Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  Time had shown that neither had delivered the requisite breakthrough. It was as if Emma had been wrapped in a bin bag, murdered and her body tipped out at Epping Forest. They found no alien skin cells, hairs or fibres to indicate that anyone had come anywhere near her. As a result, the case was still open, she was, after all, one of their own, but unless new information surfaced, no one was expecting a breakthrough any time soon. Matt, still a prisoner of hope, was perhaps the only one who did.

  He was reaching for the ballistics report when his phone rang. He looked at the screen; Rosie Fox.

  ‘Evening boss.’

  ‘Evening Matt. How’s the rehab going?’

  ‘Not too bad. No twinges, no muscle pulls; nothing. I was thinking of coming in this week and talking to the doc about signing me back up for active service.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re signed back. I sorted it out today.’

  ‘What? How could you? I’ve only just decided myself that I’m fully fit.’

  ‘Take it easy, Matt, you’ll do yourself a mischief. You don’t think I listen to you, but I do. The last few times we’ve talked, you’ve been telling me about your progress and sounding more positive. I also need you back after hearing today’s news.’

  ‘What news is this?’

  ‘A consignment of US arms destined for an anti-Assad group in Syria has gone AWOL.’

  ‘Call that news? The yanks lose weapons all the time. They’re too rich to notice.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but we’re talking here about a big load. Over a thousand semi-automatic rifles, grenades, RPGs, the works.’

  ‘An impressive haul for any dissident group, I should think. They must have some good friends in the CIA.’

  ‘Here’s the kicker, and why we need to find them fast. Intel suggests they may have fallen into the hands of Irish dissidents intent on putting the boot into the Good Friday Agreement.’

  ‘Christ almighty! I thought those guys were all dead or retired. Well done, Rosie, you’ve succeeded, I’m interested. Tell me more.’

  Matt’s parents came from the west of Ireland and he had been born there, but they left to live in England when Matt was five. He still felt a connection to the place and kept up with Irish politics and developments.

  ‘The Director has informed the PM that we’ll lead the investigation, and if you’re as fit as you claim to be, I need you with me.’

  There were a number of questions he wanted to ask, but Rosie’s clipped tones suggested this wasn’t the time for a comprehensive Q&A.

  ‘Fine. Count me in. I’m back.’

  ‘Great, but before I do, I need you to complete a monthly. I can’t have you shooting one of us rather than the perp.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my shooting, but if you need the evidence, a monthly it is.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Now listen up. We’ve got a meeting tomorrow with the Director; eight sharp. I know you’ve been dossing these last few weeks, and that time of the morning probably sounds to you like the middle of the night, but don’t piss me off by turning up late.’

  Chapter 3

  The Sanco security van with one prisoner inside, eased out of the gates of Wandsworth Prison. Minutes later, it joined the A214 and headed towards Central London. The road was called Trinity Road, but the van driver, Hassan Mansour, was a slave to the vehicle’s satnav and wouldn’t know the names of any of the streets.

  He lived in Hounslow with his wife and two children, who, as of yesterday, he would have described as adorable, but not today. Both children had brought disgrace to their family in different ways. His elder, Salma, had been spotted by one of his neighbours flirting with a white boy. Not just any white boy, but Danny Ledbetter, rumoured to be selling drugs to other students in Salma’s sixth form. The other, he had caught smoking.

  ‘Hey, what the hell is wrong with you!’ he shouted at a BMW driver, who, without warning, had pulled in front of him before shooting off down a road to the left. ‘Those rich bastards, they think they own the bloody road!’

  ‘Keep your hair on, mate,’ Jake, his co-driver said, ‘what you’ve got left of it, at any rate.’

  ‘Did you see… Hey, what’s wrong with my hair?’

  ‘More of a comb-over, if you’re asking.’

  ‘I’ll have you know my grandfather, who is ninety-two, still has all his hair. With genes like that, no way do I have thinning hair.’

