Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  Constantin had unwittingly allowed the gas to escape in an almost perfect quantity. A room containing around seventeen percent of gas would create a situation where, unexpectedly, an explosion would not occur – the mix of gas being too rich. At around four and half percent and below, the mixture would be too lean. It was a similar process to providing fuel to a car engine; just enough and it would start, too much and it would flood.

  The gas in Edward Francis’ kitchen was balanced, perfectly. It only needed a primitive ignition source.

  As his ancient, veiny fingers slid the stick along the box’s striking surface the source was provided.

  And time, what was left of it for Edward Francis, stood momentarily still.

  The ferocity of the explosion would not have surprised the grand old man. He was, in reality, dead before he had even processed the thought. The ground floor living space became an intense and ruthless fireball, sucking air from every corner and forcing the weakest points to give way first. In the case of his terraced family home it was the windows which offered the least resistance, shattering across the garden and street, sending glass in every direction, much of it ricocheting off the opposite buildings.

  The noise was next. Inside the property it was unearthly. As much as two hundred feet away it was enough to make unwary pedestrians fall to the floor. Two males were affected but only marginally, fortunately they were heading away from the blast wave.

  The younger looked back. ‘What had they done? What had he done? Dear God, that poor man.’

  Surrounding windows also imploded with the force. Car alarms sang out to no one in particular. Birds ceased their late afternoon chatter. The local community came to a standstill.

  Two school children, walking home after an event-free day were only able to stand and scream. They had no idea what to do, where to run. One, a twelve year old girl, was sliced open by shards of glass as she instinctively shielded her younger brother.

  Inside the kitchen, Francis’ body had reacted to the devastating explosion as only a human body might. Although the incident was not comparable to a high explosive detonation, it had enough pressure to destroy his hearing in an instant. His eyes were next, also destroyed. As the pressure increased and the shock wave hit him, his lungs and major organs ruptured.

  Any remaining air in his lungs was super-heated, searing his airways. The pressure increased again to the point that the speed of the overpressure easily exceeded that of a hurricane-force wind.

  Edward was virtually torn in two. His injuries were so severe that he would not have survived. Indeed, he would not have wanted to. His last vision had been of his beloved mother. He could only hope he was now alongside her.

  Despite withstanding the constant attention of the Luftwaffe in the latter part of the Second World War, the lasting legacy of the family home was now gone, shattered, and vapourised along with its contents and the history of a modest hard-working and popular family.

  What countless German raids, hundreds of Magnesium incendiary bombs and the almost constant fear of attack had failed to achieve had been undone by two total strangers whose only apparent agenda was a preventative counter-attack on an old man who might have been a little too observant.

  The Francis dynasty had been whittled away like a fine oak branch on a boy scouts camping holiday until it was left with only one surviving leaf.

  Chapter Eleven

  “John? Geoff Galvin from EOD? How’s things?”

  “Great Geoff thanks. Bit of luck you finding me on duty – what do you need?”

  “It’s not so much what I need but what I have.”

  “Go on.”

  “Look John, when we last spoke you were concerned about the rise in ATM attacks. I’ve kept a weather eye on things and to be fair there hasn’t been that much activity, but last night…”

  “Geoff, there have been no attacks in north Kent, I would know…”

  “You would, but that’s not why I’m ringing. Local Fire turned out with half of Rochester to a house explosion down here yesterday. Due to the blast radius we went to the job as well. Just a precaution really. There’s a shed-load of old Second World War ordnance in that area. To be honest, it was good experience for my younger guys to see what a real blast wave can achieve. The bloody house was practically demolished.”

  He continued to explain in finer detail about how the hundred-and-ten-year-old property had all but collapsed, partially demolishing two adjoining properties.

  “They found a single occupant in the ground floor – what was left of it, and what was left of him. Poor bugger, he didn’t stand a bloody chance. Pretty certain at this stage it was natural gas. Always a highly entertaining bang. Bit of a loner apparently, but a nice man nonetheless. No obvious family.”

  Ballard had been listening patiently.

  “I’m always glad to get calls from you Geoff but forgive me…”

  Galvin cut him off.

  “You want to know what this has to do with your operation don’t you?”

  Now the inspector was interested.

  “Thought so. I’m not a copper. I leave that to you lot, I just save people from getting blown to bits. There were a couple of school kids injured in the blast. Both OK, cuts and bruises, local ‘paper interest, that sort of thing. Anyway, they described seeing two males running from the property, and I don’t mean for their lives. The little girl saw them coming out of a nearby alleyway that would have led to the target address.”

  Ballard interjected. “Let me guess at origin?”

  “I don’t think you need to John. Look, if you are interested the file is being handled by local plod and Fire investigators. But I reckon there’s more to this.”

  “Not an accident?”

  “Entirely possible. Until you discover that a car across the road from the address, well, what was left of it, had a couple of cylinders in the boot. A silver Peugeot. Oxygen and Acetylene…”

  “Is that so? Geoff, thank you so much, I know a man who might just be travelling to Kent very soon. Look after yourself and again, thanks.”

