“Two Three – erm, the French van is failing to stop. Speed four zero towards the town, road conditions are good, traffic is light. I suspect he may be lost, but he’s definitely failing to stop.”
The control room inspector was now interested. He put down his twice-heated take away meal.
“Ask him why he is stopping the van? And let’s find out why we have company. We should have been told about this. Get onto the Frontier Operations Team at the tunnel, see if they can shed any light.”
“Two Three – why are you trying to stop the vehicle, over?”
“The insignia on the door. It wasn’t straight, like it didn’t belong. And the driver. He didn’t look French.”
The control room staff considered the words of a junior staff member and deliberated about the fall out if there was a crash involving a visiting forces vehicle. One also contemplated what a ‘French look’, looked like and considered searching for it on the internet.
“Get me an update.” The rapid tone of the inspector.
“Two Three – sitrep please.”
“Still failing to stop, speed is five zero towards Snargate Street and the A20. He’s hardly Grand Prix material but I’m not sure. Over.”
Daniel’s battered cell phone buzzed in the centre console, quietly screaming for attention. He missed it at first but took a moment to look down and saw the illuminated screen and the icon indicating that he had received a message.
He opened the phone with an easily remembered PIN number and made a dissatisfied noise – a saddened and frustrated sound that gained Cade’s attention immediately.
“Something wrong?” His first thought was O’Shea.
“Yes Jack. Text from Paul Clarke.”
Cade knew that Clarke had taken over from Roberts, acting in his position until he was fit for full duties again. He was also painfully aware that Clarke had his finger on the pulse back in the city. Sensing Cade’s concern Daniel followed up with a quick and reassuring sentence. It didn’t contain many words, but in this case, the fewer the better.
“It’s not Carrie, don’t worry. Sadly, it’s not good news either.”
Cade was tired of bad news, it seemed to follow him around constantly. If there was enough shit to stick to a blanket Cade was likely to be draped in the bloody thing.
“Go on.”
“Mary-Jane Shipley is unlikely to make it. Surgeons did their best, as did you. Brave girl Jack. She deserved to live, and you deserved to meet her one day. I’ll make sure our welfare team make an approach to her family. If it comes to it, we’ll get to her funeral.”
Cade had a genuine tear in his eye. His efforts and those of a raw and plucky constable were in vain.
“Why is it always the good ones John?” He wiped his eye discreetly before adding, “I am growing to hate this group just a little bit more every waking hour. Poor girl. What a fucking waste!” He slammed his fist onto the dashboard causing his knuckles to suffer more than the padded plastic.
He swallowed the rising bile in his throat and knew that he had to carry on, cleared his mind and called up on the same channel as Harris.
“Hello this is Golf Tango can we be of assistance. Our map shows that we are running parallel to your officer.”
The control room inspector nodded his approval.
“Yes Golf Tango. Maintain a safe distance at all times and if the pursuit becomes dangerous to you or any members of the public you are to abort, received?”
“Yes-yes. Received. We are on Marine Parade heading towards your unit.”
It was good to be back in the saddle again and for Cade it was vaguely like being home again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ten minutes away, as the crow would conventionally fly, a female with glossy black hair was moving deliberately around an aircraft. It was evident to any onlooker that she knew what she was doing and had a familiarity with the machine that suggested that she was either an engineer or more likely, its pilot.
She looked fit too. There wasn’t a spare ounce of fat anywhere on her body and she moved in a way that men would either find attractive or intimidating. Below her right cheek she bore a small scar, it hid a tale, or rather the expensive make up she used did. It was her only feminine vice, although she often longed to rid herself of her masculine flying suit and headphones for a Coco Chanel dress, the desire to be airborne outweighed the feelings ten to one.
She had been flying since 1993 and had been just twenty when she had first been told via a very similar set of headphones, and with that familiar two-way radio traffic buzz, that she had control of the aircraft.
She had control.
She had been flying ever since. In 2001 she had moved to France on the promise of a general aviation role at a small airfield near Dunkirk. Gaining a solid reputation as a reliable and skilled pilot she soon found she had made enough money to fund her own aircraft.
She was a skilled negotiator and knew a bargain when she saw one – more likely a man on his knees who needed at worst to achieve a fifth of what his aircraft was actually worth in order to fund credit card debts.
The twin-engine Piper Chieftain could hold up to nine passengers and their minimal luggage. Although twenty years old it was a sturdy aircraft with a sound reputation, could travel at a one hundred and eighty-five miles per hour and had a range of over nine hundred nautical miles. It was capable of landing and taking off on short runways, its familiar Lycoming engines more than a match for most terrain.
For a few thousand Euros the entire aircraft could be chartered by business people and others, most likely criminals, to cross the English Channel.
Maria Anghel was born in Bucharest, the daughter of two state workers who had aspired to what they had achieved, a basic home and an education for their two children, Maria and her younger sister Daniela.
