The best a thoroughly-prepared Scenes of Crime Team could hope for was clothing fibres; the uniforms the occupants wore could only ever be traced back to the French Police. Sometimes having people who were in equally dire financial need and susceptible to a bribe was a hugely positive thing.
In a few minutes, the two white Renaults were as close as they could get to their identical cousins. The crew of the first legitimate vehicle were already waiting, doors unlocked and ready to carry out their own limited tasks. They had been well paid for what might manifest as a few days’ work. Negotiations with them, months before, were so covert that not even the most notorious of whistle-blowers would ever be able to divulge the information.
The second team were not so amenable. The front seat passenger ran his hand over his right thigh, cursing the fact that the British had refused to allow them to carry weapons on their soil. He picked up the microphone that was cradled on a stainless steel bracket to the right of his leg. As he was about to speak into it, he noticed that the occupants of the two unheralded vehicles were all wearing familiar police uniforms. He relaxed a little.
He had amassed twenty-two years loyal service in the military and civil police and had been posted around the world where the French had once been a power to be reckoned with; the Pacific, North and East Africa, he had been there, done that.
He shielded the glare by placing his left hand against the glass and through the cloudburst saw a more senior officer, his coat over his head to avoid the rain.
The officer tapped on the window and perhaps unnecessarily pushed an ID card up against the glass. His name was Charles Durand, a brigadier-chef in the Police Aux Frontières and that meant he was very much in charge.
Confident that he was an ally the passenger lowered the window a fraction, allowing a hurried conversation to commence.
“Hello, sir. Would you like to get in with us? You will be soaked.”
“No, it is fine. Thank you, Sargent. I need you to swap vehicles with us, though. I have the papers if you need to sight them.” He paused long enough to allow a challenge which never really came.
“Is there anything I need to know, sir? The plans have changed? I wasn’t made aware. We were told to wait. We could move out of this jam and make our way. You know, given what we are carrying. But we were told to wait for the British.”
“Indeed, Sargent, even a brigadier-chef does not always have the luxury of being fully informed. Your urgent needs have been answered. I am in charge now and the government has decreed that I now have the responsibility for what is in the back of these vans and also for getting it to Europe. The government asked for a senior officer to take over – and that, mon ami, is me. You and your team will take our vehicles…back there.”
He pointed back along the rain-soaked carriageway, genuinely trying to shield himself.
“My second team will take the other vehicle. We need to move before our delay causes our government to be concerned – before we embarrass President Chirac himself. It seems that our militant brothers at the ports have caused this chaos. Civilians!”
He raised his eyes theatrically to the anthracite sky, finishing a masterclass in French which had aroused no suspicion at all.
Hewett signalled to the junior officer. “Follow me. Leave everything in your vehicle. When this traffic starts to move make your way to the tunnel. Forget about the escort from our so-called British friends if you have to. You will be met by the UK authorities and escorted through to the other side. I will arrange this. Our team will pick you up in Calais and from there you can stand down. Thank you for your efforts today.”
“Pleasure, sir. Oh, sir?”
Was this the challenge?
“Yes?”
“May I have the key?” Hewett laughed, it was a genuine moment of relief.
“But of course, and don’t get stopped for speeding!”
The sergeant shook Hewett’s hand firmly. “Is it true, sir? What they say about our cargo? That its contents could be worth tens of millions of francs?”
Hewett wiped the rain from his eyes and smiled his best underpaid government employee smile.
“Possibly even more Sargent. Possibly, in the wrong hands, even more – it could be priceless. Merci, au revoir.”
The career sergeant left the van, pulling his collar up around his ears as he ran to the awaiting Renault. He was paid to follow orders, and the orders were clear. Why he could not proceed with the vehicle, he was in was beyond him. However, whether the orders made any sense on a wintry, rain-laden night in a foreign country was not for him to challenge. Rank had its privileges in any nation.
The crews were exchanged as per the plan and in under ten minutes Hewett, Stefanescu and the team were forcing their way onto the emergency lane and heading south.
Hewett sank back into the driver’s seat, adjusting his night vision and contending with the rivulets of water that danced across his broad windscreen. With each laboured arc of the wiper blades, he was a step closer to his new home.
Candy from a newborn child indeed.
Cade rang Gary Marshall from Special Branch.
“Anything?”
“Nope. Not a whisper. There’s practically nothing moving due to the ferry strike.”
“Ah, I thought Dover was always this quiet?”
Marshall laughed “Hardly, this place is the Gateway to Europe. Never sleeps.”
“OK, well if someone were to hear of anything let’s hope they might ring us, as for now DCI Daniel and I are fed up to our mercury-filled back teeth with playing I-Spy.”
About half an hour from the motorway, in a small two-storey control tower a female picked up the vibrating Nokia cell phone whose liquid crystal display lit up the low-light, temporarily depriving her of her night vision and making her curse in her native tongue.
