“Mr Stefanescu. That little thing will get you and your friend into mainland Europe from where you can do whatever it is you intend to do with those cases. Take it or leave it. I don’t need your money.”
She paused long enough to win a staring contest, noting his striking eyes. He was a handsome man. A pity.
Hewett had three, maybe five minutes before his absence would be noted. He knew that once he stepped onto the aircraft, he was a prison sentence waiting to happen, The British government would not hesitate to cast aside one of their poster boys.
Loyalty was rewarded. Loyalty, and if loyalty didn’t work then corruption at the highest level with no chance of discovery.
These were the rules of his founding fathers. He was in so deep that loyalty no longer featured in his lexicon. What had he become? He even had voices in his head. This didn’t happen to people like him. It just didn’t. He was one of the good guys.
He paced around the hangar looking for a way out. His phone was lying at the bottom of a river. His mind unable to recall even the simplest of directory entries. He could call 999 – yes, that would be wise Johnnie. Just bloody marvellous. Where would he even begin? Why would they even bother to believe him? He was Johnathan P Hewett, Foreign Office; all-round nice guy with the biggest set of bollocks in Whitehall that’s why!
‘Christ John what has become of you?’ His father’s words.
Outside and into the mounting wind Anghel called out to him.
“Hey British guy, we have to go.”
Stefan was pumping his thumb across the keypad of his phone.
“Heading to our destination. Leave in 2. ETA 4 hours. We have the luggage.”
Hewett was walking towards the door when he kicked a screwdriver across the floor. It was black handled and worn but he picked it up nonetheless. Slipping it into his pocket he flicked off the lights, exited the hangar, drew the door shut behind him and ran to the Piper to find his colleague already on board.
“What took you so long? Ringing your mother?”
“Funny. You threw my phone into the river if you recall? No, if you must know I get nervous on planes.” He sat, strapped himself in and felt the reassuringly sharp blade of the screwdriver in his pocket. He felt something else too, his second phone.
Up front to the left of the cockpit, Maria Anghel continued quietly to impress her customer. She ran through the drills she had been taught years before, knew how to start the engines, applying the correct mixture of throttle and prop controls in her sleep, and all the while she was verbally running through her emergency procedures. If the plane struck a problem, her life was the most important. Everyone else’s depended on her. If it happened mid-channel, it was every man, or woman for herself.
“If we get into difficulties, mid-channel there is a life raft at the rear of the aircraft. Throw it out through the door – it will deploy. Then get to it and ensure we all get on board. I will let you decide whether those bags are worth saving. OK?”
Both men, suddenly feeling somewhat vulnerable looked around and saw the brightly coloured canister. It was marked Ocean Safety 4 Man. Hewett, whose story about flying anxieties was actually true, hoped it would remain firmly in situ and that in four hours they would be safe at their destination. What his plans were when they arrived, he simply had no idea. But with four hours leeway at least he had time to think.
With her equally disciplined avionics checks complete she was ready – however she made no call to a tower or air traffic control. She would fly low and hope to get over the channel quickly. Her worst case would be to announce herself mid-flight and state with a calm and authoritative air that she had encountered radio problems.
She ran the engines up to high power, checking for faults and then, content that all was as she had expected she turned onto the grass runway.
The Piper was now at full power and making its way along the gently undulating path, at about seventy knots and into the wind; she needed around thirteen hundred feet of runway but with a light payload and a developing headwind she was up quickly and without fuss.
Her only issue was taking off on a grass runway in a twin-engine aircraft. There were plenty of people in the avionic world that said it should never be done. But those people sat in ivory towers and had no reason for a covert departure. She’d only go if the runway was smooth, dry and she had the skill to do it. She was a gifted pilot, but never arrogant, and she had taken off in a hurry from far worse places.
With a climb rate of around a thousand feet a minute she could soon be up at her ceiling, but she intentionally stayed low to avoid watchful eyes – knowing this would make for an uncomfortable journey.
Their instructions were clear: Get us to France. No questions asked.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Charlie Harris was a young cop with an old school head on his shoulders.
He had quickly earned the respect of his bosses and importantly, his peers.
He also knew when something wasn’t quite right. The good police officers always did. It was a mixture; a blend of gut instinct and sixth sense. A stray look to the side, the almost-hidden nod of affirmation, its owner frantically trying to deny any connection to it or what it concealed and conveyed.
It was the subtle hand across the mouth – thou shalt not speak!
The shifting from one foot to the other. The clenching of the facial muscles.
But mainly, it was the eyes.
Or in the most dynamic of incidents, the fact that the person being questioned had just galloped away as fast as his legs could carry him. And invariably, to set the record straight, it was the male of the species.
This case was different and Harris had no idea why. Conventionally it was a van-load of international colleagues, all with the same broad instinct and desire to lock up the criminals. So why was he now chasing them? And why were they not stopping?
In the van the team were trying to remain calm, trying to stay connected, part of a team. But there were factions starting to build, fractures starting to appear.
