In an ideal world he hoped that Mother Nature took its course a little sooner – if he could, he would have paid her to accelerate his death. It transpired that even nature had a price. Alexandru was a patient man, it was one of his finer virtues. Twenty-three hours strapped to a filthy bed in a compact cell, without light, being forced to concede that occasional meals of ambiguous contents and ever more dubious origins were better than slowly starving to death, all ensured that if nothing else he was patient. He would wait a lifetime if he had to.
Chapter 34
The next morning Michael Blake met with Malcolm Johnson in a briefing room at the Foreign Office. Johnson immediately noted another guest.
“Assistant Commissioner, thank you for attending today. You are familiar with my senior colleague?”
He was. It was Sassy Lane, the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs that assumed control and spoke first.
“Let’s cut to the chase here, shall we, gentlemen? Both of you have been involved in Operation Vault – unwittingly, as it happens. Malcolm, your team has done a sterling job at keeping the lid on. Do pass on my thanks.”
Blake must have looked hurt. “Oh dear, this is not a personal attack on you. And your team too, Michael. Yours, too. Especially Mr Hewett and his legendary prowess. A nightmare to supervise, I suspect?” It needed no answer.
“But what you don’t know is that his role is, how can I put this? Complex.”
She had their attention. Sassy was a name from her childhood, her real name was unknown but her nickname suited her. She never struggled to get attention and lived up to her lively and feisty name, particularly among her male counterparts. Shoulder length honey blonde hair, impressive iridium blue eyes and a wicked, razor sharp sense of humour. She had a bite worse than a piranha if anyone crossed her – or worse still, picked on the weak. Bullies were her absolute favourite plaything, and she had a box of tricks likely to make the most hardened operator salivate.
“OK. I’ll be brief as I have another meeting and in scissors, paper, rank terms he outranks you significantly, plus, forgive me, but he’s really quite a dish.” Having deflated the egos of her male visitors, she carried on, measured but eloquent.
“Earlier this year we had some close-held human source intelligence from our good friends in Europe. They ran an electronics job on a small group of criminals; small, but with great intentions. Now, this is where it gets all too complicated for the time I have available, so strap yourselves in gents and let me remind you that this is classified about as high as it gets. Those lovely little letters on the back of your government ID cards are not enough to allow you to know the full detail. One whiff of this outside of these walls and we all head to Newgate.”
Blake wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but nodded with conviction. Johnson knew exactly what the reference related to – the last public hanging in London took place at Newgate Prison only a short ten-minute drive away.
“The man you know as Stephen Simovich is actually Stefan Stefanescu. Yes, the brother of the man you both have an interest in, one Alex Stefanescu, or as he likes to be known in his own marvellously self-effacing way, the Jackdaw; the leader of the group known latterly as the Seventh Wave. And Christ what a royal pain in the arse he has become.”
She overtly checked her watch before continuing. “You see contrary to what you might believe Stefan hates his dear brother – blames him for killing their parents…we can’t corroborate this, but having read Alex’s file it is probable. He’s what the psych teams refer to as an alienated, disempathetic, dyssocial and occasionally hostile sociopath – in a nutshell he would rather nurture a puppy than a princess, content to throw the latter overboard and watch her drown. And when he’s not caring for the said puppy, he’s quite adept at extreme cruelty towards his fellow man. Nothing would be beyond the realms of unpleasant.” She had clearly researched the varied backgrounds of sociopathy and knew she would not be challenged.
“Anyway, Stefan has worked for the British government as an unpaid intelligence asset for years, all on the promise that one day they will capture his brother, put him away for a very long time and allow him to gain control of his legitimate business empire.”
Both men looked at each other. Blake spoke first.
“Legitimate? That man doesn’t have a straight bone in his body.”
“Oh, but that’s where you are wrong. He may be up to his sweetbreads in high value cars, class A drugs and other commodities, but he is a registered diamond trader. And very good at it too. On the face of it, he doesn’t touch the business with a twenty-foot pole. No links whatsoever. But if I told you he has interests here in London…”
“Hatton Garden, by any chance?” It was a fair but anticipated guess and laced with sarcasm.
“Yes. And before you ask, yes. The recent raid, by his team, stole most of his own diamonds.”
“But…”
“Why? Great question, Assistant Commissioner. It was, and this is the sensitive part remember, a training session for his up-and-coming team. They have plans to steal something more valuable. We are just buggered if we know what that night be!”
“I was told the raid the other night netted millions of dollars of stones. Is that not valuable enough?”
“Short answer? No. And we got most of them back, anyway. So technically he can’t even claim on his insurance, which is a sort of ‘up yours’ by us!” She laughed a carefree laugh, stretching her arms above her head and checking her Raymond Weil watch once more.
“My sources tell me Alex Stefanescu wants power, he’s a sociopath, but he also has a soft spot for all things bright and beautiful. Including a rather devastatingly pretty Bulgarian redhead. Whose death, incidentally, he blames upon your team, namely one Inspector John Cade.”
“But we are almost certain that his own men killed her. Upon his instructions. Drowned the poor girl in the bloody Thames. He as good as admitted it to Cade in a recorded phone call.”
