Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  Sliding his hand around the butt of his trusty Smith & Wesson 36, Mason checked the safety catch was on. Next, he fiddled with the holster and tightened the strap. Apart from regular visits to the practice range, it seemed a lifetime since he last carried a firearm on operations. It felt good working on close protection again, but the risks were enormous. One momentary lapse in concentration, a careless slip of the tongue, and it could all end in disaster. Nothing was ever straightforward in this game. Even if you’d prepared for every eventuality the enemy would always find your weakest spot. No, Mason thought, his best line of defence would be to vary the boy’s daily routine. Mix things up – no two days the same. This was an anxious waiting game they were playing, a simple matter of holding their nerve.

  Like most senior detectives he knew, Mason always felt uncomfortable when entering a strange environment. As he ran a beady eye over Martin’s foster mother’s property next door, he was looking for cracks in their armoury. Barely twenty metres away from the surveillance house, with clear unobstructed views overlooking the street, it was a formidable fortress to penetrate. The tech team had done a fantastic job installing CCTV cameras, and every room in the property had been fitted with movement detectors. Even the foster mother’s phonelines were monitored, and there was little chance of anyone entering the property without the surveillance team knowing.

  Mason could hear music coming from the back of the building. Penny Lane, a Beatles track and one of his favourite songs. It had been years since he’d last heard it played, and the memories all came flooding back.

  Then he heard footsteps approaching.

  Wearing a Ralph Lauren black sweater shirt, casual trousers and trainers, DS Holt cut a dash as he entered from the hallway. ‘What’s the latest on Stephen Rice?’

  ‘Still nothing from the UK Border Force,’ Mason replied.

  ‘He’s obviously skipped the country.’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  The surveillance house had an empty feel, sparsely furnished and devoid of character. Set back from a large bay window a large camouflage net stood. Although restricting the light, any internal movements would not be spotted from outside the building. Taking centre stage was a high definition professional camcorder, and behind that a large folding table crammed full of sophisticated surveillance equipment. It included monitor screens, listening devices, and a communication system linked directly to police Central Control.

  Mason was about to say something when his iPhone pinged.

  He answered it.

  ‘What’s the weather like up there?’

  He immediately recognized the cockney accent. It was the Special Branch officer he’d met in Gregory’s office a few days earlier. Strange he should make direct contact on his iPhone, Mason thought.

  ‘It’s ninety-five degrees, and everyone up here is sweating their bollocks off.’

  ‘Pull the other leg, it’s not what I’m seeing on my webcam.’

  Mason grinned. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to keep in regular contact with you and hope it’s not inconvenient.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. Now that’s over with I thought I’d bring you up to speed with the latest developments. There’s a lot of mixed chatter coming out of Europe lately. Two days ago, Grigori Yavlinsky flew into London on a European flight out of Stuttgart and checked into the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Garden. This is his third flight in as many weeks, and we believe it’s in connection with this money laundering scam he’s tied up in.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘We know he’s been in regular contact with the bank’s defence lawyers, a company in Oxford Street. But that’s none of your concern.’ The officer sighed. ‘What is, though, is that around the time your barrister went missing he was known to have been in the country.’

  ‘Do we know where?’ Mason quizzed.

  ‘At first we thought he was stopping at a local address in the capital, but it later transpired he wasn’t.’

  ‘So, he could have travelled to Newcastle in other words.’

  ‘He most likely did.’

  ‘Where’s Yavlinsky now?’ Mason asked.

  ‘He’s recently purchased an upmarket Regency Georgian terraced property in Belgravia and is having extensive renovations carried out. We know he’s using it as a meeting place, and it’s been on our radar for several months.’

  Mason jotted down some notes. ‘He’s obviously using it as a base.’

  ‘We believe so and have some great footage to back it up.’

  ‘Any chance of sending me a copy?’

  ‘No problem. I was intending to do that anyway.’

  ‘That would be very useful,’ Mason added.

  ‘There’s something else you should know. Twelve months ago, Yavlinsky purchased several exclusive apartments in New York and we know the FBI are looking into it. From what we can gather, he’s building up a portfolio of fashionable properties in several other major capitals around the globe.’

  Mason shook his head. ‘It sounds like he’s offloading his dirty money into non-traceable tangible assets.’

  ‘He is. On the surface everything looks legit, which makes this impending Newcastle trial much more important to these people.’

  ‘Which is probably why they’re keen to disrupt it?’

  ‘Right again.’ The senior officer chuckled. ‘Once we’ve established which other banks are involved in the scam, we’ll know the true extent of their operations.’

  ‘I though you already had a list of those involved?’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  Mason looked at the monitor screen, then checked the street outside. ‘Do you know who else Yavlinsky has been in contact with lately?’

  ‘According to our man at the embassy, he’s very much involved with the renovations at the Belgravia property he’s having done. Builders, plasterers, painters and decorators, you name it, they’re all in there. It could be a front, of course. We know he has a network of intelligence agents working behind the scenes, along with a bunch of people at the Russian embassy.’