  Ballard put down the phone and immediately re-dialled.

  “Jason Roberts, good morning.”

  “Sergeant. Inspector John Ballard – CAD Room.”

  “Sir, how may I help you on this bright and breezy day?”

  “Other way around Jason. I read somewhere that you are running a team looking at these ATM attacks. Correct?”

  “It is indeed. Please continue to whet my appetite.”

  Ballard soon had Roberts salivating. He thanked him for the call, grabbed a black coffee from a passing detective’s hand and ushered another away for biscuits.

  “And get Cade. Now! Actually no, biscuits first and make sure…” His voice tailed off as he read a text message on his phone. “Make sure you get those nice ones with the chocolate bits.”

  His staff member had long gone as he knew what his boss wanted, he was nothing if not predicable.

  Jack Cade had been at work early, using the ground floor gym to work a few things out, to cleanse his mind and hopefully maintain something of a physique. He’d left O’Shea in bed, having what he considered to be a much-needed lie-in. It was a risk, given the recent intrusion, but she was a big girl and he felt he needed to give her some ‘space’.

  Worse still he was having to contemplate the potential move to France to work with Interpol. This had become a ‘head and heart’ issue for the upwardly mobile officer. Initially it was greeted with great excitement, but the more time he spent with O’Shea, the harder it had become.

  He asked John Daniel the question that was circulating in his head, both during the day and in the quietest night-time hours.

  “In the words of The Clash boss, should I stay, or should I go now?”

  “Never heard of ‘em Jack, I don’t follow modern music, it’s all garbage.”

  He paused, took a deep breath then continued, “Jack, what you do is down to you. If it was me with the decision to make
, I would consider how much service I’ve got left and what I want to achieve. With three to five years in Lyon you could return as a superintendent. The problem I see before you is two-fold.”

  It was broadly rhetorical, but he admired Daniel immensely – and he valued his opinion. The two had only known each other for a relatively short time but the feeling was mutual. He had quickly come to realise that as mentors went Daniel was pretty perfect, offering a balanced and rational view on each and every subject.

  “Do enlighten me boss. Worst case clear my head a little, it’s been pretty full on lately.”

  He smiled “It has somewhat Jack. What with pursuits, gun shots, bus crashes, death, mayhem and bloody plague – and that was only your first forty-eight hours in London. And now the activity around Op Breaker.”

  “Absolutely boss. I reckon another few weeks and things will settle down and I can head back to Nottingham, hand back my Metropolitan Police pips and regain my old job back at the airport, put my feet up and relax into a future of profiling attractive and mysterious international travellers.”

  “Is that what you want? What you really, really want?” asked Daniel.

  Cade was desperate to ask his manager if he was a Spice Girls fan but thought better of it given his comments about modern music.

  “Not anymore. I want to spend more time with Carrie. I’m enjoying the job here in the city and if you’ll allow it, I’d like to stay. Equally, France is beckoning. I’m torn.”

  “London’s calling Jack.”

  “It is, boss. I know. Are you sure you’ve never heard of The Clash?”

  Daniel shook his head dismissively. “Not a clue. It’s getting busier with Breaker stuff, I think you need to spend at least another week on it. London is drowning Jack, and I live by the river.”

  Daniel tried his best poker face, but he failed. He’d been playing Cade like a sailfish.

  “Sir, with respect…”

  “I know, Jack, I know. I loved The Clash back in the day, but The Spice Girls, not so much.”

  Cade had walked out of the boss’s office with a smile on his face. He was still undecided about the future. Truth be told he wanted his newfound, pencil-wielding, slightly obsessive, sexually charged girlfriend to travel to France with him, but when he had mooted the idea, she seemed a little cool. He would work on her next time she needed a shower.

  Walking back to his desk he was interrupted by a colleague.

  “Guv, phone for you. No idea. Sounds bleedin’ foreign. Don’t they all these days!”

  Cade had been so unsettled by the call he had received from Jackdaw that he had installed a recording system on his phone. He left the handset in the cradle, pressed the button and started to talk.

  “This is Inspector Cade, who am I speaking to please?”

  There was a feint crackle on the line, a discreet echo. Long distance?

  “Good morning Inspector.” The voice was accented, but educated. Cade was beginning to be able to differentiate between the former Eastern Bloc countries now. This voice was most definitely a ‘Romance’ language, not Slavic which ruled out Bulgaria and Russia.

  “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Valentin. Telling you this is not without risk, Inspector. My acquaintances call me Copil. You can call me Valentin.”

  Cade was writing down notes and passing them to Cynthia who had quickly steered her typist’s chair alongside his. He had written ‘IP database’ in black and had underlined it twice.

  Then he wrote Red, Blue, Green, Orange and Purple. The key notice colours adopted by Interpol covering the wanted notices, extradition cases, modus operandi, intelligence and risks posed by entities such as Valentin.