“Yes. I can hear you,” she continued to affirm, nodding unseen to the caller who spoke freely in a heavily accented version of the Slavic language.
“Good. You have done well. If you help us as discussed I will personally reward you. You cannot be allowed to rot away in some desolate corner of England when there is such a big world out there waiting for you to discover.”
“Thank you. I don’t need to impress anyone Mr…”
He cut her off quickly. “We can talk freely, but not that freely. You never know who might be listening. We grew up in the same part of the world, my dear. We should both still be suffering from untold levels of paranoia.” He laughed, forcibly. She responded in kind.
“What time will you be here?” A simple, closed question.
“At some point.” An open, non-committal answer.
“That does not help. I have things to do.”
“So do them. Prepare yourself.”
“And if you fail to arrive?”
“Then you will be better off – you won’t have to meet my new miserable team member and I will still allow you to keep the money. I am a man of honour. Despised, allegedly cruel, sexist, overly stylish but ultimately honourable. I also reward loyalty.”
“Then I cannot lose. See you when you get here. The western gates will be locked. When you arrive turn your headlights off. Then on. Wait ten seconds and flash twice. I will let you in.”
“So you are the security guard, the mechanic, the administrator and the pilot? How many in your team?”
“One. I am a team of one.”
It was good to hear, less trouble and far fewer lines of evidence if she were to go literally off the radar.
“Mike One-Four from Control. The duty inspector needs a sitrep. Where are the French vehicles, over?”
“One-Four I have no idea over.” Douglas was yelling into his microphone to avoid the background noise of an approaching fire engine and the building cacophony of a developing storm.
“Last I saw they were together and heading further down the motorway. We are pretty much marooned now. Can we see if we can get another southern unit to intercept, even a local car – either
that or we allow them to continue and hope they have a Plan B – over?”
On board the second van Constantin checked and re-checked his plan, and then his equipment and satisfied he began the more complex task of countering the ever-present irritating inner voices.
‘I don’t need any. Drugs are a thing of my past.’ He meant it, but he also wished the voices would leave him alone and allow him to recover mentally. He picked at his fingers, pulling the dried skin from the cuticles until they bled. Physically he would carry the scars forever but his personal goal – above all others – was to use some of his hard-earned, ill-gotten gains to correct the visible signs of abuse.
He tested the gear that lay before him, each component part tucked into a purpose-made pocket, itself secured inside a green textile roll. He had purposely placed every part where he could find it in any condition, day or night, light or dark, upside down. In the darkest moments in a tepid cell he had pictured this time, cautious not to reveal his plans to an overly friendly British cellmate. It was said there was honour among thieves but he had never found one he trusted; for goodness’ sake there were times in the past where he didn’t even trust himself.
He looked up, aware that the youngest of the team, a boy barely old enough to be his son was looking at him. He returned his stare with a fractured smile and a simple question.
“Boy. Will you promise me that you will never end up like me?”
The young male nodded, unsure whether to speak.
“It’s OK, I don’t bite. When the time comes, you will see why Jackdaw chooses to have me on his team.”
The male wore an inquisitive look and matched it with a reasonable question which immediately put Constantin on edge.
“Forget it. Forget I mentioned that name, never, please, ever repeat that name again. For your own safety. OK?”
He cursed himself in the half light of the Renault’s cargo area as the van sped south, its tyres rhythmically colliding with the brightly coloured cat’s eyes that separated the lanes. He must learn to take control of his nomadic mind if his future goals were to be realised. Fool.
“So, have you made the decision yet Jack?”
It was Daniel, using his best interview technique – trying to elicit the truth for once.
“You need to make up your mind soon or the ship will sail. There may never be another opportunity.”
Cade felt slightly better for his micro-sleep but was still on edge.
“John, how the hell can I make such a decision when all the planets are far from aligned?”
“I have no idea Jack and right now I can see that you don’t know your Mars from Uranus…”
“Puerile at best Daniel. I’m disappointed in you.” No sooner had he finished the sentence he started to laugh.
“I hate you John, but it has to be said, publicly that you are good for me. I should make you a friendship bracelet.”
“Please don’t. Seriously, what are you going to do?”
Cade paused for a moment, exhaled and looked across the harbour, counting the lights on a departing ferry.
“If Carrie recovers, I’ll take the job in France. Even if it’s only for a year.”
“And…?”
“And if she doesn’t, I won’t.”
“You think it’s that simple? What if she takes months to recover? What if…”
“She doesn’t? I can’t actually broach that subject John. She’s quickly become a part of my life. I know it will never be normal in the true sense of things but I owe her a lot. If nothing else she’s taught me a great deal about myself.”
“In such a short space of time?” Daniel seemed sceptical.
“When you met Lynne, you knew didn’t you?”
It was enough to stop the conversation in its tracks for a while.
