Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Sleeping with her?”

  “Yep, that’ll be it.”

  “Yes.”

  It was easier than they both thought.

  “That was easier than I thought Jack.”

  “You only had to ask Jason. It won’t get in the way.” The latter was directed at Daniel who had already given his seal of approval at their evening.

  Daniel continued the conversation.

  “So we know that the group have increased their activities, that they are using the same m.o., that they are goal-driven and that above all they are adaptable.”

  “And making money.” Cade added.

  “Yes, Jack, and making a lot of money. But I think there is more to this. Are they funding something else?”

  “Terrorism? I don’t think so boss, not their thing. I’ve run them through the standalone databases upstairs, negative I think it’s all about greed. Nothing else.”

  They all nodded and threw a few ideas around about how they could target the group.

  It was Roberts who pushed the conversation forward this time.

  “Our team is only so big boss. I know the Commissioner likes what we are doing but up against community policing and knife-point robberies on the streets of London this op is only ever going to gain so much ground politically. We need to engage the rank and file, somehow get them on board. A league table with sponsorship by the banks would be my suggestion, a prize for the most detections.”

  It was fraught with danger and Roberts knew it. They all did.

  “Can’t be done Jason. We both know that. Great plan but we need to engage the troops in another way. We need their attention attracted.”

  “Isn’t Clive’s death enough?” asked Roberts.

  “Fair point, I apologise. But you know what the job is like. When you are surrounded by mayhem, it can quickly become BAU.”

  “BAU boss?”

  “Business as usual.”

  Roberts filed that one away for the next round of Management bingo.

  “Once we have the thin blue line on board, we can really hunt these buggers. Without becoming xenophobes we need to point out how ruthless this group is, that they will do pretty much anything to gain money and a reputation throughout Europe. What do you think Jack?”

  Daniel could see that Cade had switched off.

  “Sorry sir. Jason is correct, even though they’ve harmed some of our own this is not sexy enough yet. We need our guys to become victims. Once their wives or girlfriends or mothers lose money at the hole in the wall, then they’ll be on side, not until.”

  “Actually, my wife had her credit card stolen last week Jack.” Roberts had his attention now.

  Cade sat up in the chair, “Do go on.”

  “It was awful. But I didn’t report it to the authorities.”

  “Jason, why the hell not, given all that we are doing to try to stop this type of offending…”

  Hook. Line. Sinker.

  “Because the thief is spending less than my missus Jack!”

  Cade snorted. He’d been played but the brief moment of levity was needed. He looked up at his colleague. “Twat.”

  Four days passed without any obvious activity until O’Shea called out one morning from her desk.

  “Everyone, we’ve got a new hit. HSBC branch in Hammersmith report that they’ve lost about three thousand overnight. East Acton the same. There’s even a branch near Wormwood Scrubs nick that has been targeted.

  Her analytical side-kick Cynthia Bell was busy noting the new occurrences on a whiteboard, it was conventional but effective.

  “An ATM outside a prison? That’s taking the piss.” It was Detective Constable Del Murphy. “We’ve been bang at it for a bloody fortnight now guv. I’m getting sick of being one step behind all the time.”

  “Derek my son just be patient. The early bird catches the monkey.”

  It was his long-time partner Terry Campbell, equally famed for his detection clear-up rate and appalling mixed metaphors.

  “Criminals are like eels, slippery as a fish and just when you think you’ve lost ‘em, three come at once.”

  Murphy shook his head.

  “See what I have to put up with guvnor?”

  Cade offered a sympathetic smile.

  “It’s not unlike the blind man and the elephant Del. You can lead a horse to water but you should never judge a book by its cover.”

  O’Shea was suppressing a giggle, and Daniel had to walk back out of the room.

  “Inspector Cade – my office, please.”

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Sort of Jack. Two things, stop winding my detectives up, and this.”

  He handed over a letter. Whilst it was addressed to Daniel, the subject was Cade.

  The letter bore a crest which was instantly familiar to Cade. A picture of a globe at its centre, flanked by two olive branches to symbolise peace. A vertical sword ran through the globe, indicating action. Either side of the sword were the letters OIPC and ICPO, one French the other English but both meant the same thing, this was an organisation that pooled the strength of many units into one.

  Beneath the sword a contraction of the term International Police combined the abbreviations into one simple word and one which was familiar to many: Interpol.

  “What the hell is this boss?” Cade was genuinely surprised.

  “Seems as though you’ve ruffled the right cages Jack if I may use a Campbell-ism?”

  “This says they want me to go to Lyon to join up with other ‘like-minded officers’ to form a team whose sole purpose is to target the growth in cyber and financial crime?”

  “I know, Jack, I read the letter too.”

  “But…”

  “But what Jack? This is one hell of an opportunity, and in my book, and it’s a well-thumbed bloody book too, you take these chances when they are offered.”

  “OK, fair point sir, but where have they got my name from?”

  “A mutual acquaintance has proffered your details during one of his most recent European tours. You have friends in low places Jack.”

