The Frontier Operations car was soon in the sterile area. The outer doors closed behind it and once again the pressure altered. Cade squeezed his nostrils together and blew to balance his ears. The larger yellow fire doors slid open and allowed them to see the serpent-like tunnel that lay before them.
Lights ran along the roof as far as the eye could see. Cables lined the walls, neatly tucked into conduits, and a large pipe ran parallel to that. It was industrial in its beauty. Cold, solid concrete sections shaped the tunnel, in the middle of which, on the roadway, was a solitary white line.
Cade could see the transit vehicle ahead. It was moving at a steady twenty miles an hour and soon they were a hundred metres behind it, travelling at the same speed.
Sat two places behind Constantin, Dragos Saban, the young son of Christina and nephew of Valentin Niculcea, shuffled nervously in his seat. He sat alone. Alongside him a dark red back pack contained a cell phone, an apple, a small carrier bag containing cash and a smaller one which held flawless diamonds – not many, but enough to change his life – and to their right, an awkward bedfellow, a revolver.
His briefing had been specific.
‘You are one of the few ones with recent military experience. If we are compromised you will protect us so we can escape. Your family will be well-rewarded.’
He believed nothing they told him.
At the bottom of his bag, his hand rested against the icy steel of the aging revolver. He wondered if it had ever been used to kill anyone. He worried whether he had the courage to even pull the trigger, let alone point it at a fellow human being.
The two different vehicles moved along the tunnel. The uniformed officer asked what seemed to be a stupid question, but it broke the ice.
“Where to, sir?”
Daniel was the first to respond. “France, my good man and don’t spare the horses.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Seriously JD, where are we heading?” It was a weary Cade, asking an equally ridiculous question.
“I get we are making our way to France, but this is not achieving anything. Would we not be better back up on top, more eyes, scanning the terminal?”
It was a fair point.
“I acknowledge that Jack but honestly, among thousands of people, what are our chances? By heading to France we can be at the right end and hopefully our colleagues might allow us to filter the passengers, and who knows we may just spot Hewett among them.”
“You really don’t like him now, do you?”
“He’s broken the oath as far as I am concerned, Jack.”
“But he wasn’t a police officer?”
“Correct. But he must have made an oath to Her Majesty at some point. And as far as I am concerned that is treason – and that was a hanging offence until not long ago.”
“Are we one hundred percent happy that he’s turned?”
“I looked into his eyes, Jack. Those bloody things are the window of the soul don’t forget. The roadmap for any copper. It’s never let me down yet. And when I stared into his a few hours ago in that busy traffic, he couldn’t hold my gaze and more importantly he couldn’t wait to get away.”
“Fair enough. I’ll go with your gut instinct.” He turned to Ken Smith, their driver and tour guide.
“Is there a McDonald’s in here anywhere Ken, I could murder a Happy Meal?”
“Sadly not sir. But if there was, may I suggest that the toy would be the McTraitor.”
“Possibly too soon, Ken. But nice attempt at levity.”
They continued along the seemingly endless concrete tube, France was about half an hour away. At least they might have some decent coffee and a baguette or two.
“What do we do when we find this group of people boss?” It was Ken again.
“Lock ‘em up, Ken, and throw away the key,” replied Cade, now desperate for sleep and a square meal, actually desperate for a meal of any shape.
“And what if they start shooting?”
“That’s what uniform staff are for Ken.”
With hindsight, it wasn’t funny – and it wasn’t that long ago that Cade wore the blue serge. “Sorry Ken, that was uncalled for. We’ll push the chief inspector out of the car first, then we can slam it in reverse and make for England. Deal?”
“Deal,” he answered but was distracted. “Wait one, sir, the bus is slowing down.”
Only a few miles away the Piper Chieftain was level, flying as low as it comfortably could and tracking across the English Channel.
She needed to keep the small aircraft over the sea as long as she could; experience had shown her that this way she avoided attention, especially heading south west, running parallel with the French coastline.
Below them ships passed south west and north east, and between the larger deep water vessels a trail of small, faster ships and boats, bisecting their journeys, all governed by the clifftop Coastguard station at Langdon and its French equivalent twenty or so miles away.
Anyone mapping the area, covering maritime and aviation journeys would be forgiven for becoming confused by the myriad signs of navigation, both on the water and above, in the air. It was, to say the least, a busy part of the world.
Maria Anghel was a supremely confident pilot. She knew the area, and she understood the foibles and quirks of her aging aeroplane. Tonight it sounded as sweet as a nut, perfectly in tune with its surroundings, and she was making good progress.
Had Anghel have filed a flight plan it would have shown a long dog-leg, down the centre of the English Channel, turning south west towards Le Havre and then inland, bypassing Le Mans, Tours and Poitiers.
France, being a genuinely large country, offered many places for them to hide as they journeyed south towards their destination, a small airstrip north east of Bordeaux.
Why they chose this ridiculous place, she had no idea, but they paid well and by the next morning she could be home, or anywhere a full tank took her. For now, anywhere meant the United Kingdom, moving people and commodities back and forth across the channel.
