooks will always remain an independent force unless special circumstances dictate otherwise. Although you must be aware that we have been collaborating with the Met of late, deriving of course from a Whitehall mandate. I'm sure that when you have read this Fax I have here, you'll be the first to agree and accept that third-party interest can prove ethical at times." He then handed it over for Eastern to peruse. It soon became evident to him, that, from the outset, this was no ordinary Fax, purely by origin alone.
"Uhm, that's interesting. I can see it's been sent via West End Central. Let’s hope that they know something we don't." He wasn't about to be disappointed. The contents contained in the opening paragraph alone were enough to convince Eastern t
hat 'lady luck' had returned from leave, and could now be found in the ascendancy, As follows: Can now officially confirm that one, Victor Brezznov, wanted for international fraud, money-Laundering & conspiracy to murder, has been formally identified as such, through the judicial process, while posing and operating a monetory theft under the pseudonym of one, Reginald Stockfield, aka William Gauntly. The latter is also currently wanted for questioning regarding a joint international Cyber fraud. At this point, no further sightings of Brezznov have been reported since he was last active. In the meantime, all ferry and airport controls have been issued with an ongoing security update. etc..........etc........
Secluded in his own private bubble, Eastern allowed his body language to do the talking for him as he absorbed the SP. Moments later; it was left to a highly charged Rogon to furnish Eastern with a revised breakdown of the established facts, leading up to, and beyond, the initial sighting of Brezznov, prior to his audacious theft.
"....so in conclusion, Mike, you have to say that his movements after parking the getaway vehicle, and bearing in mind his personal security from then on, beggars belief."
"Security! In what sense? I'm sorry, Rogon, but I think I'm missing something here."
"I'm simply talking about his complete and utter disregard for it. It would appear that just before he entered the art gallery, his profile was captured on a convenient CCTV camera. And get this, he was actually posing into it as if to say, 'take a good look, I'm back'. Not that it really mattered of course," he continued, "because fortunately, as we now know, the gallery proprietor was in a position to ID him later, anyway. So, whatever you're feelings are Mike, you have to admit that the man has got some bloody nerve."
A contemptuous look then clouded Eastern's face, before he replied in a forceful manner. "Nerve you say? As cliches go Rogon, I’m forced to say that your insipid observations amount to nothing short of bollocks. Your confusing one man’s stupidity with textbook ego and, in the final analysis, it will cost Brezznov dearly. For example, if you recall Helligan's statement when questioned and I quote that he, being Brezznov, ‘wouldn’t have known a Picasso from a Constable.’ tells me that he know more wanted those paintings than the 4th of July being in December! No, I’m afraid that whatever way you design it, he’s letting us know that he deliberately set out to fuck the system, once again. And, as before, he’s done it in style.”