  ‘It’s a heart attack you need to worry about, mate. Everything gets on your wick. At the touch of a button, Boom, you’re off, billowing steam and hot air to everyone in sight.’

  ‘What can I say? It’s this job, dealing with criminals; and my children, who don’t do as I say, and then there’s my wife who…’ He stopped. He’d said too much.

  ‘What’s this about your wife? Having a bit of marital strife, are we? C’mon, you can tell Jakey.’

  Jake smiled with as much charm as a cobra. Mansour knew what he was talking about as he’d seen plenty of poisonous snakes on his last visit to India. Jake was the office gossip, and liked nothing better than spreading rumours about marital affairs, who was dating who, and any impending divorces. He couldn’t get enough of the details and if blabbed some more, before the day was out, everyone in their depot and every other depot in the region would know about it.

  Mansour was about to change lanes when a policeman in a hi-vis jacket stepped into the road brandishing a clipboard, and waved him into a lay-by beside a bus stop. The policeman had to be on piecework, as another couple of cars were also parked there. They’d left him only enough space to park the van, as leaving any part of the rear sticking into the road was asking for it be shunted by a driver more interested in looking at his phone.

  He wound down his window as the policeman approached.

  ‘Good morning, sir, thanks for stopping. Can I see your licence?’

  Mansour reached into his jacket for his wallet and fished it out. He handed it to the cop, but he didn’t take it. Behind the clipboard, shielded from approaching vehicles, was a gun pointed at him. Mansour almost pissed his pants.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid mate, or I’ll shoot you and your pal. Now, give me the keys for the back door.’

  Hassan hesitated. Rules, procedures, and the face of the Head of Security Services at Sanco, a great bull of a man with no neck, raced through his head.

  The guy tapped the barrel of the gun against the clipboard. ‘C’mon, pal. I’m getting impatient here and when I don’t get what I want, my fingers get twitchy. Know what I mean?’

  Mansour did as he was told and handed them over.

  ‘Good man. Now look out the passenger window.’

  He turned, and saw another man standing there at the passenger side window, a gun pointing at Jake, shielded from pedestrians by a clipboard.

  ‘You see him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now tell your mate to unlock the door and let him in.’

  ‘I…I cannot do this. We are not allowed to let anyone into the van.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Hassan. Hassan Mansour.’

  ‘Hassan, just remember this. We have guns trained on you and your mate. They are loaded and we will shoot you both if you don’t do as I say. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now open the fucking door and let the guy in.’

  Hassan instructed Jake to do it. Before getting in, the second gunman told Jake to lie down inside the footwell.

  ‘Drive,’ the new arrival said.

  He had trouble pulling out as the road was busy and, this being London, no one wanted a big ugly van with blacked-out windows in front of them. His hands were shaking and they felt clammy as he gripped hard on the steering wheel. He tried not to think of his wife and daughters, but only of the instructions given to all drivers in kidnap situations: keep calm and try to remember as much as possible. Don’t do anything rash; de
ad heroes didn’t return to base to tell their stories.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, take a fucking left back there. You deaf?’

  ‘No, I am not deaf.’

  A minute or so later, the man said the same again, ‘Take a left here.’

  This time Hassan didn’t ask him to repeat it. They turned right a few moments later and, to his mind they’d come full circle as he felt sure they’d just driven over the A214, the only landmark he recognised in this part of the city. They drove a few more miles, the traffic thinning out in their direction as everyone else seemed to be heading into London. A few minutes later, they came to a large grassy area, perhaps Wandsworth Common, or Clapham Common as he’d seen signs for both.

  ‘Stop up there.’

  He pulled over to the side of the road, a quiet place shrouded by trees with few houses nearby. If they threw him out of the van here, he wouldn’t have a clue how to get home.

  ‘Out of the van,’ the gunman said.