Hewett stared down at the ground, wishing he was alone, wishing he was on the ground, anywhere would do, just on the ground and away from the present company. There, below, a gently lit cottage, fire ablaze, that would suit him. Ideally alone, with his thoughts on how to bail himself out of this utter bloody chaos.
What had he become? A slave to a group of immoral men who viewed wealth as the only indicator of success. To a point he was as guilty. A beautiful car here, a wristwatch there, he admired such things; they didn’t have to be classically pleasing to the eye as long as they were well-engineered.
If he had kept his head down and his backside up and worked for another fifteen years, he could have lived a very comfortable life. But instead he chose to gamble, and only gamblers prepared to risk it all ever won.
Below him, he had no idea of the height; the kilometres swept away in a country he actually adored. Whatever the earlier town was, it was gone, and they were now just a distant sound above a densely black area. He formed the opinion that it was forest; he knew there were plenty of them.
All he needed was to get onto the ground; a moment of surprise, the upper hand and a spade. A swift blow to the head and the bastard slumped in the chair next to him would be dead and buried. Gone, out of his life. He would be debt-free again. They would have nothing with which to blackmail him.
Perhaps he should just hand himself in?
Perhaps he was many things?
His head began to nod and soon it was pressed up against the Perspex window of the Piper aircraft. Up ahead and minding her own business, the pilot did what she did best in these situations, busying herself at the helm and ignoring her passengers unless they expressly wished to communicate.
‘I bet you really love passengers like this?’ Hewett looked at her and deliberated if he could overpower her and take control of the aircraft. He was sure he could land it if he had to. It couldn’t be that difficult.
Looking sideway
s he saw Stefanescu, half asleep, favouring his injured arm. He whispered, “I detest you. Just give me the opportunity and I will end your life…” His words tailed off. It was pointless, he was theirs now and for the near future he just had to accept it.
Minutes later, Stefanescu turned to him.
“Jonathan. When you mutter words under your breath, make sure your intended audience cannot hear them. I am so hurt, after all I have done for you.” He smiled and closed his eyes, confident that Hewett had just lowered his opinion even further.
“Get some sleep while you can, my friend. We have a long journey ahead.”
Hewett decided upon a different tack.
“I’m sorry. I am afraid. I am loyal to you and your brother. You have to understand I have never been in this situation before.”
“And you think I have?”
“Honestly? Yes,” replied Hewett, shifting in his seat, trying to alleviate the pressure on his sore legs. It felt like he hadn’t rested properly in weeks.
“You need to learn to trust us, Mr Hewett. For we are all you have left. You were classically educated. May I suggest you put that learning to good use? Trusting you is my decision, John. Proving me right? That is your choice.”
Hewett took a moment to consider the words. “OK, so I trust you, but it works both ways, I gave you everything, my soul, my integrity and my reputation.”
“Johnathan. Your reputation was only paper thin. They hated you. Despised you. They saw you as arrogant, a government whore prepared to sell his soul – and they were right. It doesn’t make you any worse than any of them. Ultimately, we all prostitute ourselves at some point in our lives.”
He stared at Hewett long enough to unsettle him. “Letting me down is something that will cause you problems in the future, wherever you choose to hide. I will be a long-term irritant. Let Alex down and you won’t have a future. He has a sadistic streak that concerns even me. He harms people for fun. Yet, he would never tear the wings off a fly. In his eyes, that is cruel. But he would happily pull your eyes out one by one, allowing you to see the first one in the palm of his hand. He’s kind like that.”
Anghel broke the conversation, pointing to the headphones at the side of both men. They slipped them over their heads and heard the familiar buzz of a two-way radio.
“Gentlemen, we are about half an hour away. You will need to be strapped in. Do it now. I hope it has been a smooth flight, the landing will not be so good. A night landing on a grass strip.”
She shook her head, unseen to her two passengers.
“When we land I will taxi, the engines will remain running, you will leave, taking everything with you. I will take off again and our paths will never cross. Thank you for paying me Mr Stefanescu. It is quite unusual for men like you to honour your debts.”
She flicked a switch and condemned them to radio silence once more. Neither man spoke for the next thirty minutes as the Chieftain reduced altitude and made its approach to Saint Helene, a remote village north west of Bordeaux.
Hewett moved in the seat and felt the screwdriver against his hip. When the moment arose he was going to plunge it into his new controller’s neck.
Valentin pressed the red phone icon on his Blackberry and slipped it into his coat pocket. It was cool outside, even for a region so far south. About six degrees and a clearing sky.
The voice had been clear, concise, a mixture of Home Counties English and formulaic British gentleman.
The voice had also made sure that Valentin knew exactly what he needed to do.
‘Almost there, dear chap. Almost. Do what you can for me.’ Quite why the bloody British couldn’t sort their own problems out was beyond him.
He set the alarms, double locked the door, scanned unnecessarily and walked towards his car, a non-descript off-white Citroen ZX, one of two cars that he kept in a nearby outbuilding. He picked up a box, placed it into the hatchback, started the car and drove towards the nearest town.