  ‘He’s a busy man by the sounds.’

  ‘It’s my guess he’s waiting for further instructions from Moscow before he makes his next moves.’

  ‘And how will you know when that happens?’

  ‘We’ve tapped into their phone calls, and that’s when the chatter lines go crazy.’

  Mason thought a moment. ‘This property in Belgravia he owns, is it bugged?’

  ‘No, these people are experts at uncovering intelligence devices, and we don’t want to spook them at this point. Whoever’s behind this money laundering scam is determined to see this through. Having taken out a prosecution barrister and tampered with vital evidence at the Sanderson Law Chambers, there’s no limit to what these people are capable of.’

  ‘They seem determined to eliminate the source of the problem?’ Mason added.

  ‘The way things are going, the Crown Prosecution won’t have a case to present before the courts before long.’

  ‘What about this hedge fund auditor, Stephen Rice?’

  ‘There’s still no feedback as to his whereabouts, so he could have already slipped out of the country by now. The last we heard he’d left the capital having moved south somewhere.’

  ‘Do we think the Russians could have got to him?’

  ‘It’s possible, who knows. We’ve had dozens of potential sightings of Rice and every one of them has drawn a blank. If we do hear anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be useful,’ Mason acknowledged.

  ‘Stay vigilant and whatever you do, don’t drop your guard.’

  There was a click on the line.

  Then silence.

  Mason sipped his coffee as he glanced out of the surveillance house window. It wasn’t the best news he could have wished for, but at least it was candid. If the Russians were intending to eliminate any
one who was a risk to them, it didn’t bode well for young Martin Kennedy.

  He stared at his watch, then out at the rugged coastline. It was time to go with instincts – run back over the school’s security arrangements again. Not that there were any flaws in his plans, but contentment was a breeding ground for complacency, he mused.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A warm wind had whipped up through the streets of Gateshead as Jack Mason entered the police station that morning. Still, he thought. His night out with Barbara, his physiotherapist, had gone better than planned. He definitely felt passionately drawn to her, and they’d got on like a house on fire. He mustn’t rush into, though. Take things easy, see what develops. . .

  The front desk was busy, and the sergeant in charge seemed his usual jovial self as he whistled an unrecognisable tune that was driving everybody mad.

  ‘It’s official,’ Sergeant Whitaker excitedly announced, waving a fist in the air.

  Mason screwed his face up. ‘What the hell are you on about now?’

  ‘DI Gamble, she’s gone back to Middlesbrough.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last night, according to Rob Savage. Now you’re back in charge of the case, it seems her temporary assignment has finally come to an end.’

  Throughout his career, Mason had come to expect the unexpected and that some matters were never quite what they seemed. If you needed to know what was going on in the world, you either asked the cleaning ladies or stopped by the sergeant’s front desk. Tittle-tattle ran rife throughout the building, and some people had a knack of sniffing out information.

  Two days away from his desk, and the DCI’s in-tray had given birth. It didn’t take much, and paperwork was the bane of every police officer’s life. Nothing got swept under the carpet these days. If you wanted a new notebook and pencil you had to sign for one. Government cutbacks ran deep, and everyone was accountable.

  First, he fired up his computer, then checked the overnight serials. Two break-ins in the Felling, a pub brawl in Bensham, and a sixty-four-year-old man badly beaten up on Gateshead High Street by drunken revellers. In all a busy night, Mason thought. The local scumbags had certainly been active. Everything ran in a cycle, which meant the cells would be busy these next few weeks. As he leaned across his desk in search of a file, it was then he spotted the sealed brown envelope, marked confidential in thick bold red letters. He opened it and removed a CD sent from his MI5 contact, half expecting to see a note inside – there wasn’t one.

  Next, he loaded the CD onto the computer tray, pressed the start button and adjusted the sound. The first shots, he guessed, were surveillance footage of the suspect’s large Regency terraced property in London. Guarded at the front by a high wrought iron fence, a large metal skip stood close to the pavement’s edge with a long white plastic chute attached to it. As the camera lens panned in, he noticed it ran all the way up to the second floor and was attached to the support scaffolding. He could see a workman dropping building rubble into it, and it was throwing up a lot of dust.

  Then, through the ground floor main entrance, two men appeared. One looked professional and carried a briefcase in his hand, the other was short and thickset. He looked mid-forties with a round face and clean-shaven head. As the two men went their separate ways, he made a mental note of their features.

  The next video footage was of the Executive VIP Lounge at Heathrow Airport. He’d been there on several occasions in the past, whilst working on an undercover sting operation involving people smuggling. Very little had changed, and as he familiarised himself with the layout, he adjusted the focus. Two people were sitting on high stools chatting at a bar. The man on the right was obviously Grigori Yavlinsky, and the woman on his left was blonde, slim, elegant looking, with long shapely legs. Their conversation appeared relaxed, as if they knew one another intimately.

  Seconds later he was staring at the departure gate for an 11.30 am Aeroflot flight to Moscow. As the VIP passengers were being called forward to the flight check-in desk, he watched as the suspects moved towards it together.