Maria had yearned to travel the world and as soon as she was able she hugged her mother and father, promised to write, left home and never considered returning until on a whim she had arrived in Romania, unannounced, landing at a small private airstrip near her uncle’s home.
Her arrival was greeted with almost prodigal scenes as her parents put on a meal fit for a queen and welcomed their dear Maria home once again. She was a success, and many toasts were made, one by her sister who had matured into the most popular girl at school, both in and out of the building. She had her sibling’s strong DNA; clear almond-tinted eyes, smooth, gently tanned skin, a perfectly fashioned nose and jet black, gleaming, shoulder length hair.
“I can only stay one night papa.” Maria had announced. “I have to be back in France for a charter flight.”
“Why did you come all this way my dear?” Her intrigued father had asked her in a quiet moment.
“Because now, I can. And now, I want to.” Nine simple words had summarised countless years of missed conversations. Her father didn’t express it in so many words but his look told her he was proud.
She had bid her family farewell the next morning, took up the offer of a free ride to the airfield, carried out the muscle-memory pre-flight checks, climbed aboard and took off, setting a course for France. She knew that she would stop once for fuel over southern Germany.
Now, as she completed her pre-flight checks, she considered the information before her – basic, uncopied passport details, like many of the others provided to her, they contained names that she knew were most likely as false as her sister’s eyelashes.
It was early days for the UK authorities but they had insisted on clamping down on illegal migration from France and its notorious refugee camps who pumped men, women and children of all ages into a relatively defenceless Britain, and so in a measure seen by some as desperate they had insisted upon passenger names being filed – despite not being able to police the travel movements.
Small groups of apprehensive people, Albanians, Romanians, Iraqi, Iranian and occasionally those people from the smaller Middle Eastern and East African states, all hoping to claim asylum in the lan
d of milk and honey had gathered together the requisite and comparatively low amount to charter an aircraft. In doing so, they had reduced their risk levels considerably, crossing empty borders in Europe was one thing, laying near the French coast for days, hidden in a container or clinging to the chassis of an articulated truck with limited air, food and water was an entirely different prospect.
There were countless sharks hunting in the shallow waters, their dorsal fins gliding above the surface, picking off individuals and families for five times the amount that she would charge, and all with no guarantee that they would even ever get to the chosen place. She may be exploiting them too, but she got them to their destination. As far as the moral high ground was concerned, she could sleep at night.
As a result of the relative safety, small airfields across the south of England had become targets and were extremely vulnerable. The United Kingdom border authorities had publicly acknowledged this, but in truth, with two major airports, a hugely popular sea port and the tunnel, their priorities lay elsewhere.
Those with aircraft, or the ability to charter and fly them had made enough money to live a comfortable life. Some even had the same moral compass, and Maria fell into the camp of only assisting those that she felt truly needed help. But each trip that she arranged, and the damaged souls that she observed, only helped to make her more cynical.
What Anghel did well was to fly above the radar. She found that being overt actually threw the authorities off her scent. In many cases, in her defence, she carried legitimate passengers from Calais to Lydd and vice versa, Lydd being the largest of the lower-level provincial airports in the county of Kent meant she could build up a reputation in the area – she could also easily divert to smaller, private airstrips where cash was the currency of choice for a struggling farmer, willing to mow and preserve a few hundred metres of grassland.
Stood on a non-descript but well-maintained airfield to the west of the channel tunnel she checked her charts, marvelled at the slowly developing stars and looked forward to an event-free trip, cash in hand and with any luck a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon at the end of her day.
It was planned to be a night flight, and she enjoyed those the most as her passengers normally slept and she could enjoy the glittering lights of the coastline and watch the constant stream of maritime traffic negotiating the Strait of Dover, the narrowest part between England and France.
She was ready. All she needed now were the aforementioned passengers and their luggage.
“Uniform Two Three?”
“Go ahead.”
“An update please.”
“Still Snargate towards the Western Docks. I think they are going to head for the A20, but I have no idea where to from there and why. I’m going to try to get a look at them.”
Harris accelerated and ducked down the left of the Renault, trying to see, or better still communicate with the passenger. He looked in his mirror and saw an unmarked vehicle coming up fast behind him.
“Golf Tango to Uniform Two Three – how can we help?”
Harris knew the roads well and could see that getting off the A20 and heading back to Dover was no longer an option – the endless queue of articulated wagons stacking up and waiting for the ferries to start running had all but closed the motorway. If he could keep the Renault on the main road it would help, would be safer for everyone, and perhaps it might just stop when the driver realised that even the police needed to stop when asked to do so by their colleagues.
“If you can hang back please. Keep any traffic behind us, I’m trying to get alongside and see if I can use my best schoolboy French to tell them to stop.”
“Arrête from memory but don’t quote me.” Daniel had a smug look on his face, recalling his own distant school days.
Cade did as requested and tucked into the middle of the two lanes, holding back anyone with a desire to overtake what was now a three car procession.
“Speed six five, road conditions are good, no risk to any other road user at this time.” Harris quoted, almost verbatim, he’d done it so often.
