Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  “Are we talking ECHELON stuff here? Well? Are we?” Fisher looked at the boss, then back at O’Shea. “I think if ever there was a fucking time for need to fucking know it was now.” He sat back and waited, allowing the Tourette’s to lessen.

  O’Shea looked at Roberts, who looked around the room, then nodded.

  “Team, the only people cleared to TS level on this floor are myself, the governor and Cynthia. It’s how it is. Intelligence staff has to be cleared to this level. I will not be discussing anything other than I have to. End of.”

  “And that lady does not even begin to answer my question.”

  “He’s got a fair point, guv. Let’s lock the bloody door here and get some answers. This does not strike me as a bunch of Eastern Europeans running around and nicking a few quid from bank ATMs anymore.”

  She looked around more to garner support from her team than anything else.

  “What’s going on? Nick and I were out for hours the other day and came back with bugger all but a need to scrub ourselves vigorously in the shower.” There was a cheer which DS Bridie McGee skilfully ignored. She also wanted answers.

  Roberts took in enough air to start speaking, allowing his lungs to fully inflate, then exhaled, loosened his tie and began what for him felt like a eulogy.

  “Folks, listen in and listen well because I will never be saying this again. I have looked each one of you in the eye and counted the faces. Therefore, if this leaves this room, worst still your lips, we won’t just be having the Commissioner’s boot up our arses we will probably go to prison.” He held the last note.

  “Late last year former Chief Inspector Daniel, ex-Inspector Cade and I were privy to some information that no one other than Assistant Commissioner Johnson and a few select members from the Foreign Office knew about.” He let that sink in too.

  “Extremely close source evidence indicated that the criminal group the Seventh Wave had come into possession of some documents. These documents had been stored where the nation keeps its diamonds and pearls.”

  “Hatton Garden.” It was Fisher. A statement made, if nothing else to show he was listening.

  “Yes, Nick. The very same. Secure as the bloody Bank of England, apparently, but perhaps not as safe as the Tower. Quite why they didn’t put the bloody things in there is beyond me.” He paused, something was playing with his cerebral cortex, dropping some bait into the water and waiting for the float of consciousness to dip.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t, and the team got away with diamonds, which as you know were recovered. But they also got away with documents that related directly to the demise of Europe and the monarchy.”

  He picked up the desk phone. “Lizzie, can we get some strong coffee please, enough for about twenty people?”

  “Sure thing, boss. You need me to join you?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  The last few sentences had drilled home, so he continued.

  “Jack and I were up to our nuts in secrets last year, some of which we may never divulge until we are sat dribbling in a high-winged chair in a nursing home. But what you do need to know is that those documents have been split. Stefanescu has one set and the others are somewhere else.”

  “Shit, boss. The monarchy? That could hit our revenue really hard.”

  “Yes, it could Bridie, but the departure from Europe…this could hit our shares, our businesses, our trade, our defence programme. Need I go on?”

  “But guv, there was always a chance we might one day leave Europe. Wasn’t there?”

  “Yes Bridie, I agree. However, it’s not why – but how. The government does not want to leave. If they put it to a vote right now, I think the rank-and-file Brit would vote yes to leaving. And he might not think it through. And it could bite us on the governmental arse.”

  “But it might not.” Fisher was interested, and off the record would vote to leave. “I still don’t understand why the government chose to hide the bloody things in a jewellers.”

  “Why does the US hide its silver near West Point military academy?” It was a throwaway line designed to give Roberts breathing space.

  “There’s more to this, isn’t there, guv?” It was McGee again.

  “Sadly, yes. And that is why I am creating a new team, from today, with the blessing of the Secretary of State. I’m bringing Jack back in as a tactical advisor and our old DCI John Daniel too. Carrie and Cynthia will remain as our intelligence analysts. Bridie, Nick, you will work with your current teams to gather intelligence and investigate. Operation Niko is classified as confidential, which encompasses all of you. Anything over that will be restricted to the aforementioned. This is just about as high as any of us will ever reach in our careers. Me included. We make sure our comms are brief, informative and timely.”

  Roberts took a quick gulp from a bottle of water, remembering one more introduction.

  “Team, apologies. This is Dave Francis. Jack tells me that what Dave doesn’t know about the darker side of intelligence can be written on the back on an ant. Consider him cleared, consider him a friend. And if he asks any weird questions, just answer him. He reports to me for now, to Jack when he returns. Any questions? If not, today is Day One and we go from here.”

  “I’ve got one boss.” O’Shea looked sullen.

  “Yes, Carrie?”

  “Where is Cynthia?”

  He had no idea.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  The Wells Fireworks Factory – or what remains of it – is south of the River Thames, east of the River Darent and minutes from the impressive Queen Elizabeth Bridge that spans the mighty Thames and joins Kent to Essex and thus the regions to London.

  Started in the eighteen hundreds by Joseph Wells, the factory was the foremost manufacturer of display fireworks in Britain and remained so until cheap imports from China slowly eroded the marketplace and caused Wells’ demise. He left behind a legacy of outbuildings, scattered across a desolate part of the tidal approaches and, for obvious reasons, isolated from the general population.

