“We’ve got a few issues, Prime Minister. A couple you know about – the European papers, the situation with opening up the borders and the perennial thorn in our side in the shape of the Monarchy.”
“Yes, I am aware of each and every one of those little darlings. And…?”
“No point in delaying this, Jim. We are royally in the shit.”
“Lovely. Just how deep? And why?”
“Waist high. Summary? The royal family have been investing offshore for some time...”
It was the crowning glory to a bitch of a week for James Cole – the Prime Minister and surprisingly pleasant Conservative leader of the United Kingdom.
Cole was just forty. A shade under six foot and prematurely grey. Slate grey eyes were enhanced by blue framed glasses and he was always immaculate. Always.
He was also devoutly single. And she knew it. Had done since they met at university, fell recklessly in love and then went their separate ways.
“Superb. Just amazing. Just…great. Tell me it’s OK – that somehow this won’t cause the world to collapse around our ears?”
“As individual cases, they are a nightmare. As a collective – it’s nuclear. Her Majesty of all people needs to be beyond reproach Jim. All we can pray is that she has a canyon-full of plausible deniability and a great accountant.”
“The royals are more stable now since – I don’t know, probably since the early eighties when Dianna arrived and gave them all celebrity status. But this…” He exhaled loudly. “This could really get the country in a spin. If the gutter press get hold of it this will make Armageddon seem like a cake judging contest in the Cotswolds.”
“I’m sorry, James.”
“You knew?”
“For a while. But I hoped it would go away.”
“Indeed. Then that is what you need to do. Make it go away. Gather the main players. Chatham House Rules applies Sassy. Not a bloody word to anyone we don’t trust with their lives. We lock this down for at least ten years. Lock it in the Tower. Lock it down, dispose of the key. And tell Her Majesty to do the same. Make an appointment to see her tomorrow.
“Tomorrow? But…”
“Tomorrow.” He waited for the response. “Sassy?”
“Noted Prime Minister.”
“Good. Fancy a take away tonight? The Spanish Embassy just cancelled their tapas night and I’m buggered if I’m going out to dinner.”
Cade and Daniel finished the day early. If they could have done, they would have flagged it altogether. They had both earned at least two days in time off – whether they ever got to cash it in was a bone of contention.
Daniel winced as he removed his jacket. The wound had been cleaned up and butterfly stitched.
“You should take it easy, boss. You are not getting any younger you know.”
“To be fair, it’s not every day my partner shoots me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack. Get some rest and make sure you eat. Are you heading to see Carrie later?”
“I thought so, but last night I got the message quite clearly. If I head to France I do so with her blessing, but not with her.”
“Give it time. She’ll come around.”
“I suspect not John. It’s a chance I have to take. Send my love to Lynne. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early. We have a meeting with Mr Johnson. Can’t wait.”
The morning arrived. Cade had watched the winter sunrise over London. He had his best navy blue suit back from the cleaners, Daniel had rescued another favourite with a subtle red check from the back of the wardrobe and met his second in command on the stairs heading up to the tenth floor. They walked into Malcolm Johnson’s large office, side by side, and stopped in step, instantly.
“What the…?” Surprisingly, it was Daniel who had started the conversation.
“Gentlemen. Don’t be hasty. Close the door, please. I need to explain.” He was speaking in a rapid tone that said, ‘I am in charge here, let’s not forget that.’
He spoke for five minutes, outlining as best as he could, why a man, previously one of the key targets for Operation Breaker, was now sat in his office drinking coffee and waiting to be attacked, verbally, possibly even physically.
“So you are telling me that this man is on our side?” Cade asked incredulously. “Actually working with us?”
“May I Mr Johnson?” Stefanescu stood and walked carefully towards Cade. He was obviously in pain.
“Mr Cade. Please, allow me to explain my side of the story. I can do it slowly or in a few quick sentences. Either way, I need to be as fast as possible – it’s been a long week and I have a need to have an injury tended to. It might be familiar to you?”
“You are lucky I missed. I was aiming for your head.”
“I judged the boat height just right.” He smiled, but it was his eyes that fascinated Cade. He suspected he would never forget them.
“I don’t trust you, Stefanescu, despite what the assistant commissioner says. You’ve done too much and it will take a long while to allow that to evaporate from my memory. I hold you responsible for the death of one of my team, the near death of another, and in connection with the death of a female who was working with us.”
“There is so much I would like to tell you, Mr Cade…”
“I bet there is. Why don’t we start with two females found at an out-of-town rubbish dump near the Romanian city of Craiova, naked with their throats cut, their eyes surgically removed and left hanging on their cheekbones. Ring any bells, Stefan?”
His head bowed slightly. “It does Mr Cade, yes. But sadly, I am forbidden to discuss this with you. It has been a traumatic time for us all. Can we at least shake hands and make a pact to hunt for the group that my brother created? You know, take them down as they say in the films.”
“All the while you have that tattoo on your wrist I’m going to struggle. No point in lying. I’d much rather these two gents left the room for ten minutes so we can get properly acquainted.”