  Mason ran the video through several times, freeze framing at intervals. He knew that Russian passports were red in colour and carried a double headed eagle on the front cover, but these were burgundy with REPUBLICA MOLDOVA and the word PASAPORT inscribed below the coat of arms. As they entered the departure hall together, it was then he noticed that the man was carrying a diplomatic bag tucked under his arm – which seemed kind of odd when he thought about it.

  Pleased with his findings, he grabbed a couple more screenshots and ran off several prints. If this was the same man that young Martin Kennedy had spotted in Chopwell Wood, he now had a good set of images to present to him. Even so, Yavlinsky looked nothing like the family photographs of the boy’s Uncle Arthur, but that didn’t mean a thing. Hopefully the shock of seeing his assailant again might spark the boy into making a positive identification – or run the risk of sending him into his shell again!

  There was a knock at the door and DC Manley breezed in.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It might not be much, but we’re getting reports of a couple of burnt-out vehicle wrecks over in the Stanley area. They think one of them could be the vehicle the boy spotted in Chopwell Wood.’

  ‘Good work, Harry. Contact Road Traffic and get them to run a check on the vehicle’s VIN.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  Mason was having a good day, but that could change in the drop of a hat. If this was the stolen black Volvo that Yavlinsky had driven to Chopwell Wood, it could be the breakthrough he was looking for. Just to make sure, he rang the local constabulary with the instruction to carry out a door-to-door enquiry, reminding him to keep an eye out for CCTV footage.

  After making the call, Mason stood there, pondering over the case. Who was this man who could attract so much attention and keep cabinet ministers up late into the night? Anxious to find out, it suddenly felt good being back in control of his own destination again. Things were looking up, in more ways than one, he thought.

  His iPhone rang – but it wasn’t the news he’d been expecting to hear.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Earlier that morning, having searched through a large selection of mugshot images of Grigori Yavlinsky taken at Heathrow airport, young Martin Kennedy was unable to make a positive connection. It was the setback the team had been dreading, but not all was lost, thought DC Carrington. These things took time, and there were other ways of gleaning information out of the boy without having to force the issue.

  The minute the school bell rang, hundreds of children spilled onto the playground and walked towards the main entrance gates. It was Friday, and Carrington was eagerly looking forward to a few days off from her close protection duties. It had been a difficult week, and Martin was severely testing her patience, as he was always the last to appear out of class.

  After the two CP Officers had waited a full five minutes, and Martin still didn’t show, Detective Carrington walked towards one of the side gates. As the last of the stragglers sauntered aimlessly into the nearby estate with their minders, she began to fear the worst. Something was wrong, and the moment the school caretaker appeared from one of the side doors she felt her stomach lurch.

  ‘We’re here to pick up young Martin Kennedy,’ she said authoritatively. ‘Has he been held back after class for some reason?’

  The caretaker looked at her quizzically. ‘Martin Kennedy you say. Give me a minute and I’ll find out for you.’

  As her mind lapsed into troubled thoughts, Carrington slipped back into protection mode. Where the hell was he? Martin had never done anything like this before – so why now? She could see the lollipop man was preparing to leave, and no other children were in sight.

  The tension inside now building, she wanted to scream out.

  Then, through the main school entrance the headteacher appeared.

  ‘We’ve checked with the history teacher and Martin left along
with the other children in his class.’

  ‘Well he’s not here!’

  ‘Have you tried the other school gates?’

  ‘No. Martin has strict instructions to meet us here after school every night.’

  The headteacher’s phone rang.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve searched the building thoroughly and he’s definitely not here.’

  ‘Where is he, then? I thought you people were responsible for his safety during school hours?’

  The headteacher looked at her bemused. ‘I’m sorry. He must have slipped through the net and made his own way home?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Carrington replied, ‘you know he’s not allowed to do that.’

  ‘In which case I think we’d better send a search party out for him.’

  Carrington felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she made a few frantic calls. The moment she rang Jack Mason, a full-scale operation was thrown into place. Her heart sank. Please God, she thought. If Martin was last seen hanging around the school grounds with classmates, could the Russian have got to him?

  ◆◆◆

  Blue lights flashing, DS Savage at the wheel, the unmarked police car sped south along the A193 towards Whitley Bay. It was 6:15 pm, and two boys wearing black school uniforms had been spotted close to St Mary’s lighthouse. It wasn’t a lot to go on, Mason thought, but at least it was the first real sighting since the alarm was raised. Missing children were every policeman’s nightmare as you never knew what to expect. If Martin had been snatched from under their noses, then how had Yavlinsky penetrated his security ring?

  At the north end of the Links mini golf course and opposite the crematorium, Savage swung left along a narrow lane hugging the coastline. It was a tense few minutes, and as the unmarked police vehicle sped towards St Mary’s lighthouse the car radio kept spewing out undecipherable updates. Two long hours had passed since Mason’s full-scale search had been put into operation, and he was now fearing the worst.