  The buildings, once partly destroyed by German V1 flying bombs, were now derelict, their lives smothered by purple buddleia, invasive brambles and stinging nettles. Over the years a few interested parties had looked at buying the place, children had explored it and generally speaking everyone ignored the site that was once the hub of the industry. Logistically speaking, it was ideally located to the river and the growing road networks. Now, some hundred and thirty years later, it provided the perfect place for the team to hide. No one looked, no one cared.

  A long-departed graffiti artist had once daubed white paint onto the walls of an explosive store: ‘No one will ever know I was here.’

  He was right.

  She lay on the bench. Cable tied and gagged. There was no point in blindfolding her as they cared not whether she could identify them in the future.

  They had taken her in a simple operation that required minimal planning and limited resources. There was no long-term seduction or online capture. They waited until the other tenants had gone to work early, and kicked her door in. The only surveillance they had conducted was on the approach to the street, the building and the doorway. Not one camera watched over the occupants. In a city that arguably had more close circuit television scrutiny than any other, it was unusual. For the three men employed by Alex Stefanescu, it had been a blessing.

  He had conducted a broad internet search of derelict buildings in London, but each had its own issues. They were either being renovated or partially occupied by the homeless. What he needed was a derelict site that would not be developed any time soon and one which no one would bother to visit. Ever. In Joseph Wells he found a friend. In Constantin he had a thinly controlled sociopath.

  The aging silver Vauxhall Senator arrived at the palisade metal gate. It waited a few seconds, then entered. The gate closed behind them and they drove along overgrown roadways to the larger of the buildings. It had been a long day.

  Driving across country,
through the Eastern counties, down through the Fens, into Norfolk, Suffolk, then Essex. Avoiding all motorways and major A roads. It was deliberate but had added many hours to the journey.

  Constantin was hungry and needed water. His drug habit was always close to the surface, but alcohol helped. The swift taste of the acidic brew in the railway arch in Nottingham had helped alleviate his thirst and put him off forever. He had to avoid all types of addiction, except that is the one they paid him for.

  Pain.

  He walked into the off-white building with its pitched roof and broken windows. The team had made themselves at home with beds in old store rooms that were watertight and intact. They had everything they needed to survive a few weeks. A generator provided power and carried out its duties without a soul hearing it. There was enough food for all. Water, too. No alcohol, and only one person had a cell phone.

  They would stay here until Phase Two.

  “These are for you.” The younger male handed a holdall to Constantin. He opened it and saw it contained new clothes, shoes, washing kit and painkillers. Alex knew him well. He was addicted to opiates in any way he could get them. His rotting teeth ensured he was in pain, every day and all night. It drove him to distraction. Inflicting pain upon others helped.

  He put the holdall into a spare room and declared it off-limits to all. They knew of his reputation and agreed.

  “Where is she?”

  “In there. Do you not wish to change out of those filthy clothes first?”

  He smiled. “No, and you will accompany me. And then you will learn why. Did you get all the stuff I asked for?”

  The younger male nodded. He would always remain as just that, the ‘the younger male’. Alex had decreed that no one on the new team would be named, all the better to provide what the police called plausible deniability. For when they got arrested, as some would, the police would ask questions. They would buckle eventually, their techniques and laws were pathetic. No one could match the resilience of a travelling man.

  “Good. Come on let us go and visit her.”

  She was immobile, but as soon as she sensed their presence she stiffened, ready. She had no idea what they had planned to do with her, and in one way that made things worse. Just get it over with.

  “Hello. I am Constantin. We haven’t met, but you know me, or my name I am sure. Your friend Carrie lives because of me. I have the power to hold your lives in…”

  He rummaged for the word.

  “Abeyance.”

  Her eyes were darting around the room, looking for others, looking for an escape. Her wrists were raw. Her shins too. She was fully clothed, at least they didn’t plan to strap her to a wooden frame and slowly drown her, naked, like they had that poor girl Nikolina.

  He removed a large-bladed tool from the bag and looked at her. Most humans would try to detach themselves from the event. Constantin was captivated by her terrified eyes. If his victim had been a male he would have been aroused.

  For Cynthia Bell, drowning seemed her best option.

  Chapter Ten

  In the Sofitel, Darling Harbour, John Cade was waiting for his dinner guest. They had last met many years ago, he a Liaison Officer for the British Police at Interpol’s Lyon Headquarters in France and she, his equivalent from the Australian Federal Police.

  Kim Helston was twenty-nine back then and what the police called a blue flamer, one who was destined to rise through the ranks quickly. A natural blonde, she epitomised the Great Australian Outdoors. She ran, she rode, she swam. And she could drink any man under the table. Except that is, a man called Jack, who sat opposite her at work and shared sideways glimpses, a passion for hunting international criminals and great humour – he called it banter – she called him a Galah, whatever that meant.

  She was tanned, as most Australians seem to be, even in the winter. She had smooth thighs a supermodel would kill for and double espresso eyes that he wanted to dive into. But theirs was a platonic relationship, one that never moved beyond outrageous flirtation and a genuine mate ship. Sometimes relationships suffered if they went further.