“I am sure you would. The two girls you mentioned? It wasn’t me. My name was connected, like it is with many atrocities in my home country, but please, you have to understand I am not an evil person despite what the Interpol files say. I must not lie to you, I have done some things that I am not proud of. Some of those events have been very carefully calculated to cause harm – but with limitations. It is very difficult to explain in such a short amount of time. I am not as evil as you suggest. If, on the other hand, you wish to find the psychopath in my family, then you need to look at my dear brother and not me.”
“Thank you, Jack. I think we need to press on.” Johnson had heard enough. “I also need to mention Valentin Niculcea briefly. This is a name you are both familiar with?” He knew the answer.
“Valentin has been working with us for quite a while. We gave him higher level access in a number of areas and he was able to steer us along a set of paths, particularly in relation to the bank attacks. Plus, I suspect he was instrumental in guiding you towards Miss O’Shea at her time of need.”
“And where is he?” It was a fair question and one that Daniel wanted an answer to.
“He is in France, and he will stay there. He needed neutrality, and we were happy to support him. For now, he is unable to return to Romania, and you have seen to it that he cannot enter Britain either, he is somewhat nomadic through no fault of his own.”
“But he walked into Carrie O’Shea’s bedroom and almost slit her throat all in the name of making a name for himself. He told me that he had probably killed people – that he is an assassin, trained by the Romanian government? Is this a lie too?” Cade needed answers.
“I doubt it is Jack. His country has yet to forgive him completely for what he did, after it is alleged they killed his wife. He is a very capable man, John – but he hasn’t killed for fun. There is a difference. Keep your friends close and all that.”
“Whilst we are in eradication mode, you know, clearing the slate, is there anyone else you both feel I should know about?�
�
It was a heavily loaded question. And both Blake and Johnson were aware of the answer.
Hewett’s timing was exquisite. As his name was mentioned he was ushered in by Johnson’s executive assistant. He was surprisingly upbeat.
“Gentlemen. Good morning. Apologies for my current state, not really the British Foreign Office way I realise.” He sat in a chair and crossed his legs, trying somehow to disguise the soiled paper custody suit he had travelled in, the Spanish authorities having destroyed his clothes upon arrival at their major prisoner handling centre.
“You also need a shave and a shower” said Blake who was still unconvinced. How could one of his best people operate at a level even higher than his? It was like Goering telling Hitler how to run the Luftwaffe.
“There is so much to tell. Another time perhaps, another chapter in the book.” Sitting cross-legged with his hands on his knees, he looked at Daniel and Cade.
“John, Jack, I am personally sorry. It was very much a need to know – and I understand you now do – or at least a smattering of it. No hard feelings?” He poured a coffee and forced a scone into his mouth, desperate for sugar and caffeine.
Cade stood and spoke. “I have no idea what the hell is going on here. This is six degrees of separation at its best or worst? I don’t know whether to shake your hand or dance on your grave. You have some explaining to do – if you are able to?”
Hewett picked at another scone and drained a second cup of coffee.
“All fair, all justified, Jack. One hundred percent. But it’s not six degrees, more like seven. We are all connected by those six stages, so they say, but in this case there is one extra, the untold story, the unforeseen ally or enemy. We have a long road on which to travel, but we will get there. You have only a limited idea of what I have been involved in. For the record, it’s a hundred percent accurate, and ninety percent true. It’s the best I can offer – you will not be hearing any more from me on this subject.”
He brushed some crumbs from his palm and held out his hand.
Cade looked at him, then Daniel and lastly Johnson. He shrugged, “To be honest, I have no idea who is doing what, with whom, or why.”
He stepped forward and took the olive branch. Daniel followed suit. Stefanescu was cautious at best, surrounded by men who were clearly capable of causing him harm. He wasn’t sure whether he preferred their company or that of his brother – a man who tortured and humiliated people for a hobby.
The answer was easy. He just needed to work with this new team and convince them he was trustworthy. It might take a while, but if it took ten years, then it was a worthwhile investment. The problem was he needed to maintain a level of subterfuge and that meant deceit and in the world of organised crime it meant hurting people, just to stay alive. In a dog eat dog world, Stefan Stefanescu needed to remain close to the top of the canine food chain.
Hewett was intensely relieved to be back in the upper reaches of the same chain. Somehow he had played the ultimate game of cat and mouse, to a point where not even his own manager was aware of his role. The British government had cultivated him – and he in turn them. He had also manipulated them.
It was an exquisitely managed example of double bluffing. He had been selected for a job that required his skills and knowledge, to save the face of both the government and the monarchy. It required guile and balls of a magnitude that rarely existed in a central government team that normally used other, better-qualified people to take such risks.
His mission was simple: ‘Get the packages back on British soil but make it look as though a common thief had removed them. To do this, you will need to give up everything that you have strived for – at least on the face of it. Immerse yourself, convince them of your worth in future attacks on the financial quarter of Britain and above all remove the temptation to sell British secrets to the highest bidder.’
It was reasonable to expect or anticipate that a bidder that could come from any quarter of the European Union or further afield, even a wealthy individual looking to make a shrewd investment. Blackmail by any other name.