  “But I don’t know anyone in France John.”

  “You do now. John Hewett has paved the way for you. He likes what you’ve done so far and so do I. The managers here are impressed. Jack, for God’s sake take the opportunity. You were a sergeant only months ago, now an acting inspector. The move will cement your promotion, I can almost guarantee it. It’s about who you know. Nepotism rules and all that. Hewett wants to meet with you as soon as possible. Keep him on side Jack and you’ll go far.”

  “I get that sir, but what about Operation Breaker? Is Hewett trying to get rid of me? Who will keep that going?”

  “Come on Jack, I suspect on the contrary, Hewett likes what he sees. There are plenty of people here to keep that ticking over, there’s Jason and his team and if he starts to slacken off, I’m sure a certain Miss O’Shea will crack the whip.”

  As soon as Daniel had finished the sentence the excitement of a move to the heart of international policing abated – and it was one name that did it. O’Shea. Carrie bloody O’Shea. Obsessive Compulsive border-line nymphomaniac is what Wood had called her, or something like that.

  Had she made him equally compulsive? The reality was after spending intimate time with her all he saw was positive, slightly keen on detail, but far from obsessive.

  Cade was about to consider carrying out a selfish and compulsive act by leaving London and heading to France where his skills could really be utilised, where he could carve out his future. He knew he needed to do it, wanted to do it in fact. Had to do it.

  He was replaying Daniel’s words as he took a moment to think, ‘for God’s sake take the opportunity’…

  ‘But could I do it without her?’

  Chapter Six

  He walked back to her flat, taking the long way around and rarely raising his head to look where he was going. His mind was in three different places. Things had travelled at a stellar pace sin
ce he’d been given the chance to leave his old force and work at East Midlands Airport. One event, one woman, had now changed the course of his career and possibly his life.

  He laughed, one woman had ruined his life, and another had changed it, the third had altered his perceptions of women entirely. And somewhere between them was a drop-dead gorgeous Irish girl who had exploited him as much as he had her on a moonlit night in the Peak District.

  Despite all the ‘Met’ jokes he’d swiftly grown to admire the team at the Yard. They worked hard, played hard and took things very seriously, too seriously in Clive Wood’s case. And for Cade that was the difficulty he faced.

  How could he leave such a well-ordered team to travel to a foreign country – surely it was madness? He’d only been there on a few day trips to top up his duty-free collection. But this was Interpol. Every police officer’s secret dream.

  He made up his mind he would take the offer. All he had to do now was break it gently to the new girl in his life. If she adored him as much as he did her she’d go with him. Wouldn’t she?

  He arrived at the flat to find it empty.

  He reminded himself that she had a life too. She was probably picking up some food or seeing a friend, or had gone to a nearby gym. Yes, whatever it was she was doing it was normal. She wasn’t strapped to a wooden frame and slowly drowning, praying for salvation.

  But hang on. She didn’t go to a gym, ever. And she had few friends outside work. So, he surmised, she must be at a nearby shop buying something great to eat, or possibly something even nicer to wear. ‘Calm down. This may be a massive metropolis but the percentage of good far outweighed evil. Relax will you?’

  He smiled, catching a reflection of himself in a nearby glass cabinet.

  ‘You’re a bad man Jack Cade so you are.’

  Another half hour passed before he heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened, and he instantly saw that he was right. Of course she was fine. ‘Why the need for paranoia Jack?’

  She looked at him, quizzically. “Hi you. You OK, you look worried?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just…missed you.”

  “You soppy old Hector, you were worried about me weren’t you? I’m a big girl Jack, I’m fine.” She berated him but quietly adored the fact that someone cared enough to be worried.

  They ate and ended up watching television, a comedy about a failed television chat show host which made Cade laugh. Whilst she didn’t find it anywhere near as amusing she loved to see him relax. Things had quickly become ‘conventional’ and she hoped they would remain so. As long as things were never conventional in the other rooms in the house she would start to enjoy life again.

  “How have you explained not needing accommodation to the job?” It was a fair and overdue point.

  “Easy. I told John Daniel I had moved in here and to be grateful for how much money I was saving the Metropolitan Police.”

  “And that was that?”

  He repeated the question, shaping it into an answer.

  “Come on let’s get to bed, I suspect it will be another long day tomorrow. Last one there turns the light off.”

  They ran through the flat with Cade finishing a narrow second. This girl was competitive as well as attractive.

  They laid in the dark, her breathing slowly becoming more regular.

  “Carrie.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Carrie, thank you for everything you’ve done for me, I…”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say he loved her, partly in fear of sending out the wrong message and mostly because of his former wife and how she had damaged his ability to ever truly love someone again.

  Despite the internal dialogue, he could not stop himself from thinking of her constantly. Each thought was positive, warm, loving even. Surely this was a start?

  She lay very still on the left side of the large double bed, next to the bedroom door and grinned from ear to ear in the almost complete darkness. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he was able to complete the sentence.

  Within minutes they were both asleep.