“True. But in his mind he is not responsible. I’m not a shrink, but I’d say our man Alex has a narcissistic personality disorder.”
“Great. So we have one brother who is a double agent for the Brits and the Romanians and stands to inherit a fortune in dodgy diamonds and yet we know sweet FA about him, and another, who worships at his own alter and would happily pluck the eye out of one of his victims and feed it to them whilst they watch with the remainder and wonder when the good news is finally going to arrive. Talking of which, do you have any good news, Sassy?”
She bristled at the use of her first name.
“The other man, Valentin Niculcea. We are pretty certain he’s turned. Works for us now, in deep, and we need to maintain that security blanket around him. He will come into his own as we move forward. Trust him. End of.”
“OK, so we end on a high note. But I suspect there is something missing from this little briefing.”
“Oh absolutely, I was getting to that. When Alex planned the jewellery raid he was advised by a source, as yet unidentified, that stored in the vaults at Hatton Garden were a number of documents.” She looked both men in the eye and allowed them to paint a picture of the scene – also discreetly looking for signs of guilt from her own man Blake – whom she found to be both brilliant and unsettling at the same time.
Whatever analogy she could think of that involved twists, and turns appeared to sum up where the current operation lay. She found herself trusting foreigners more than some of her own senior staff. Greed was a terrible drug. She made a mental note to revisit the whole damned affair and work out who was who in the ever-growing zoo. She was able to think this through whilst formulating her next statement. Sassy by name.
“You may recall that a number of black Pelican cases were taken? Alex knew that one contained a complete set of papers that relate to a super-sensitive meeting last year. It was so ruddy sensitive that we didn’t know where to store the minutes. We looked at your place, the Yard, the Bank of England, even burying them in
my back garden… I joke of course, as I don’t have a back garden. No, you see the problem is they were so explosive in the wrong hands we didn’t know which hands to put them in. It was entirely a trust thing.”
The two high-ranking men nodded, as if to say, ‘And…?’
“And the former Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs suggested the strong room at Hatton Garden. It’s a warren of safes, vaults and more safes. Call it an independent hidey hole. He said that no one would ever think to go there for documents that related to the planned dissolution of the British Monarchy.”
It was intended to be a line that she delivered quickly – able to move on and ideally without being challenged. It was, in reality, too much to ignore.
Michael Blake’s eyes opened as wide as they could go. He was unable to speak. Johnson had the look of someone who had just woken from a rousing sleep to learn that a passing stranger had defecated on his top lip. It was far from pretty.
This wasn’t bad. This was too ludicrous for words.
Blake tried to generate a sentence. “But, er. I. Look.” He composed himself. “For Christ’s sake, Sassy tell me this isn’t what Alex Stefanescu has in his possession?”
He paused. “Hewett…he led him to it. It was him, wasn’t it?” He was pointing a loaded index finger.
She smiled a disarming smile. “No, Michael. It wasn’t. You need to get off Johnathan’s back and tie up that high horse. He’s actually saved us a considerable amount of money and embarrassment. Think of the cost to Britain, in terms of reputation if this got out. Her Majesty’s own government seeking to undermine her, to overrule her. Dear God, perish the thought. It would cost billions in lost revenue and trust and above all trade. And heaven knows how much in lost tourism and God himself knows what HRH would do to us. She’d be bloody livid. Off with their heads!”
Blake was confused. Johnson remained quiet, trying to figure out how, for once, the police were not to blame.
“Forgive me, Minister. If he’s saved us would you mind explaining how? I was all for releasing the dogs of war and ripping the bastard’s throat out.” It was Blake who had spoken first.
“Oh, good Lord no Michael, don’t do that.” It was apparent that she had a soft spot for Hewett. “He has recovered the papers. They are safe. Cast iron, probably buried in his garden.”
Blake wasn’t in the mood for humour. “I am aware you have another meeting. You say Hewett has the papers, that there is no issue here?”
“Yes. And no. Hewett has the papers relating to the Monarchy. He hand delivered them to Alex at his house in Spain. He had to, to make it look plausible, as if he were on his side. A turncoat, a traitor to the government that Alex blames for killing his one and only love. Johnnie is nothing if not a sublime actor.” She unwittingly licked her lips.
“The Spanish authorities recovered the case, which Hewett had personally sealed. They are on the way back to London under very close guard and when it gets here, its contents will be destroyed by two people,” she smirked. “I will be one of them, so all is well in the world, gentlemen. Right, I really must dash.”
She got to the door, having shaken hands, and thanked the men for their time. Johnson, a career police officer, had that age-old feeling that she was only telling them what she wanted them to know. He was due to retire, so threw caution to the wind.
“Minister. I know you are in a hurry. Please excuse me.” She stopped. She knew.
“I believe there is a ‘but’ to this story that we are sworn to remain secret on. Forgive me, but I feel as the officer with a portfolio for national security and foreign affairs that I have a duty and a need to know.”
She closed the door. Her eyes closed for a second. It was thinking time.