Twenty minutes away from Saint Helene, west, towards the striking Atlantic Ocean coastline was where he now called home. A deliberately rundown gîte, on a farm track, at the edge of a large and immature pine forest and accurately described, in any language, as being in the middle of bloody nowhere.
It suited him. It suited those that chose to work with him. As technology progressed he could work from anywhere, but this place, deep in the French countryside, was ideal. He looked like a local, drove like one, and sounded very much like one too. If anyone ever challenged him he said he had spent time overseas. It was an easy lie.
He could get to the nearby towns of Saint Helene or Lacanau. He could walk through the woods, the forests or on the remote beach.
He had chosen the place, or rather, it had chosen him when he placed a ruler on the page of an old atlas. He knew he couldn’t go east, or north and south into Bulgaria offered further risk. Looking at a map, he was attracted to the comparative remoteness of the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region. A much-thumbed guide said he could surf. A solitary pastime for a solitary person.
East it was.
He took a detour. He always did. Checking left and right and up. He would have checked down too if he could.
Assume nothing. Believe no one. Challenge everything.
It was his ABC, and it had saved his life, at least twice.
When he left his homeland, he knew he needed to get away from civilisation but also blend in. An Eastern European state was not suitable. His own paranoia would have given him away to someone, watching, waiting, expecting to earn a few extra Leu.
If he ever trusted anyone enough to have a conversation he would have answered the question ‘how did you end up here?’ with a simple shrug and a descending index finger onto a map.
He had been happy living alone. He missed her terribly. His beautiful wife, Ana. How could they have taken her from him like that when he had offered them so much?
Daniel was busy dialling into the team back in London.
“Any news?”
“Not much boss.” Came the reply.
“A few in custody, a few escaped, some with bugger all on them, others some cash. We’ve had intel coming in from every man and his canine partner. Seems that this group are bigger than we think, fingers in pies, lots of pies.”
“OK. How’s Jason? And Carrie?”
“Both doing well, sir. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Daniel knew it was a lie.
He looked ahead. “You are right, Ken, that thing is slowing. Can we get past it?”
“Sure. Stand by to be amazed by the power of this beast.”
He changed from fourth to third, eased over the white line and accelerated. As they ran alongside the Mercedes shuttle Constantin turned his head to look. It was an involuntary move, and he hated himself for such a simple mistake. The face that looked back looked as exhausted as his own, a little healthier, but exhausted. And he recognised him immediately. So much so that he looked ahead and tried to shield his features with a subtle movement of the hand.
It was all Cade needed. Tired or not, he spotted the non-verbal signs.
“Yes, you bastard!”
Daniel was alert now. “John?”
“He’s on the bus JD. It’s our man – Constantin. Ken, stop the bloody thing! Radio in. Tell them we need backup.”
JD changed the instructions quickly.
“Ken, get ahead. Give us some distance – we might need it.”
Ken Smith, a veteran of the tunnel, knew he had little in the way of options but accelerated ahead, grabbing the radio handset and calling up for assistance.
“Uniform Three Seven – one of the targets has been spotted on the shuttle. We are about half way, we passed the midway point about a minute ago. Coming up to tunnel marker…” He waited to see if he could identify exactly where they were.
“I can’t see a marker but we are in Interval 4.”
“Yep received, from control, can you keep going, we will despatch French units to you? T
hey are closer.”
“Negative. The shuttle has stopped.”
Smith came to a halt. The three men turned and looked back at the lone shuttle, now parked in the middle of the tunnel, lights blazing.
The driver, a forty-year-old Frenchman, was doing as instructed. Avoiding his radio and his phone. The other passengers were following suit.
“I don’t want to harm any of you. We are leaving now. If you stay on here and don’t call anyone, you will all be safe.”
Mike Harris, a British father of two, time-served engineer and hued from a buggered-if-I-will-give-in granite mould started to stand up in his seat.
“Now look lads, we don’t want any trouble. OK?” He considered his approach to be man in the street, borderless and compassionate. Hand outstretched, revealing an empty palm. No weapons, no threat.
“Whatever it is you have done, we can all turn a blind eye. We’ve got families and I for one wish to see them again.” He was getting bold now, pointing his finger.
“But you can’t escape from here, you are stuck. The authorities will capture you. Now, if you work with me…”
Constantin had heard enough. “Stop! Shut up. Sit down.” He could feel the adrenaline starting to visit his veins and wished he had something else to pump into them to calm him down.
Harris was now bristling for a fight. He’d always protected the weak. He should have joined the force when he had a chance to follow on in his father’s footsteps. Engineering seemed a safer option.
He stepped into the narrow aisle and began to walk towards his captor. It was at that point he realised that the lone man that appeared to be in a hurry to leave held more than one ace.
A younger male, equally dark haired and equally eager to leave, stood too. He placed a hand into his backpack and produced a revolver. It arced up and into Harris’ face, the end of worn barrel stopping just underneath his right eyebrow, nestled into the socket and close enough that Harris could smell the metalwork.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 50