Constantin had been sitting in the shadows, contemplating many things. He knew that he had to mine deep into his reserves of control and take over – the unelected leader in a vehicle full of young and adrenaline-fuelled males, now being pursued at the eleventh hour, when everything had seemed to be going suspiciously to plan.
“Right. Everyone shut up and listen. I am in charge.”
Silence.
“Good. I am here for a reason and you will soon realise why. You will all do as I say. And that includes you.” He pointed to the largest male.
“I need you to help us, you need to use your strength and we may have to fight our way out of trouble. We are heading for the tunnel. When we get there, we will be met. The officer will be wearing a uniform. He will escort us through the service tunnel. We will head down, deep beneath the sea.”
He paused not for effect but to imagine what it would actually be like.
“We will drive through the tunnel, away from the public. We are French police officers remember, not a group of criminals with a vanload of stolen diamonds!”
Mumblings of approval echoed around the interior of the vehicle. He knew he now had their interest and support.
“Soon we will change our appearance. But we need to get rid of them.” He pointed over his shoulder, back down the road towards the pursuing police vehicles.
“We are almost home brothers. When we get safely into France, we will divide up what we have. Stefan is making his way home with the Englishman; rather him than me. Stefan gave me instructions to divide everything equally. Be careful how you sell these jewels or they will be your downfall. Now I need you to listen, for this is the most important part of our plan. If things go wrong…”
He shouted out the plan, so that everyone heard him. With no obvious lack of understanding, he thanked them all and asked to be left alone.
He unrolled the set of tools and removed a spherical device and held it reverently in his h
and. It had taken weeks of part-time work to create it and in a moment it would be history. He placed it to one side where it would be safe but accessible.
He picked up the remaining grenades, commonplace, inexpensive and readily available, they would serve two purposes.
“Accelerate as fast as you can.”
The driver responded without question.
“The rest of you – cover your faces.”
He nodded to the impressively built male. “You know what to do? Good. Now open the door.”
He engaged the Noise Flash Diversionary Device in his left hand so that he could reach around the static door.
His new team mate held the door ready.
“Do not let it fly open. I need about half a metre. When I throw this, you pull the pin on that, and whatever you do, do not drop it!”
Harris was accelerating now, the red mist slowly enveloping him. As far as pursuits went this was tame, both vehicles heading along a motorway, safe from oncoming traffic – technically this could go on until one or both ran out of fuel. All he needed to do was stay in touch and wait for further back up. He glanced into his door mirror, the Met Police team were still with him.
It was then he noticed the Renault’s door opening.
“Two Three. Stand by. Stand by. The rear door is opening.”
Cade had ‘that’ feeling again and began to accelerate too, shifting out to the right, holding back traffic and trying to work out what was happening.
“You see that?”
Daniel responded in clipped tones. He was suddenly twenty years younger and back in harness, transformed; the hound chasing the hare. “Yep. I see it.”
Constantin yelled to the driver “Brake. Now!”
He primed the NFDD, or as it was known with global affection a flashbang. He hurled it towards the patrol car trying to land it as close as possible to the windscreen.
His hope was that it would act as a distraction.
The M18 smoke grenade followed.
“Go, Go. Faster!” he yelled to the Renault driver.
Harris was trying to do five or even six things at once; drive, think, commentate, stay safe, keep everyone else safe and somehow do it all within the bounds of the law.
The bang was loud. Very. No one within a hundred metres could miss it. But it could have been a backfire at the speed he was travelling – his vehicle was almost through it before it had any chance to impact. But the flash was blinding and instinctively he swerved, blinked repeatedly and tried to regain control. And now he was heading into a thin veil of acrid scarlet smoke. He was lost.
Cade was braking ferociously, moving further to the right to try to avoid Harris and somehow maintain a view of the rapidly disappearing van.
The noise that greeted Harris next was different, deeper, bass-like and industrial. The front of the car crumpled and collapsed as it struck the crash barrier and pushed the Ford onto its side. Harris was unable to avoid striking his head on the passenger window and lost consciousness, his last defining moment was hearing his temple cracking the lightly-tinted glass and then, in moments, he began the sleep of kings.
He would indeed be late home. But at least he would make it.
Cade locked the brakes in their own vehicle and quietly hoped that the three cars following would do the same. A few hundred metres back down the road the remains of the military smoke grenade drifted across both carriageways and caused a few motorists to panic briefly.
Cade’s vehicle came to a halt in the evaporating sea of red.
“Do we stay?” It was meant to be rhetorical, but both men knew that their prime role had now changed. They left the car, its rear blue lights dancing mesmerisingly among the smoke screen and acting as a basic warning to other motorists.
Daniel was already at the Ford’s door trying to open it as Cade called up on the UHF channel, confirming the news that their constable, Charlie Harris and his rather-special instinct was right.
“Yes, towards Folkestone or Ashford. Look, we’ve lost it. Can you notify other units please? Do you have air support? Can we get fire and ambulance here too – ASAP?”