He settled into his seat and waited for the driver to make the next move. His training, basic though it was had taught him never to force the issue unless lives were at risk. It was miles to the next town, so he also positioned his vehicle in the middle of the two lanes and observed and hoped that sooner rather than later someone in authority might bring the convoy to a halt – he was at court the next day so had an early turn around, ideally he wanted to finish on time, such was life in the force, he knew it was now unlikely.
The two males in the rear of the Renault were silent, one, over six foot four and of athletic build was now beginning to show signs of nervousness. His foot twitched repeatedly, and he rubbed his palms together as he knelt and looked out of the tinted rear windows.
“Slow down!” His call to the driver was very direct. He knew now that this had already gone too far, that the British, with their reputation, would find a reason to detain them.
“What is your worry brother?” shouted the passenger, “We are police officers!”
“Then why do we not just stop. Tell this fool to stop now or I will strangle him with my own hands.”
“No. I need to get to the tunnel.”
“But we were booked on a ferry. It was all arranged.” He ran his hands through his coal-black hair. “It was all arranged.”
“Yes brother, it was but now the plans have changed. We have two smoke canisters left. If this doesn’t go to plan you pull the pin on one, cover your faces, wait a moment and then open the back door. But let me do my best to get to the tunnel.”
The plan, if that was what it was, was ludicrous. He knew it too.
Hewett pulled up at the perimeter fence, bit his lip, prepared himself for the next phase and looked across at Stefanescu who had fallen asleep. He still had an injured arm; one against one he could throttle him with his seat belt or just beat him to death, set fire to the van and somehow get back to London before the morning, present himself to his superiors and pray that his story held water.
‘I was minding my own business when a malevolent group of...’
He snorted audibly and reminded himself in his dear mother’s words, that he had made his bed and he had no choice but to lay in it. Little did she know?
“Hey, we are here.”
He turned his lights off and then on as instructed.
Moments later a figure appeared at the gate, shone a torch in Hewett’s face, then at the passenger. Hewett was unable to make out whether the figure was male or female, in fact he was unable to see at all for a few seconds as the powerful torch had deprived him of all night vision.
Anghel recognised the male passenger and lifting the floor bolts on the large gate, swung it open and allowed them to enter.
She closed the gate behind them and instructed Hewett to drive to the nearby hangar. He did as she asked and entered the dilapidated building, hearing the sliding door close behind him. Once the door was shut she turned on two powerful floodlights.
She thumped the rear door. “OK, you can get out. One at a time.”
Stefanescu was first. He eased himself from the van allowing her to see he wasn’t a threat. Hewett followed.
Anghel spoke in Romanian.
“Gentlemen. Thank you for your business. I am Maria. You don’t need to know anything else. We load up in five minutes. I will not be touching your luggage. Once we are on board, you are to follow all my instructions. It is about seven hundred miles to your destination – about four hours in my plane. Go to the toilet now. Grab some water. There is no inflight service!”
She could sense that Hewett did not understand.
“You speak English?”
“I do. I am.”
“Good. Then just follow what he does and do not make a fuss.”
She opened a smaller side door and pointed to the aircraft. It was starting to rain, not what she wanted.
“Come, let’s get your precious cargo on b
oard before the weather turns.” She pointed again, encouraging her passengers. The quicker she got to her destination the quicker she could think about returning.
Stefanescu grabbed her forearm with his remaining and surprisingly strong hand.
“Who told you our cargo was precious?”
“By booking with me and paying cash and providing a passport that was probably false, for a late flight out of a grass-strip airfield in the middle of nowhere? You did, sir. You did.”
She had a point. He liked her. If she ever gave up flying, he could find work for her. She was bright, multi-lingual and very attractive. A deadly combination. He was spot-on with the first two observations but way off course with the latter. The only male she had kissed in recent years had been her father. And the only other male to lay his lips upon her face had been a priest from the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Like the majority of her fellow Romanians, she followed the disciplined approach to Christianity – she tried to attend a church whenever she was able to. In reality, she had been only three times in as many years. But she believed that He would watch over her. She just prayed that He would forgive her ongoing transgressions too.
She watched, pretending to feign indifference as Hewett and Stefanescu struggled to carry the three black Pelican cases across to the aeroplane. In truth she wondered what they contained – drugs, probably, and then considered whether she could take off with the cases and not her passengers. She smiled; airlines did it the other way around every day.
Hewett shouted across the mown paddock as he headed back to the hangar. “I just need to visit the gents. I’ll be back in two.”
Stefanescu waved an uncaring hand and began to strike up a conversation with his pilot who spoke first.
“Sir. I do not ask questions of my customers, and I do not answer any either. I find it is best for everyone.” She offered a smile of closure.
“OK. You are the boss lady. But here is my cell phone number. When the day comes that you want to put your skills to good use ring me. I can provide you with enough opportunity to buy a jumbo jet, not this little thing.” He indicated dismissively, kicking the tyre.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 47