  The other guy, the black cop who first stopped them, met him at the door and they walked to the back of the van. The gunman who had been inside the van now accompanied Jake. They used the keys to unlock the back doors.

  ‘Oh, it’s you guys,’ Prisoner 1387 said from inside the van. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Don’t fuck about mate, we need to go.’

  The prisoner climbed out of the van and hugged the men in turn. Mansour felt a prod in the back with the gun.

  ‘Get in the back,’ the man behind him said.

  Hassan climbed in. Jake followed. He’d been inside the back of the van many times before to clean it and check on prisoners. He’d often remarked to Jake that he was glad to be sitting in the front, as the cages and the handcuff anchor points looked like manacles in a flea-pit jail, of which India had plenty. No way did he want to admit that he suffered from claustrophobia, as it would have been all round the office in minutes, or as soon as Jake could reach his phone.

  He looked over at the open doors, expecting to see them coming towards him, filling the inside of the van with nothing but darkness. He steeled himself, anticipating the sweaty palms, the panic rising up like heartburn from his gut, an irrational desire to claw at the thick, steel doors with his bare hands. To his surprise, they didn’t close. Instead one of the men walked towards them, holding a gun fitted with a silencer. He raised it and pointed at Hassan’s head. He heard the first shot, but nothing else.

  Chapter 4

  Matt walked into the Director’s office behind Rosie. Templeton Gill was a former Army officer and looked it, with swept-back hair and an upright posture. What didn’t show were the scars and bullet wounds he’d received from military operations in the Middle East while working at MI6 and, most recently, while on operational duty with HSA.

  Gill looked up from the report he was editing with a red pen. Matt believed the time he’d served in the Serious Crimes Team within the Met, often dealing with two or three fatalities a week, had taught him a thing or two about writing crisp and succinct reports. Not only could Matt do it fast, he always made sure the facts were arranged in a cogent order.

  However, when he wrote something for Gill, a report or a paper destined to appear on the desk of some other agency, out would come the red pen. In a few minutes, he could rearrange Matt’s best work into something more concise and elegant, leaving him wondering why he hadn’t written it like that in the first place.

  ‘Morning Matt, morning Rosie,’ Gill said.

  ‘Morning sir,’ Rosie replied.

  Matt mumbled something. He didn’t like coming into the office this early, and he’d left the flat without a decent cup of coffee inside him.

  ‘I understand you’ve now returned to active service, Matt. It’s good to have you back in the fold. Did Rosie force your hand?’

  ‘I’ve been feeling better for the last week or so. I was thinking it was about time.’

  ‘Whatever your motivation, we need your operational experience on this one.’

  ‘The disappearance of the American arms shipment?’

  ‘Yes. The intelligence branch of the PSNI, the Police Service of Northern Ireland, have got feelers in a number of dissident groups, and one in particular, the Irish Resistance Movement, caught their attention. Word is, they want to start an armed insurrection to try and wreck the Good Friday Agreement and unite Ireland by force.’

  ‘There were plenty of groups like them around in the 70s and 80s,’ Matt said, ‘but most are either retired or dead. They tried it once and failed as people got tired of the violence.’

  ‘That’s the view of many in government, as the Good Friday Agreement provides a democratic platform for achieving a united Ireland.’

  ‘The people I know over there think the likes of Sinn Fein could never get a majority of folk in the north to agree to it.’

  ‘What we do know is the arms consignment was bought by two unknown Irishmen. It left Syria on a truck bound for Turkey six weeks ago.’

  ‘The Americans are only admitting to it now?’ Matt said.

  ‘I suspect embarrassment is behind their reluctance to say anything before.’

  ‘Have we had any joy from the Turkish side?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘No. The recent spat they had with the Americans has made the trading of security information a no-go area as far as most Western intelligence agencies go. Therefore, we don’t know if the consignment’s been broken up or if it’s still intact.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’ve split it up,’ Matt said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Rosie asked. ‘Surely it would make it harder to track down?’