  Two hours later a darkly clothed figure entered the ground floor of the Old Queen Street property. Having carried out a number of reconnaissance dry-runs the male knew the street and the property well.

  Dressed as a tradesman he had been able to walk up to the front door and gain access to the building when another occupant had seen him trying to enter awkwardly with what appeared to be decorating equipment.

  He’d feigned a London-based accent which was enough to convince the dweller that he was not a threat. Pathetic at best it was indicative of the trend of many residents in the area; head down, arse up and get on with life, never taking the opportunity to talk to a stranger, or worse still, look them in the eye.

  Once inside the dark hallway he had checked the letter boxes, confirming O’Shea’s presence. He opened the front door again, looked up the street and ran his blank data card over the card reader. Bingo! It had worked.

  A few days before he had picked her out in the street, near her workplace.

  A little too close but it added to the thrill. He was highly trained and they would never identify him. He was just too good.

  Valentin Iliescu involuntarily licked his lips. It was good to be back in business, he could almost taste success. He was being paid what he considered an obscene amount for a few days of what he did not even consider to be work. For him it was as if he were stepping back onto a conveyor belt, working for the Romanian Intelligence Service, the SRI.

  He had learned his field craft during the early Nineties when the government had seen fit to respond to an uprising of a group of students and intellectuals, each of whom were opposed to communists being able to vote in government elections. Student numbers had built to a point that concerned the then government and their intelligence services were deployed to collect information. The subsequent riots saw the deaths of at least seven people. Iliescu had earned his reputation as a formidable covert operative, who legend had it could obtain intelligence so easily he made it look like child’s play. Hence his nickname ‘Copilul’ – The Child.

  Iliescu’s loyalty had waned in 1997, the second that his wife was imprisoned for divulging state secrets. She was innocent; she knew this, her husband knew this and the state too, but despite all of this they continued to hold her in a cold and isolated detention facility where the food was the highlight of her day, infested though it was. The abuse, both physical and mental, by both her captors and her peers made it a living hell.

  The truth was, he had outlived his purpose; he had a monetary value now and that, simply, was not convenient. Raised by the state. Trained by the state. And now despised by the state.

  The problem was the state were anxious about punishing Iliescu; fearful of how he could wreak vengeance, instead they punished him by depriving him of his one true love: Ana.

  Copilul wrote to Ana every day despite not one letter ever reaching her, burned before she even had a chance to gain strength from its contents. With each lost opportunity adding to the cancer that consumed him, he turned evermore towards the darker side of his field craft.

  He lived on a pittance, stashing away his earnings, day after day, month after month, until he was able to live a comparatively comfortable lifestyle. Then, when he was ready, mentally prepared and physically able, he would travel back to his motherland from mainland Europe and having judiciously selected a target within the government, would kill them.

  His tally to date was seven. All were lower-level servants, easily replaced, but their passing caused the government a headache for which they appeared to have no cure. Seven dead. One for every year those bastards held her in captivity until the day she had died.

  Seven years later and his reputation, his urban folklore as an operative had grown exponentially and his name had changed subtly but changed nonetheless to Copil de umbra. Child of the shadows.

  It fascinated him that adults associated a child-like name wi
th mischief, with evil. Who was he to downplay the fear? He liked to live up to the reputation too. Falling short of leaving a calling card, his modus operandi was always brilliantly researched, carefully rehearsed and technically beautiful. He would always do something that provided an indication of his capabilities, which in itself tended to strike fear into the heart of his enemy, leaving investigators to question who he was and when he would be caught.

  At the very worst he had an alibi, at best a reason for his alibis. Always cautious about leaving a footprint, of being caught, he lived a life of vigilance which he skilfully blended with the need to relax and enjoy the spoils of his own individual war.

  The brief phone call he had received from a British-registered cell phone had made his tasking quite clear. It had outlined the location, the target and the mission.

  Child’s play indeed.

  It was just like the old days, but this was more lucrative, fun almost. The money had already been credited to an online account. The caller, although evidently in charge, was also fearful of betrayal. It was far easier to just pay the man.

  Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still.

  It was an old adage, but one never truer than when associated with a Soviet-trained, goal-driven and quietly furious individual.

  Cade woke with a start. Climbed out of bed, got his bearings and stood, listening. The wind had picked up during the evening and was now playing games with his sub-conscious. A metal dustbin lid had become dislodged somewhere, blowing against a gate and spinning to a stop. It was enough to wake the dead, let alone an already-exhausted Cade.

  Satisfied he was not just hearing things and content that the most menacing threat was after all only an inanimate object he relaxed, visited the en suite bathroom, urinated carefully, mindful of leaving any evidence for the female of the house to find the following morning, rinsed his hands and returned to bed.

  O’Shea failed to move, deep asleep and lost in an agreeable reverie from which she had no wish to be disturbed.

  Cade was asleep in seconds.

  Timing his movements with those created by the agreeable weather conditions, Iliescu was able to climb the stairs to the apartment, quickly and unheard. His night vision was excellent, and he was able to walk around the lounge almost nonchalantly.