Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  Flicking through the files, his next item of interest was a large spreadsheet containing known areas that his target regularly frequented. It was all there. Weeks of intelligence work and all at the press of a button. How could he possibly fail?

  He closed the lid of his laptop and took another sip of his coffee. Plans in place, he would meet Rice in one of his favourite haunts, after they’d completed the deal. He knew the hedge fund auditor was desperate to leave the country, and he had the perfect place in mind. What nobody knew, not even Rice, was what would be waiting for him on his arrival there.

  Some plans were easy to execute; not this one. He would need to keep his wits about him, blend into the background and cover his tracks. He knew how the British intelligence services worked – who he could trust and who he should stay clear of. Only a few people knew how to contact him in the event of an emergency, and that was via his pay-as-you-go phone. He only used a SIM card once, changing it for a new one after every text message or call. Too many people cloned mobile phones in Britain nowadays, and he was always conscious of government hackers. Big Brother wasn’t a mere word in a book, it was lurking on every street corner.

  Distracted by noises outside, he peered through a gap in the window blinds. Two men dressed in bright orange jackets were dragging heavy wheelie bins around in the yard. They were loading them into the back of a refuse lorry without checking to see what was inside. Not that he cared, but it had crossed his mind that it would be an effortless way to dispose of a body should he require one. He made a mental note of it and moved back to his laptop again.

  Next, Chameleon checked the flight times to Bristol Airport and quickly decided against it. Far too risky, he thought. Too many security checks, too much traceability. After he’d fired off e-mails from three different accounts, he checked the train times out of Paddington Station. He would take an overnight bag and check into a cheap hotel. Nothing flash. Privacy.

  He didn’t do abortive missions, it wasn’t part of his itinerary. Neither was failure; that was for idiots and fools.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jack Mason leaned against the unmarked pool vehicle and weighed up his options. Less than a mile from the village of Old Hartley, the new safe house had been well chosen. Close to Seaton Sluice harbour and overlooking the southernmost point of the rugged Northumbria coastline, the village had approximately 4000 inhabitants. It had a post office, chemist, beauty salon, and a local convenience store. Apart from its pubs, the only other tourist attraction was a local fish and chip shop and tea room. Mason had eaten there on several occasions, and knew the place served generous portions and played great sixties music.

  The North Sea air filling his lungs, he unzipped his leather bomber jacket and strolled purposefully towards the harbour whilst checking the lay of the land as he went. It was a beautiful day, clear blue skies and not a single cloud to be seen. Moored up in shallow waters, a dozen small fishing boats were waiting for the tide to turn. Further north, across long stretches of golden sands, lay Blyth. Not the prettiest coastal town in the brochure, but the people who lived there were the salt of the earth and always made you welcome.

  His head full of kidnapping scenarios, Mason was looking for holes in his plan. He’d been over this ground several times that afternoon but still wasn’t satisfied. Now 3:15 pm, he watched as a blue Vauxhall Insignia pulled onto the kerb opposite and flashed its headlights. Seconds later, Detective Susan Carrington slid from the driver’s seat and stood for a moment. Wearing a bulletproof vest under her jacket, it gave the impression she’d put on weight.

  Now a well-established member of his team, Carrington was destined for higher things. Not pushy like the others, she was intelligent, incredibly quick witted, and had a wry sense of humour that Mason found difficult to comprehend. He genuinely liked her, she was a reliable team player – a person he could trust. And yet, beneath the angelic smile lay a ruthless streak, and one of the key requisites of close protection selection.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mason asked.

  ‘I’ve spoken with the school’s head teacher, and young Martin Kennedy can start his new placement on Monday.’

  ‘What about Social Services?’

  ‘They’re more than happy to go ahead with the new arrangements and are pleased we’ll be accompanying the boy to school every day. It’s only a five-minute drive away, and once the main gates are locked it’s a safe environment to be in.’

  Mason shielded his eyes from the direct sunlight. ‘Good. What about his new foster mother? Is she happy with your plans?’

  ‘She seems to be. Although she’s still apprehensive as to why there’s a heavy police presence in the cottage next door.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘She asked how long his father would be working away.’

  ‘And was she happy with your explanation?’

  ‘She didn’t object, but she’s bound to quiz young Martin over it.’

  ‘No doubt she’ll put two and two together at some later stage.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her again about it, boss.’ Carrington confirmed.

  Mason stared at the Kings Arms pub opposite, his mind full of possibilities. ‘I presume DC Richie is happy in his new role?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Carrington nodded. ‘The two of us work well together.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve also asked Social Services to keep in regular contact with me. I know his teachers will be keeping a close eye on the boy whilst he’s in school, so we don’t have any worries there.’

  ‘Do they know you are undercover police officers?’

  ‘They know we work at Gateshead Police Station, that’s about all.’

  ‘What about young Martin, has he said anything to you yet?’

  ‘He knows his father is working away and seems quite excited about his new move.’

  Mason smiled. ‘Let’s hope it’s just a couple of weeks and not another one of those long drawn out protection operations.’