Cade continued to look out of the car window and watch the P & O ferry exit the safe haven of the harbour and head out to sea where small whitecaps danced around its hull.
“For now JD let’s just say that if Carrie doesn’t come around in the next three to five days, then I’ll stay put. If she does, then I can tell her to her face that I’m being advised to pursue the opportunity with Interpol.”
“It would certainly open up the world Jack. Think of the opportunities. I hear they have plans to build a centre of excellence in Singapore one day, their HQ in Lyon is growing and it will do your C.V. no harm whatsoever. If I were a younger man…”
The French vans had split up, one heading south, continuing its journey to the Channel Tunnel, the other across country, south west to an aerodrome. A third was already setting a pace through the Kent countryside and was now driving along the A2 towards one of the busiest passenger ports in the world.
As it slowed at the approach to a roundabout, the driver looked across to his right. A partially floodlit castle had caught his eye. Its Norman walls had seen many battles, and he found himself thinking that if he needed to hide, to shore up his family from invaders that this would be an ideal place.
He was distracted for a second and almost pulled into the path of a yellow, white and blue Ford which had entered the roundabout from his right. The driver, a young constable from the Kent Police shook his head and was about to take it further when he spotted the French police insignia on the door. He waved cordially and allowed the van to continue. Something caught his attention though and like many street-hungry staff the world over it was enough to plant a seed. He had a minute to allow it to germinate.
The van driver looked directly ahead. In the distance, twenty-two miles to be precise lay the French port of Calais, its amber and white lights sparkling on the horizon, differentiating between the land and the night sky.
He waved back, mouthed the word ‘sorry’ and hoped that he had not aroused any suspicion. But for the obvious interaction at the border they were almost on mainland Europe and the boss had said that whatever they had stolen they could keep. It was a supreme way of engaging staff. The other males on board kept quiet. No one wished to tempt fate.
PC Charlie Harris, a former butcher and still only in his twenties had joined the police to make a difference. It was a superb cliché, but it was the best he could come up with at his interview. The truth was, he had a child on the way, a younger unemployed girlfriend and was genuinely fed up with dealing with blood and guts. He actually considered harming a human to be more palatable. A vegetarian butcher was never going to work.
As he accelerated along the Deal road the seed germinated and bore fruit.
‘The badge! The bloody badge wasn’t straight.’
In the brief moment that he had observed the Renault he had looked at the driver, a police officer in a French uniform. The van was clean and white. It had a passenger, also in French police uniform. The sight of a foreign force vehicle was new to him but probably not unique in a port so close to France.
“Uniform Two Three Control?” he asked with an inquisitive edge.
“Go ahead.”
“Strange question control but are we expecting any French police vehicles on our patch tonight?”
The operator looked around the control room, twenty miles away and shrugged, receiving a similar response from her boss.
“Negative Two Three.”
“Yeah received. It was heading down Jubilee Way towards the docks. I’m going to turn around and have a look at it if anyone else is around or nearby.”
The controller had got to know Harris well over the last six months and knew he had a keen eye for detail.
“Anything specific that has caught your attention?”
“Not sure control. But worst case I might pick up a French badge for my collection. I’m coming up behind it, speed fifty, just passing the emergency run-off area.”
“Received. Uniform Three Three is committed at a domestic in town. Get back to me if you need anything.”
In his office Gary Marshall had heard the last and also found new life blossoming in his mind. French Police on mainland Britain. It didn’t
add up. He dialled Cade’s number.
“Boss. It’s me. Can you switch to Channel Fifteen UHF and listen in?”
“Pretty sure we can Gary. What’s happening?” Cade dialled in the channel as he spoke.
“Not sure yet. Call it the instinct of a young local cop.”
Cade navigated his way through the radio channels until he found himself on the local town frequency. As a matter of professional courtesy, he announced their presence.
“Zero Two Mike Papa this is Golf Tango are you receiving?”
“Golf Tango yes R5.”
His signals were clear. Now all he had to do was listen and monitor their cell phones. It had been too quiet. A little like fishing; sometimes you could wait all day, all night and not see the float even twitch – other days the float would disappear like a submarine avoiding its hunter.
This was a nibble from an inquisitive bottom feeder.
“Two Three I’m approaching the main roundabout. The vehicle is indicating to turn into the port. I’m going to try and stop it before he gets there.”
He illuminated his blue lights and flashed his headlights twice.
On board, the driver had seen the patrol car the second it had reappeared behind him.
“Do we phone the boss?”
His colleague was quick to respond. “No! We are on our own now remember? Just stay calm. He is British, he won’t speak French, just put on an accent – tell some jokes about the weather.”
“No, if he stops us he will search the van. We need to…go.”
He accelerated, turning left and driving along the dual carriageway towards the town centre and parallel to Cade and Daniel.
“What are you doing?” asked the passenger.
“I have come this far, I am not going to get caught.”
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 46