No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  “Are you sure you want this confrontation?” Marissa pushed a glass towards him.

  “No, I’m not sure. But even if I never see him again, I need to ask him why.”

  Marissa nodded. “Then I will ask him whether he agrees to meet you.”

  * * *

  HMP Belmarsh’s doctor was looking into Henry’s eyes with a small torch: left right, left right. He had inspected his bruises, asked questions about how he was feeling, interspersed with more searching questions.

  Why did you have a fight? – I did not; Kray attacked me.

  It’s not a good idea to fight – I did not; I protected myself.

  Henry was holding his nerve. If this cretin thought he would get Henry to admit to starting a fight, which he hadn’t, it was wishful thinking.

  Why Henry had not kept his mouth shut was a question that would come later in the privacy of his own cell.

  The doctor looked at the two officers.

  “I don’t think he needs to go to the hospital. I’ll come back tonight to check him over again.”

  “Come on, Henry.” One of the officers nodded in the direction of the door. Henry slipped into the standard Belmarsh tracksuit still covered in blood and followed them. He had not asked where he was going. At the bottom of the stairs one of the guards started climbing towards Henry’s cell. Henry limped in the same direction. They were taking him back. Henry stepped into Cell 14.

  “Get changed,” said the officer he knew. “The governor wants a word.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  From a distance Pole could see Andy standing at his desk and gesticulating, whilst talking on his mobile. He stopped abruptly and bent down to jot some illegible note in his notebook. Pole smiled. Working with his newly promoted DS was a treat. There was something almost childlike in the way Andy engaged with his job so enthusiastically. Pole’s DS hung up but kept talking at the screen as if reprimanding it for not delivering the answer quickly enough.

  “I am not sure it will take any notice,” Pole said.

  “Guv,” Andy turned around with a small jerk but Pole’s amused face gave him confidence. “I’ve got some really interesting news.”

  “Very good, shoot.” Pole leaned against the desk, arms crossed.

  “I confirmed, well I think I confirmed, the route that Visconti was taking to smuggle the art pieces and artefacts out of the Middle-East war zones.”

  Pole nodded, “Go on.”

  “I am ninety-nine per cent sure he’s been using the African route: Libya, Malta then Italy.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “From Tunisia to France or sometimes Southern Spain.”

  “Are there no direct routes? I mean from the Middle-East?”

  “Not really. The most direct route would be to Turkey or Greece.”

  Andy had brought a map of the countries surrounding the Mediterranean onto the screen. He had drawn the routes in different colours, making them easier to distinguish.

  “What leads you to believe Visconti was taking the African route?” Pole said. “Choose a less obvious route to avoid detection?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I think, but it may also be that it is where he had the best contacts for smuggling.”

  “Who else is using that route for trafficking?”

  “The Narco unit told me that drugs are smuggled along a completely different route. People trafficking drugs established their routes before any of these were mapped and they don’t like to mix.”

  “Armaments, as you suspected?” Pole bit his lip. This case was getting bigger by the minute.

  “That’s much more interesting because that’s where the lines are getting blurred and Libya is in such a state of flux that weapons transit through it all the time.”

  “To where, do we know?”

  “The whole of Africa. CT Command was pretty adamant.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “Nope.” Andy moved his mouse and new lines appeared on his map of the Mediterranean and Africa. Pole moved to the back of Andy’s chair to take a better look.

  “How about migration?”

  “You mean people?” Andy turned around surprised.

  “Why not?”

  “That’s an interesting idea, Guv. I’ll dig around.”

  “How about INTERPOL?”

  “Haven’t had much luck.”

  “Let me make some calls too. In the meantime, take me through the chart.”

  “As far as weapons are concerned, African trafficking goes through the Libya–Tunisia route then moves to Malta and Italy. The Middle-Eastern trafficking goes through Turkey; they have various entry points through the Arabian Peninsula.”

  Pole was following the various colours on the chart with his fingers. “That’s a pretty good map you’ve put together.” Pole straightened up and resumed his previous position, leaning against Andy’s desk. “Visconti departed from the norm. He took the risk of taking a much longer route for the trafficking of his goods, I presume to avoid detection.”

  “Overland that’s got to be true, but I’m not sure it holds when it comes to sea transfer.”

  “Which is why he would probably have stopped first in Malta?”

  “A short stop to secure the goods and then carry on to Italy.” Andy nodded approvingly.

  “Hey, I too am a bear of some brain.” Pole grinned. “What’s next?”

  “I need to find out whether Visconti changed any of his MOs and I need more evidence to prove that he moved from art to armaments.”

  “Or people,” Pole added. “Anything else?”

  “Well.” Andy adjusted his thick glasses. “I’ve got the feeling —” Andy stopped, hesitant about how to put his idea across to Pole.

  “I don’t care about diplomacy. Come on, say it how you see it.”

  “I’m not sure CT Command is telling me everything.”

  “I’m sure they’re not.”