  Carrington held his glances. ‘What will happen to DI Gamble’s team now? Will they disband it, or will it run as a parallel operation?’

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘No. It just seems strange that we’re not allowed to discuss our new roles with anyone else on the team.’

  ‘All will be revealed in good time.’

  Carrington cocked her head to one side. ‘If I’m completely honest with you, I’m only too glad to get away from DI Gamble’s way of running things.’

  Mason smiled. ‘Those are strong words coming from you.’

  ‘You know my thoughts on that, boss.’

  Mason remembered, ten years ago, as a keen young detective sergeant being in a similar position as DC Carrington now found herself in. Changing allegiances could be testing, as team trust carried an awful lot of weight amongst your colleagues. But some officers were a natural choice for special assignments, others not. Carrington was a level-headed police officer who was about to advance up the promotion ladder. Besides, her selection had taken him all of six seconds to think through. His was a formidable team. He knew every one of them would give him one hundred percent. No, he thought. It was time to ease off the throttle – keep the young detective’s interest levels heightened.

  ‘Let’s see what tomorrow’s team briefing brings.’ Mason grinned. ‘It’s probably the worst or the best decision you’ll have ever made in your career.’

  Carrington raised her eyebrows a fraction. ‘If it’s not of national importance, then I can’t see what all the secrecy is about?’

  Mason smiled inwardly to himself. Never a truer word spoken in jest, he mused.

  His iPhone pinged, and he checked the display.

  It was his physiotherapist from Forest Hall, Barbara Lockwood.

  ‘DCI Mason. How can I help?’

  ‘You sound very official this morning, Jack.’ Lockwood giggled. ‘Have I caught you at an inconvenient time?’

  ‘Not at
all, Barbara. What can I do for you?’

  ‘That depends,’ she coyly replied.

  ‘Oh! Is there a problem?’

  The connection went quiet for a moment. ‘The last time you were in my treatment room, you asked about going out for a meal together one night––’ her voice tailed off.

  ‘Yes, and it was meant as a thank you gesture,’ he defensively replied.

  ‘How does Thursday night sound?’

  Speechless, Mason stepped back a couple of paces as if not believing his ears. ‘Yes, Thursday’s fine,’ he whispered. ‘What time and where?’

  ‘I’ll leave that entirely to you.’

  A vision intruded, and something began to stir inside of him, something, very, very, dangerous. He pocketed his iPhone and tried to think positively.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mason felt refreshed after he’d showered and changed into his work clothes. It was Thursday, and he was looking forward to his night out with his physio Barbra Lockwood. He still hadn’t decided where to take her, but he was working on it. He had a couple of places in mind and was definitely out to impress. Stay clear of the usual dives, he told himself.

  By the time he’d reached the third-floor landing at Gateshead Police Station, he’d run out of steam. He stood for a moment as two uniformed police officers approached along the corridor. It wasn’t looking good suddenly and he pulled out his iPhone and pretended to text.

  ‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Mason,’ the familiar high-pitched voice screeched out from the floor level below. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  As DI Gamble faced him from the bottom of the stairwell, Mason felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ he replied, ‘can it wait?’

  ‘It will only take a minute, so we might as well get it over with.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It’s about this recent meeting you’ve set up involving some of my team.’

  Mason looked at her oddly. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It would have been courteous to ask me first.’

  ‘Tell me, DI Gamble. Do you always decide who is guilty then look for the evidence to support it? Is that how things are done back in Middlesbrough?’

  ‘What are you inferring?’

  ‘If I want to hold a meeting, I will do.’

  ‘Who is charge of the operation here?’

  Mason rounded on her. ‘I once knew a police officer in London who used to operate like you do. Two good detectives lost out on promotion because of him.’

  ‘Is this another one of your sarcastic remarks?’

  ‘No, but I’m––’

  ‘If it is, then this isn’t the right time and place.’

  ‘Tell me. Why didn’t you give young Martin Kennedy police protection when I asked you to?’

  ‘I didn’t think it necessary.’

  ‘You didn’t think!’

  Gamble pointed a finger at him – bad mistake.

  ‘How can you trust a boy who is constantly up to his neck in trouble. If I’m not mistaken, he was lying his way out of trouble after bunking off school.’ She sucked in the air. ‘Young Kennedy’s nothing but a troublemaker, anyone who meets him will tell you that.’

  ‘I’m one of your old school police officers,’ Mason calmly replied. ‘I like to assemble the evidence and see which way it points before I make a decision.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Who’s responsible for the daily running of operations?’

  Not any longer, Mason thought.

  ‘Have you talked to Martin’s father lately. . . listened to what he has to say?’

  ‘No, and I have no intention of doing so either.’ Gamble hunched her shoulders. ‘Like father, like son, the man has a criminal record as long as your arm and cannot be trusted.’

  ‘So, you do judge a person by their appearance then look for the evidence to incriminate them?’

  She lowered her eyes a fraction. ‘And what are you suggesting?’