  She knew what he wanted and raced over to a stand-alone computer where she accessed the Interpol database in Lyon, France.

  She began to search for names, red or blue notices first, then the other flags, lastly for nicknames or a combination of all search fields. She even typed in Valentin.

  And there he was: Valentin Niculcea. Wanted by the Romanian authorities for crimes against the state, cyber-crime, membership of an organised criminal group, crimes of violence and fraud. The list seemed to go on forever but Cynthia found herself questioning whether it was entirely accurate – found herself trusting the voice on the end of the phone.

  Cade continued. “Hello Valentin. How are you?” The conversation had a déjà vu feeling to it.

  “OK, first I must apologise. You are probably recording this conversation, yes?”

  Cade had an uncertain feeling, but something propelled him towards the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Inspector. It helps me to assist you. I am running a binary encryption programme over the call, so please, do not waste your time trying to track me, or for that matter, record me. My people were working on cryptology before Scotland Yard had left kindergarten Jack. Sorry, do you mind?”

  “No, call me Jack, Valentin.” It was becoming like a game of ping pong and Cade felt as if he were twenty points down already.

  “I have called you to discuss the matter of explosions in your city. The BBC reporter has called them acts of terrorism, would you agree?”

  “No sir I would not. Would you?”

  The male laughed. “Indeed, no. I have witnessed such acts, I have, possibly even carried out such acts – all in the name of the state you understand? It is a matter of great conjecture. But these men are just amateurs. You see Jack, I have been hired by them. They have paid me well. I was happy to work for them, even to carry out specific tasks, tasks which allow me to use my expertise. But now things…are changing.”

  “Do continue. I am very interested in what you have to tell me.”

  “I have no doubt. You see, I am a professional man Mr Cade, well trained by my country. Like you, I worked for the government at a time when we had the best intelligence services in the world.”

  “You are Russian?” Cade was looking for evidential support.

  “Hardly Jack, no, I speak Russian of course, German too, and French, but no, I am Romanian. And we are proud people, not all thieves like the media portrays us. I fought against the government of my country because they took something precious from me and I will never forgive them. But I am still Romanian, my birth name was Iliescu, a proud name and I am honoured to be Romanian. But this group – the ones who call themselves Primul Val…”

  Cade was writing furiously on the jotter pad and pointing at the keywords.

  “…they are becoming more amateur by the day Jack. Richer? Of course, but they are getting, how would you say, sloppy?”

  “Who are you talking about specifically?”

  “The men who are blowing up your bank machines around London. Soon they will head to other cities and soon someone will be killed because of their foolishness. They are boys playing in a man’s world.”

  “So what is your agenda Valentin? I wouldn’t have thought a group of thieves would be of interest to a man with your experience?”

  Cade knew, like all police officers, that all informants had agendas; some provided information for purely financial gain, others for a sense of social justice, but many did it for revenge.

  “It is not for revenge Jack, if that is what you are thinking? I want to provide you with information on this group of little children. They could harm me, if they could ever find me, which I doubt – and I am well trained, so when they choose to find me they will be harmed too. Jack, I do not wish to be labelled as a terrorist by any government. Please. This is all I ask. This is my agenda.”

  His words, his plea, sounded genuine.

  “OK, but how do I know you are genuine?”

  Cade had been joined by Cynthia. She had written a few lines on a virgin piece of A4.

  ‘Negative database. Interpol spoken to. State that Valentin Niculcea is a.k.a. Valentin Iliescu. Nickname Copil de umbra.

  Sought-after criminal. Former Romanian intelligence, now fre
elance following fall out with government many years ago. Possible home in Europe?

  Never caught. Involved in ‘collection activities’ for crime syndicates.

  Top class industrial espionage/burglar.

  Message Ends.’

  “How do you know I am genuine about what?”

  “You say you want to help me. I need to know you are genuine and not working for the group you call Primul Val. By the way, what does that mean?”

  “Oh, but I did work for them Jack. I just told you this. But that is in the past. Very much in the past. But now they are becoming – I do not know the word. In my language we say animal periculoase.”

  The dangerous animal.

  “Why?”

  “Good question. Because they are killing people Jack and they will kill more. They might even kill me. But I do not work for such people. I have a reputation. If you were to speak to your friends at Interpol they would tell you this.”

  He paused long enough to allow Cade to realise he was dealing with a genuine professional.

  “So, how is that check going by the way, have you found out much about me? I am the best industrial burglar, et cetera et cetera, yes, yes I know. But now, I can perhaps work with you. No money. Just gratitude. We must never meet but it is time to repay my debts. I cannot do it for my own people so I may as well do it for yours. We are both Intelligence Officers and our profession is older than prostitution. Oh, and Jack…”

  “Yes?”

  “Two things. Primul Val, in my language, it means the first wave. But I hear Mr Stefanescu is rebranding. Secondly, whilst we are being so honest with one another. It was me. I ran a scalpel along the side of your girlfriend’s neck…she was never in any danger. Tell her I am most sorry.”