  “I asked whether they had Visconti on their radar and they were pretty vague.”

  “Vague is good.” Pole clicked his fingers. “They can’t say categorically no or they might be misleading us.”

  “What if it’s national security and all that?”

  “Then they need to tell us Visconti is off limits.”

  “Would someone else be leaning on them?” Andy asked, candidly.

  Pole hesitated for a second. His DS had just raised a tenuous link he had not yet considered. “What do you mean?”

  “Other agencies.”

  “Let’s first see what Ferguson has to say before we jump to any conclusions.” Pole patted Andy on the shoulder. “Doing a really great job. Keep it up.”

  Andy beamed a smile and went back to work.

  Pole’s face darkened when he crossed the threshold of his office. He closed the door and pulled a brand-new phone out of his pocket. Time to call MI6.

  * * *

  The smell of bland meat, boiled cabbage and mashed potatoes made him retch. Henry had taken his lunch to his cell and left it on his desk. He was not hungry. The bruises on his face had started to change colour: pus yellow and dirty blue. He touched his cheek gingerly. It had almost doubled in size despite the pack of ice the doctor had given him.

  Henry looked at the plate that was getting cold. He fought the urge to throw it into the toilet. He reached for a small tin of herbs stashed away on his shelves and sprinkled a pinch over the dish; perhaps it would help.

  He sat down and put a forkful of mash in his mouth. At least he did not have to chew any of it, for once overcooked was a good thing. He kept going until his plate was empty. It was fuel for survival. Whilst eating, Henry was mentally going over the meeting he had just come back from.

  HMP Belmarsh’s governor had not been happy. He had spent half an hour being lectured about fig
hting, privileges to be reconsidered and, of course, was he fit to be released to help with the SFO case? Henry had remained silent, contrite, repeatedly making the point that he had been attacked. The CCTV cameras would tell. But no fight ever started unprovoked. The governor dismissed him; he would be told later what his ruling was.

  The familiar clunk of the cell door’s bolts told Henry it was bang-up time. He stretched his arm towards the biscuit tin. Another clunk surprised Henry. He pushed the tin back and turned around painfully. Someone had just released the bolts and would enter his cell in a few seconds.

  “Hello Henry, put your shoes on and bring your coat.”

  Henry’s mind went blank. Shoes. Coat. He was leaving the compound. Was it so cold outside that he needed a coat? He could not quite tell. The temperature in HSU was almost constant, hospital-like, a temperature that made you limp and comatose.

  He remembered – the segregation unit was at the other end of the large structure that made up HMP Belmarsh.

  “Hurry up, I haven’t got all day.” The officer moved his hand in the direction of the landing.

  Henry sat on his bed, fished out his shoes from underneath it and fixed the Velcro into position. There were no shoelaces allowed in prison. From a small wardrobe Henry pulled a duffel coat Nancy had hurriedly purchased when he had been sent to HSU. It was not the place where an inmate should be wearing an Armani camel coat. He started walking, one officer in front and one at the back. He did not want to ask where he was going. He did not want to show he cared or that he was scared.

  Henry went through the fourteen checks it took to exit HSU:

  - body checks

  - name checks

  - metal detectors

  As Henry approached the small reception area within HSU his stomach somersaulted. True, he went through the same area when he was out on exercise. But today he was turning left towards the governor’s office again. He would be told he had instigated the fight with Kray. No matter how much Henry had argued, he had lost the argument. He would now be told how long he would spend in the segregation unit. He would almost certainly lose some of his privileges as well. All this for two small words: “Bloody idiot”. He could scream at his stupidity. Who was the bloody idiot now?

  Henry stopped beside the door leading to the outside.

  “Sit please,” one of the guards asked. Henry did as he was told. He could not give up so close to his goal. He had to argue his case again: self-defence, never had a scrap with anyone before, a saint – by HSU standards of course. At six foot three and with four years of solid gym training he could have inflicted damage on Kray but the only injury Kray could show would have come from the guards. But would they want to admit they had savaged him?

  This was hopeless.

  “It’s cold outside,” one of the guards warned. Henry nodded and slowly moved his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He adjusted the collar and stepped inside the yard where another two guards were already waiting for him. A large van was parked outside. He almost ignored it until one of the guards opened the back door. “In you go.”

  Henry could not hide his surprise and he caught the amused look on the guard’s face. He limped for a few seconds towards the open door and before he could take it all in the handcuffs were put on him and he was pushed inside.

  There was already a guard sitting in the van, a man he had not met before. The second guard sat down in silence opposite his colleague. The van lumbered out of the gates. Henry let his head fall against the cold metal of the cage in which he had been locked up. He was leaving Belmarsh.

  The plan was still on track.

  The excitement was so intense he needed to calm down and chat.

  “Any chance of some water?”

  The officer he did not know grabbed a bottle from underneath his seat. He stood up, walking cautiously and hunched forward to avoid falling when the van suddenly hit a pothole. He slid the bottle through the bars without a word and went back to his seat.