He knew it was a long list – but he also knew that the operator would be triaging as he reeled them off.
“Yes sir, fire and ambulance en route from Dover – about five to ten. Any sitrep please?”
He looked at Daniel and waited for a thumbs up.
“Your man is unconscious but breathing. My colleague is tending to him. We need to get going as soon as possible. Can you get a local unit to take over here?”
“Affirmative. We have a motorway car trying to get through the east-bound traffic to you. We’ve got Operation Stack running, it’s a little chaotic…”
As the operator finished, Cade heard the familiar and comforting wailers approaching, but in the opposing lane. The driver nodded and weaved in and out hoping to get to him as quickly as he could. All that power and nowhere to go.
“JD we need to go.” He pointed at the growing crowd who had left their vehicles, wondering how or if they could help.
“Get one of them to take care of him.”
It was a moment of callousness from an ordinarily compassionate man. But the red shroud that surrounded him also coursed through his veins and he wanted the occupants of that van. Now.
Daniel found the best of the bunch when it came to first aid and briefed them. Yes, the car was safe, the smell was just the airbag and no, it wouldn’t catch fire.
“And don’t let go of his neck until someone takes over. We have to go.”
And with that they did, Cade accelerating up the west-bound motorway, first, second and third, hitting the rev limiter in every gear.
As they passed the small village of Capel-le-Ferne another patrol car joined them.
“Uniform Three Five to Golf Tango. Behind you and in support over.”
Cade raised a hand in thanks as Daniel acknowledged on the local channel. “We are banking on them heading to the tunnel.”
A few miles ahead the target vehicle had slipped off the motorway and into a large lay-by, normally full of trucks. The port strike had created a great opportunity and the small tree-lined lane offered them the chance to exit the van and carry out the next phase of their plan undisturbed.
Whilst two men pulled the police insignia from the Renault and threw it deep into the undergrowth the others undressed and replaced the police uniform with a different outfit. Carefully bagged, the French law enforcement overalls were also thrown into the snarling, bramble-laden undergrowth.
New insignia was being quickly and skilfully placed onto the front and rear doors and an orange rotating beacon up and onto the roof. The common theme now was altogether different but uniform in appearance: a red semi-circle sat above a blue one and in the middle against a pure white background were black capitals that read EURO TUNNEL.
On the front, a white number plate was being affixed, its combination of five letters and two numbers mirroring the rear, brighter, yellow plate. It was now a British tunnel maintenance vehicle, and it was at home in Britain or France. In three minutes it would be just that little bit closer to the latter.
Cade, Daniel and the solitary Kent Police officer arrived at the outskirts of the Euro Tunnel operation at Cheriton, a hitherto unknown place until the channel tunnel concept had been unveiled for the third, or possibly fourth time in history.
It was an idea first mooted in the late 1800s but thwarted by British fears that Napoleon himself might walk through it and invade England. At least the coffee would have been better, Cade mused.
Daniel allowed the Kent officer to call up the separate Frontier Operations team on their own channel – announcing their presence and asking for help.
The visitors were all soon acquainted with the specialist team from the Frontier team. The duty sergeant Neil Gregory was a strictly ‘black and white’ character and liked his briefings to be just that, without a hint of grey, but he acknowledged he was considerably outranked with Daniel
being on site and saw that as a signal that he needed to elaborate just a little.
Daniel was actually more than happy with brevity. The briefer the better in fact.
Gregory was joined by his section of five constables, all wearing the de rigueur yellow high visibility vests craved in such operationally hazardous environments.
“Sir, welcome to the tunnel, anything you need just shout. Let me recap. If that’s possible. We have a group of Eastern European criminals who have been targeting bank machines – I read about that only last night. They’ve hit the capital and having started to make an impact until your team have come along and stepped on their toes and as a result they’ve decided to Foxtrot Oscar back to Romania?”
Cade smiled at the use of police phonetics to cover off the obligatory use of swear words.
“And having tried to empty the banks by inserting stuff, covering the machines with realistic templates and then blowing them to bits with oxy-acetylene they turn their hand to more daring stuff – nicking diamonds from Hatton Garden.”
He whistled. “We are in the wrong job guv.”
“Indeed, we are. Neil, I’ll cut to the chase. We need to find these people. Possibly a British Foreign Office staff member too, who may, or may not be part of the group, and, there is something else that we are looking for but that’s very much need to know.”
Gregory bristled at the intonation.
“Right now this is my tunnel boss and I need to know.”
Uncharacteristically Daniel pulled rank.
“Yes, it is Sergeant. And no, you don’t. End of.” He waited for the nod of affirmation.
“Right can we start looking for our gendarmes please? I take it your French counterparts know?”
Gregory had recovered, he knew when a battle was temporarily lost, but he was buggered if he would let it lie there.
“Yes boss. And we have a small team over the other side too, based at Coquelles. Special Branch staff. I’ll assume they have the necessary clearances?”
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 48