The fact that he had only partially succeeded was still hailed as a success, for now the truth had been locked down and Hewett was once more the poster boy, adored by the Foreign Minister and potentially the royal family too. It could hardly have been more wonderful. If they knew where the remaining papers were they could all relax. They weren’t in the possession of the group called the Seventh Wave, that much was obvious, or Alex would be using them to barter – the subterranean chatter would have been frenzied. His younger brother had no need for them. The entourage that adored and followed the Jackdaw certainly did not have them in their possession and frankly if they did it was unlikely that they realised their real worth.
As far as Johnnie Hewett was concerned his involvement was over. His immersion was complete, his alibi had been cast iron, even down to the escape from London and the off the radar flight, across the channel to France. All designed to get him out of the country and add weight to the story when he finally met with Alex Stefanescu, a man, it was once said that trusted no one, not even his own mother. Which may have explained why he chose to end her life.
Hewett had known he had to leave in a light aircraft, below the radar – leaving no footprint. Any normal border crossing was destined to fail and France was a large country where he could slip into the approaches to southern Europe and work without interruption or risk of being found.
The fact that his boss, the charming Miss Lane, did not know that both Stefan and Valentin were working for the British government was his only concern. If she was supposedly in the inner sanctum then why was she not aware – or was she a supreme actress too? Was Blake really as naïve as he appeared? A stack of questions – some of which might never be answered.
The most incredible aspect of the whole operation was actually the one that wove itself around John ‘Jack’ Cade, a police officer who left his acrimonious home for a new life and ended up in the right place at the wrong time. Over the course of ten years he would be drawn into an unforeseen web but allowed to escape – many times.
A chance meeting at an airport? A stunning redhead – that story, the one where a woman’s fury was put on display? Was it woven out of the truth, or an elaborate multi-jurisdictional operation designed to create a smokescreen and allow the termination of an ancient monarchy and the insidious destruction of an economic powerhouse?
Who to trust?
The drop-dead pretty girl that had sat in an interview room at East Midlands Airport and sobbed through her story had been incredibly plausible. Nikolina Petrov, daughter of Simona and mother of Elena, had arrived to escape from her sociopathic husband and start her own new life. She offered a series of facts that were potentially useful at a time when the United Kingdom was experiencing the viral nature of Eastern European crime.
She was heading for London when Alex’s hired team had found her, taken her against her will and without the timely intrusion of an alert and enquiring police officer would have been abused, maimed and eventually killed.
Safely in the custody of the British, her task was simple; take the documents from their secure location and hide them, then make it look like a delightfully brilliant burglary, where the thief had found more than they had bargained for.
And she had.
Her training had shone through. She really was as good as her masters had predicted.
In a few hours, during a normal business day when the Breaker team had all been consumed by chaos, she had slipped out of Scotland Yard, and, as they had trained her to do had concealed her identity, navigated her way across the city to the place where the charming British official had told her she would find the documents. He assured her he would be distracting the secretary; it was his duty to.
The briefing was simpler than the task: ‘Remove the documents quickly, make a mess by all means, and leave no trace, not even one hair. Then get out, get back to the Yard and smile that sweet
, sweet smile.’
She recalled the next part with such clarity. ‘Post one set to your daughter. Ensure she understands their importance. The other can go in my safe deposit box. I will reward you in ways you cannot imagine, more than just physically. Money. Yes, a lot of money so that you and your daughter can one day be reunited, away from his grasp. Are you OK with this Niko?’
She was completely engaged and working for two controllers, enjoying the challenge which was both physical and mental – the perfect scenario for a blue-flame, rising star of the Bulgarian Intelligence Service. As she had listened to the final element of the briefing, it became apparent that this was more than a test. Create a smokescreen, they had said. She would ensure that she would create a forest fire. For her government, and the people of Bulgaria, this was a chance to hold the ace and its three sisters. It provided them, her people, with the lever that they might need should their seemingly endless and patronising wait to join the European Union fail at the first hurdle.
Having waited so long for the chance to prove herself, she had carried out the operation to the letter. One set of the documents had been posted to her daughter, the other, as time was against her, she had retained, slipping into a bag to be delivered later to his secure deposit box. Almost as arranged. And all was heading along the path to perfection when they had taken her; enraged at being made to look foolish and abandoned by the mother of his child, Alexandru Stefanescu had issued strict instructions.
‘No one ever disrespects me this way. Find her – have fun with her – let me have a few last words with her – then kill her in the way I am about to outline. Only in this way or you will go the same way.’
It had shocked even his most trusted stalwarts.
She should have killed him when she had the chance.
It had all been going so well. If the British detective hadn’t had exposed her to danger in the safe house, they would still have found her, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. Not even Cade could protect her forever. She had trusted him. She liked British men, men in authority, and if they were as disarming and handsome as him she knew she could learn to live again. A new life in a new country. Her contact at the Foreign Office had said he would make it happen. New life, new name, new identity. She was surrounded by men who were incapable of denying her.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 58