  Henry opened the bottle and drank the water in one go. He closed his eyes and tried to quieten his thoughts. It was an astounding outcome. Who could have cut a deal of that magnitude with Belmarsh? The SFO needed him badly. A reassuring thought.

  Henry brought his mind back to the last time he had left HSU. The LIBOR scandal had been about to explode and he certainly had been instrumental in its uncovering. He smiled at the memory. The UK government, the Bank of England and quite a few top executives in the City were about to feel the pain. His smile broadened at the idea of working with Nancy and Pole again. He had almost enjoyed working with Nancy’s favourite inspector as he liked to tease her every so often. Henry stretched. His mind now felt alert once more. He thought about the case that Nancy had outlined. It would take no time to help them find out who the mysterious ultimate beneficial owner of the fund was.

  The van slowed down and stopped for a little longer than Henry would have expected at a set of traffic lights. It took a sharp right and went over what felt like a ridge. The angle of the van tilted forward. They were no longer following the road but going underground. The van was moving slowly. It took another sharp turn to the right and stopped altogether. For a moment everything was silent and almost peaceful.

  The door of the van opened with a metallic thump and both guards got out, leaving Henry alone in the cage. He had forgotten his watch and could not tell how much time had elapsed since they had left Belmarsh. Twenty minutes perhaps, half an hour at most.

  The heating in the van had been turned off and the cold was seeping through the metal frame. Henry moved around. He leaned his back against the part of the van that connected with the driver’s seat. He stretched his long legs and waited.

  The door of the van opened again, a small gap to start with. Henry stayed put. His heartbeat had risen and he started breathing slowly, ready to deal with whatever life was about to throw at him.

  A squat young man entered. He was wearing a sober blue coat and a pair of black leather gloves. He sat as close as he could to the cage, crossed his legs, one foot in the air. “Hello Henry.” He spoke with an imperceptible smile.

  His voice did not try to disguise a faint East-End accent. “I’m glad we finally get to meet.” He uncrossed his legs, moved forward, now elbows on knees. “And I feel certain that you’ve been expecting the call.” The smile broadened, uncovering a neat row of teeth, sharp and dangerous.

  “What makes you say that?” Henry asked folding his legs under the bench.

  “Experience. And the help of the few people who know you well.”

  “There aren’t that many of those around.” Henry’s face expressed certainty, perhaps a hint of irony.

  Contact, at last.

  The young man ignored this. “I have a deal for you.”

  “How about an introduction first?” A negotiation; finally, something Henry knew he excelled at.

  “OK then, you can call me Steve for the time being.”

  “And later on?” Henry pushed.

  “We’re not there yet,” Steve said, his small eyes drilling into Henry, searching for the weak spot and finding it already. “You’re an angry man, Henry.”

  Henry fought the desire to tell the little chap to bugger off. He smiled instead. “It’s a good asset on the trading floor.”

  “But it’s something that gets you killed in my world.”

  “And what is your world?”

  “Intelligence.” Steve’s amused eyes were roving over Henry again, gathering much more subtle information than the police had ever done.

  “OK, intelligence about what?”

  Steve laughed, a resounding don’t-give-me-that-bullshit laugh. “You have spent four years at HSU Belmarsh with some pretty high-profile characters and you have befriended Kamal, sorry Abu Maeraka, so what do you think?”

  “Cards on the table straightaway, hey.” Henry wa
s almost impressed.

  “No time to lose, mate.” Steve leaned against the side of the van.

  “What do you want, information?” Henry was not going to make it so easy. Cards on the table but one ace up his sleeve.

  “That’s rather obvious.” Steve looked disappointed.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Need a bit more; you tell me what you can give me and I’ll tell you how much it is worth.”

  “No.” Henry had pursed his lips. He moved to sit next to Steve on the other side of the cage. “I’ll tell you what I want and you tell me what I need to do to get it.”

  “Ambitious. I like it.” Steve nodded with appreciation.

  “Get me out of Belmarsh.” Henry locked eyes with Steve.

  Steve stood up, walked to the other side of the van but did not walk out. He was thinking.

  “Hypothetically, if I said yes, if, you’d have to deliver something pretty big to me, something no one else can.”

  Henry had stood up too. He leaned against the bars of the cage, casually so.

  “How about the financing structure of a new terrorist organisation?”

  Steve moved closer. He was much shorter than Henry, but he did not feel threatened. “Now we’re talking.”

  Steve moved away. “I’ll contact you again.”

  “Is that it?” Henry hands now clung to the bars of the cage.

  “Yup. I need to organise a few things before the next step.”

  “How do we make contact?”

  Steve took a small picture out of his jacket pocket, on it the face of a man, looking serious, taken to fit an official badge.

  “He will be your contact.” Steve moved the photo so that Henry could see. Henry squinted. His eyelashes batted a few times.

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Couldn’t be more serious, mate.” Steve replaced the picture in his inside pocket and grinned. “Not possible.”