“I was rather hoping I could avoid this. In the third case that was taken was a separate set of papers. These were not minutes but a complete cabinet paper, a full decision if you like, set in stone. There was a secret motion to explore the concept of Britain leaving the European Union by 2007. The overwhelming majority was in favour…”
She let the words hang like an autumn fog over the River Thames.
“Yes indeed. You are right to have that look. If word got out, it could destroy us way beyond the Monarchy issue – we have more princes in waiting after all – we would recover. But Europe…think trade, security, travel, identity, pensions, salaries, currency, public opinion, the Stock Exchange…need I go on?”
“Good God. Leaving the European Union? It’s outrageous. Any other gems whilst you are purging Minister?”
“A couple – as it happens. We took part in a secret meeting with our trusted EU counterparts this year – the inner six as they are known. The six degrees of European separation. It transpires that by 2007 Romania and Bulgaria will join us as part of Europe, it is considered to be part of what is known as the fifth wave of enlargement of the European Union. It will open up the front door of Britain to millions of people, some legitimate, wanting a brighter future, bringing skills.”
“Go on.”
“The problem is many of these people will be utilising false passports, out of Albania, Turkey and Syria or further afield. Europe is in a right old mess with immigration and people trafficking and the signs across Europe all point to a worsening situation over the next few years, and Mother England is seen as the dumping ground. Nirvana at the end of the bloody rainbow. And frankly, gentlemen, we cannot cope with an influx in the region of five million people – let alone the security risk that this could bring for the future of Britain. It would be the gift that just keeps on giving.”
She had stopped looking at her watch now. “We had to stop it. The decision to leave the Union was made. We would commence our withdrawal next year and complete it before 2007 – start to put the drawbridge back up before we opened our doors and our welfare state to the people of Europe. If word reaches those affected states, the other members, our allies…the general public and God help us, in the year before a bloody general election, the media…”
“So where are those papers, right now Secretary of State? And the papers you described as minutes, where are the actual originals?” Blake had recovered.
“Michael. For these walls only. I, or should I say we, have absolutely no idea – OK? There’s another issue, even greater. Look, I have to go.” She held her index finger in the air. “You speak to no one.”
She glided her hands into her favourite goatskin gloves and pulled her coat collar up and around her neck to shield against the cold, then gently closed the door behind her. As she stepped out onto the street, she contemplated the immediate pain of being run over by a bus. It seemed easier in the short term.
Walking to her car, a silver, long wheelbase Jaguar, she saw that her driver was already holding the door open, stood in driving sleet ever the professional, she couldn’t help but envy his comparable stress-free lifestyle or avoid the internal monologue that had haunted her for weeks.
‘Alex Stefanescu has the copies. I think he knows this – and will exploit the belief that he has the originals. But I’m not sure, he’s a good chess player, better at poker, and whilst he doesn’t hold the royal flush, I think he knows where it is being held. So one question remains. Who has the originals and what are they worth? And when will they surface again, because as sure as smoking follows sex, they will.’
She sat back in the leather-clad isolation of the government car and asked to head to Downing Street. There were other things to discuss, and for once she didn’t feel confident about the subject matter.
Neither man said anything for a while. It was Johnson who decided to swallow hard and clear his throat.
“I guess you have some work to do, Michael, and an apology to give?”
“Oh Jesus. He’s going to be unbearable. I could always pretend I don’t know.”
“I’ll leave that one with you. I have my own house to repair. This operation has cost the Metropolitan Police an inordinate amount of money, I’ve had to send flowers to at leas
t two funerals and attend the bedsides of a few battered staff, assuring their families that we are there to support them through thick and bloody thin, all in the name of greed, and to cap it all I’m losing two of my best people soon. Do you think we will ever get to the bottom of the where the other documents are? Do we have a contingency plan if they turn up – some time, anywhere?”
Blake shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, Malcolm? No to both questions. It’s rare that I’m right on anything these days.”
“My old man used to say even a broken clock is right twice a day, Michael.”
“Did he? Then he was far wiser than me. I suppose we need to bring Cade and Daniel into this equation somewhere along the line. We need Cade out of London, that’s for sure. And retire Daniel early too. Not a bloody clue where along that line we allow them to enter.”
“For now, I’d say we start at the beginning, but that would be as ridiculous as the middle. How about the very last part, the bit where we introduce them to a few people and say ‘it’s not how it looks’ and see where we go from there. Thoughts?”
Blake gave a resigned shrug. In theory, it made sense.
“I just need to know where those bloody papers are. If Hewett has something, what exactly does he have? A photocopy? This is dynamite. Bloody hell.”
Introducing Daniel and Cade had its merits. As long as Cade didn’t put Stefanescu through the nearest window before all could be explained. That would really round off the week in fine style.
“Tomorrow? Ten o’clock. My office?” It was Johnson who set the date and time, knowing that he’d rather keep the peace on police property than somewhere else.
They shook hands, but it was a lifeless gesture.
Secretary of State Lane walked into the Prime Minister’s office twenty minutes later and wanted to weep, and he knew, immediately.
“Give it to me in bite-size pieces, Sassy. It’s been too big a week to take on the whole elephant in one sitting.” He looked at her and nodded encouragement. “Go on.”
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 57