  ‘It would, but on the other hand if they split the load across five or six smaller consignments, we’d have a better chance of picking one up, and that could give us a clue how to find the others.’

  ‘It’s a good point,’ the Director said.

  ‘What would you like us to do?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I want you to talk to other agencies, Border Force, the Northern Ireland Police and so on, make sure everyone is aware of the danger this poses. Then, if any agency gets a lead, I want you to throw everything we have at it. This consignment must be stopped; not one piece should fall into the hands of a terrorist. The Prime Minister will be watching our progress very carefully. He’s as concerned as the rest of us.’

  Matt and Rosie left the Director’s office, closing the door behind them. The Director wanted to update the PM on what was being planned. ‘Matt,’ Rosie said as they walked back, ‘you head up to the staff restaurant and I’ll ask Siki and Amos to join us. With all the time you’ve been away, it must be your shout. I’ll have a latte.’

  Matt took the stairs, more force of habit than a fitness aid. He didn’t like lifts, they were terrible places to be cornered by a villain and a great way to slow an agent’s progress if the emergency stop button was pressed.

  Matt hadn’t eaten much in the way of breakfast, so he loaded his tray up with scrambled eggs, toast, and two coffees. Siki and Amos were skilled researchers, but in terms of looking after themselves, they were rookies. Both men were overweight due to all the fizzy drinks and chocolate bars they got through. There was no point in buying either of them coffee or tea as it wouldn’t be sweet or fizzy enough for their tastes.

  Matt didn’t often eat in the staff restaurant, he didn’t come into the office regularly enough to make it a habit, and only ever bought coffee during a meeting like the one Rosie was planning now. He wondered why, as the scrambled eggs tasted delicious and the prices were lower than could be found in restaurants in neighbouring streets in this area or in Ealing.

  He was part way through his meal when Rosie and the two researchers arrived. Rosie sat down at the table and reached for her latte, while Amos and Siki dumped their papers down and walked over to the counter to see what was on offer.

  ‘Thanks Matt,’ she said sipping her coffee, ‘I needed this.’

  ‘Gill’s briefing too much?’

  ‘
No, Andrew’s away on a training course. When he’s home he makes so much noise I’m usually wide awake before I get out of bed. When he’s away, I often sleep through the alarm and end up rushing everywhere to try and catch up.’

  ‘And you warned me not to be late.’

  ‘Touché.’

  At one time, Matt had liked hearing about Rosie’s domestic traumas; they put his own domestic squabbles into some sort of perspective. Nowadays, he didn’t respond, as he had nothing to add.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you back, Matt. You’re looking well. It’s been quiet without you.’

  Matt scratched his chin, and felt one or two bits he’d missed with the razor. ‘I’m glad to be back.’ Even though he didn’t shave much during an intense operation, these last few weeks he’d taken it to new levels, or lengths, depending on your viewpoint. Clearly he needed more practice.

  ‘What’s with all the papers?’ he said nodding at the pile left on the table by Amos and Siki.

  ‘When Gill set up the meeting this morning, I suspected he’d want us involved so I tasked our researchers with getting everything they could about the weapons in the consignment and the IRM. It’s called forward planning, you should try it some time.’

  ‘I’m only back five minutes and already you’re on my case.’

  ‘I’m just trying to keep you in line.’

  ‘Hello Matty,’ Siki said walking towards the table. ‘I heard you were back in the real world.’

  ‘I think everyone knew before I did.’

  ‘I feel safer sleeping in my bed now that you’re back prowling the streets.’ He sat down, Amos beside him.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Matt said looking at Siki’s tray, ‘are you eating for two, or are triplets on the way?’

  ‘Just my usual mid-morning snack. C’mon Amos, back me up here before this shirty character pulls out a gun and shoots us.’

  Matt laughed. ‘I don’t have a gun and would probably miss if I tried to shoot you.’