  She stood in the doorway in a simple navy blue shift dress and matching shoes. She still looked physically fit, her legs shapely and toned and her hair, tied in a simple ponytail had lost none of its lustre.

  “My God, you look amazing.” He held her close to him and she reciprocated. She smelt good too. So did he.

  “I see you still wear Givenchy, Jack.”

  “You don’t miss a trick you fox.”

  “It was our job, wasn’t it? I take it you have booked a decent table in the best restaurant in the hotel, view over the harbour?”

  “Of course. You know me.”

  “I do. Predictable, though. Come on, let’s go somewhere else.”

  And they did. A simple Italian on the waterfront, noisy and full of atmosphere. She ordered the wine: Witches Falls Syrah.

  “Any good?”

  “I hope so, Jack. The vineyard I set up with John makes it.” She smiled a winning smile.

  “You’ve done well, Kim. As patronising as it may sound I am proud of you.”

  “It does. But from you, I’ll accept it.”

  The waiter arrived and offered to pour a trial sample for the lady. She declined. “It’s fine. Trust me?”

  They ordered from a brief but authentic menu, chatted and sipped on the wine until their food arrived.

  Cade acknowledged the deep red liquid. “It’s very good.”

  “Thank you. From a man who drinks as much as you I’ll take the compliment.”

  “Cow. I’ll have you know I hardly touch the stuff these days.”

  Theirs was a relationship that could recommence in minutes, as if they had worked with each other the day before. Theirs was a chemistry, a recipe that lacked one essential ingredient. At least that is how he recalled it.

  She held her wineglass in both hands, looked over the top, beautifully, her head slightly to one side and said, “So come on old man, what do you want? You don’t just arrive in the Lucky Country and front up and ask a gorgeous and very married girl out to dinner. What is on your mind, you marvellously British man?”

  “Where do I begin?”

  Over the starter and main course, supported by the rest of the bottle, he outlined what had happened across the water in New Zealand, the year before.

  “So this is the same group as back in London, in 2004?”

  “Yep.”

  “And that time in Europe?”

  “The same.”

  “And they are still operating? I thought you had put them all away for the rest of their naturals?”

  “So did we, but a judge died here, another retired there, money changed hands, and before you can say they’ve all escaped and re-formed, they had. Dessert?”

  “No, I’m stuffed. More wine?”

  “Ditto. I’ll get the bill.”

  “Go halves? Please?”

  “No. Not a hope in hell. As you say I’m marvellously British and if I take a gorgeous and annoyingly married lady to dinner, I bloody well pay.”

  He joined her, held her hand so she could stand, in case the bottle of her wine had taken effect. He should have known better. She grew the bloody stuff!

  “Fancy a walk?”

  “Is that the pre-cursor to ‘fancy a coffee’?”

  “Come on, Kim, you know me better than that.”

  “Shame.” She laughed. “Come on, let’s go this way. It’s darker.”

  They walked arm in arm for an hour, his jacket around her shoulders.

  “So what is the plan when you get to the Whitsundays? You going in alone? Need some backup?”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to him.

  “I hadn’t given the thought any…thought, Detective Inspector Helston. I was planning to just rock up to the house and put her across my knee.”

  “Then what?”

  “Talk about the first thing that comes up?”

  “Cade, you are incorrig
ible. Seriously, you need to be careful. This lot nearly killed you before, and you lost members of your team, and the girl, Carrie. Is that not warning enough?”

  “But I trust her. And that counts for something. Come with me, if you feel it will make a difference.”

  She stood against some railings overlooking the Opera House, flicked the screen open on her Galaxy and looked at flights from Sydney to Hamilton Island.

  “Credit card.”

  He handed it over.

  Four minutes later, she was on the same flight as Cade.

  “We go tomorrow.”

  “But what about John? Your husband.”

  “Yes, Cade, I know who I am married to thank you.”

  She put her arms around him and pressed her head into his chest so she could hear his heart beating. She smiled. The wine had begun to take effect.

  “This is surreal, so you are actually coming with me? I don’t know what to say.” He held her head, stroking her hair. It was the most physical they had ever been.

  She pulled away, laughed, her head falling backwards, clapping her hands together.

  “I love it when I am in control of Mr OCD.”

  “OCD. Me? I bloody well don’t think so,” he replied, straightening the hem on her dress. “And anyway you live in Queensland, it’s miles away from here. You need to pack. What are your plans?”

  “The Sofitel?”

  His thoughts were normal masculine ones, but her answer surprised him. “My hotel?”

  “Oh, it’s your hotel now, is it? Yes, I mean the Sofitel. Do you have a problem with that? You have a luxury king sized bed, big enough for two, in a room with a corner bathroom and a large bath, also big enough for two, overlooking the harbour? What goes on tour, stays on tour. Correct?”

  “Allegedly one hundred percent. But Kim, I am surprised, flattered, but surprised.”

  She held his hand and guided him back towards the hotel.

  “You’ll be surprised when you pick up the bill tomorrow, Jack. I’ve got exactly the same room as you.”