  ‘You’re treading on thin ice, DI Gamble.’

  ‘Really?

  ‘Yes, you––’

  ‘You know I’m right,’ Gamble seethed. ‘You were too pig headed to even ask me for a search warrant when you broke into Laurence Cooper’s property.’

  Hold your nerve, Jack.

  ‘You’re forgetting who the senior officer is here.’

  Gamble’s face contorted into something almost unrecognisable. ‘Don’t try and pull rank on me,’ she snarled. ‘You’ve criticised my every move the minute I first set foot in the place and took charge of your team.’

  ‘What the––’

  ‘You can’t live with it, can you? You feel threatened by it.’

  ‘It’s not about rank, it’s about the respect.’

  ‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  She glared at him, all colour drained from her face. ‘Just because you’re the senior officer on the case doesn’t mean you can trample all over me.’

  ‘It’s not what you do that annoys me,’ Mason continued unruffled. ‘It’s what you don’t do when I advise you to do something. That really gets under my skin.’

  It had finally come to head, and Mason was surprised at the calmness of his voice. Yes, she had a valid point. He had felt threatened, but she was conniving behind his back with an eye on his position. Not any longer. Not now he was back in the driving seat. No doubt she would go running to Gregory’s office with her tales of woe, but that didn’t bother him either.

  Proud at having kept his temper under control, there was a new spring in his step as he moved back along the corridor.

  ◆◆◆

  It was red hot inside Meeting Room One, even with all the windows open. Mason felt a new excitement inside as he stood in front of the assembled team. As the crown prosecution’s case crumbled all around them, the Home Secretary was keen to put a stop to it. Whoever was tangled up in this international money laundering scam had certainly done their homework. Events were piling up too fast, and Mason was having to work flat out just to keep his head above the waterline. If the worst happened, and Yavlinsky did manage to penetrate his security ring, he would be ready and waiting for him. This wasn’t about law and order anymore, this was a matter of survival. Knowing that MI5 were involved, only added to the seriousness of the situation.

  Mason had kept his team small and compact. Everyone present that morning was a trained firearms expert and knew how to handle a range of weapons. He’d been down this avenue before, but the world had moved on since then. This time felt different, though. More hazardous, especially knowing the Russian mafia could be involved.

  There was a knock at the door and DS Savage entered.

  ‘You said your office, boss.’

  ‘Sorry, George. Last minute changes,’ Mason apologised.

  Superintendent Gregory was next to appear in the doorway and everyone sat to attention.

  ‘Good morning everyone,’ he announced. ‘I’ll not keep you longer than necessary.’

  MR-1 was subdued, and after grabbing a coffee from a side table, Gregory gave a brief overview of the Chief Constable’s plans. The mere mention of the Home Secretary had certainly gained their attention, and by the time he’d finished you could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘So, this is purely a close protection operation?’ asked DS Holt.

  ‘Yes. Operation Drawbridge as it is now known, will be controlled from here in Gateshead – although our key source of intelligence will come via Special Branch. Our main remit is one of containment, protecting those involved in the Crown Prosecution’s forthcoming trial against the Russian investment bank. Although only a small part of a much bigger operation, it is an important one nevertheless.’

  ‘Could there be an overlap in the operational structure, sir?’ asked DC Carrington.

  ‘No doubt there will be. That said, I have the Chief Constable’s assurances that whatever we need to bring this operation to a successful conclus
ion will be made available to us.’

  DS Savage raised a hand to speak. ‘What do we know about this Russian agent’s movements, sir?’

  ‘As far as we know, Grigori Yavlinsky is still in the capital and locked in a pattern of high escalation. No doubt the Joint Intelligence Committee will fill us in with any new developments, but I’m informed the chatter lines coming out of the Russian Embassy have recently intensified, which means that something is about to take place.’

  ‘Do we know what?’

  ‘Rest assured, the minute I’m informed you’ll be kept in the loop. Which reminds me,’ Gregory said, opening his hands expansively. ‘This operation is covered by the Official Secrets Act, so anyone who is unfamiliar with what that entails, I suggest you read up on it before you put pen to paper.’

  With that the Area Commander replaced his peaked cap and briskly stepped out of the meeting room, leaving Jack Mason to get on with it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As soon as he ended the call, Jack Mason stood thinking about young Martin Kennedy’s security arrangements – or lack of them. Now that DCs Carrington and Richie had established a regular school run, he decided to shuffle things around. Still paranoid of Martin possibly blowing his own cover at his new school, Mason wasn’t sleeping at all well at night. If there were flaws in his plans, a trained agent would uncover them.

  Mason, faced with a difficult decision, looked out from the surveillance house in Seaton Sluice and across at the North Sea. Martin’s first week at his new school had gone well considering, and the team’s defensive shield was beginning to run like clockwork. His biggest concern was what to do during the school summer holidays. That worried him. If the Russian was to make a kidnap attempt, that would be the best time to do it. However vulnerable the target of a professional assassin might be, it wasn’t going to happen on his watch.