‘There, boss,’ Savage suddenly announced. ‘Over by the point.’
Pulling up short of the concrete causeway, Mason clambered out of the passenger seat and stood for a moment. He could see the tide was on the turn, and an hour from now the small rocky tidal island would be cut off from the mainland. Further north and hugging the North East coastline, he noticed two dark silhouettes scrambling amongst the rocks. Whoever they were, they were searching for something and oblivious of the dangers now surrounding them.
Fighting back his fears, Mason set off along the rugged shoreline to the sound of crashing waves. The North Sea seemed angry today, madder than ever. Half a mile from the causeway, he noticed the tide was creeping in. Then, two hundred metres to his left, he could just make out the boys’ black school uniforms.
His handset crackled.
‘I’m getting reports of two boys out searching for fossils,’ DS Savage said. ‘They were spotted by a local fisherman about an hour ago.’
‘Roger that,’ Mason replied. ‘I’m fast closing in on them.’
It wasn’t often he lost his bravado, but the moment he spotted young Martin’s mischievous face, Mason let out a sigh of relief. Having lost all track of time, the two young boys seemed oblivious of his presence.
‘What the hell are you two up to?’ the Chief Inspector yelled out.
‘Nowt much.’
‘I thought we’d agreed you were to report to the main gates after school?’ The young boy shrugged as though he couldn’t have cared less, and Mason remonstrated in his sterner authoritarian voice. ‘Are you listening to me, son, or are your ears stuffed full of cotton wool?’
‘Nah, but look what we’ve found, Jack.’
Mason flinched. ‘What the hell––’
Martin handed him a small rock. ‘It’s a brachiopod.’
‘A what?’ Mason shrieked.
‘A brachiopod, it’s a marine animal and it’s millions of years old.’
‘Never mind how old it is, who said you two could come here after school?’
‘Me and my mate Dez decided to take a look.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me before deciding to come by yourselves? The last time you did that you––’ Mason cut himself off mid-sentence. Still straining at the bit, he glared at the boy, and said, ‘Well?’
‘Cos.’
‘Cos what?’ Mason insisted.
‘If you must know, we were planning on coming here during the school holidays.’
‘Who else knows you are here?’
‘I talked to my foster Ma, and she said it would be okay.’
Deep down Mason saw the funny side but wasn’t letting on about it.
‘Did she now?’
‘Yes, and she said she would talk to you about it.’
Mason stared at Martin’s partner in crime and almost burst out laughing. What his mother would think of him when she saw the state of his school uniform was anyone’s guess. ‘And what about you, son,’ Mason said sternly. ‘Does your mother know where you are?’
‘Nah, but she knows I’m with Marty.’
Mason stood for a moment and wondered what he’d let himself in for. Armed police officers everywhere, a Russian assassin on the loose, and two ten-year-old boys sending his blood-pressure soaring sky-high. This sort of thing hadn’t happened to him in a long time, and he’d almost forgotten how to deal with it. Not since his own daughter had gone missing in one of the local shopping malls, had he worried as much as this before. Even then she’d only been missing a few minutes. Not two bloody hours like these two reprobates, he cursed. At least they were both safe and it hadn’t turned into the disaster he thought it would.
His handset crackled into life again.
‘Need any assistance, boss?’ DS Savage asked over the airwaves.
‘No, they’re both fine.’ Mason looked at the small rock that Martin had handed him and then said. ‘Tell me, Rob. What do you know about brachiopods?’
‘Not a lot. Isn’t that a Russian football team?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Mason chuckled.
‘Never heard of it before, boss. What is it?’
‘I’ll talk to you later about it.’ Mason stood for a moment and tried to clear his head. ‘Best call the rest of the search team off, Rob. Stand everyone down.’
‘Roger that.’
Never a dull moment, Mason thought.
The tide was well in when they scrambled over the rocks and finally made it back to the unmarked pool car. As water lapped the causeway, twenty minutes from now and St Mary’s lighthouse would be completely cut off from the rest of the mainland. It had been a hair-raising experience, and Mason was glad it was over with. But how to occupy a ten-year-old boy’s mind over the school holidays was an even bigger nightmare. They could hardly rely on his foster mother to keep him entertained; not in a million years. No, Mason thought. He would need to come up with a better plan, and one that would keep the boy out of mischief. Maybe he should have gone with his instincts, played on his injuries instead of pig-headedly volunteering for a child protection role.
Then he saw the funnier side.
‘Okay, you two, it’s time to head home,’ Mason said, opening the rear door of the Ford Focus.
‘Just five more minutes, Jack.’
‘Five minutes, my arse,’ Mason said firmly. ‘You two have caused enough havoc for one day.’
His phone rang. It was DC Carrington and she sounded in a right old state.
‘Anymore news on Martin, boss?’
‘We found him ten minutes ago.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘He’s as bright as a button.’ Mason laughed.
‘Thank God for that. The little bugger sneaked out through the back gates according to one of his classmates and never bothered to tell anyone.’
‘Tell me about it. We need to come up with a plan ‘B’, Sue.’
‘Why don’t we just strap a ball and chain to his foot,’ Carrington sighed.
‘You wish!’
‘I doubt my nerves could stand any more of this, boss. This close protection malarkey is all but doing my head in.’
‘Tell me,’ Mason said thoughtfully. ‘What do you know about brachiopods?’
‘Never heard of them. Isn’t that something to do with Star Wars?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why don’t you try Googling it, boss?’
‘Just thinking about my next quiz night at the Ship Inn, that’s all.’
‘Brachiopods – what are they?’
Mason frowned. ‘They’ve got nothing to do with Star Wars, nor a Russian football team. I’d never heard of them myself until a ten-year boy told me about them.’
‘So, what are they?’
‘I’m keeping it for a future quiz night.’
His phone went dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Chameleon sat on his bed at the Premier Inn in Bristol and stared at his watch. It was 9:30 am, and most businessmen had already checked out of the hotel that morning. Through his room window overlooking the roundabout, he could see the A38 was busy. Six hours from now he would be boarding the train back to St Pancras and another mission tucked under his belt. His was a watertight plan, and all that remained now was to execute it.
The aroma of fried bacon hit his nostrils, but he wasn’t hungry. It was wafting in through the open hotel window, so he shut it. After logging out of the hotel Wi-Fi, he closed his laptop down and got ready for the task ahead. Down at the reception lobby, he handed in his key card, and slid into the back of a waiting taxi. Everything was paid for by cash. If anyone did ask for his card details, he always walked away from them – nothing was ever traceable that way.
He glanced at his pay-as-you-go phone for messages.
Just one. An important one, nevertheless.
Following the long trail of red stop lights, they inched forward at a snail’s pace towards Bristol city centre. He knew they were close, as he could see the univers
ity buildings through the cab’s tinted windows. After navigating several busy road junctions, he reached forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘How much do I owe you?’ Chameleon asked.
‘That will be ten pounds, sir.’
‘I need a favour.’
‘Sure,’ the cab driver replied, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Fifteen minutes from now, you’re to ring this number and ask for me by name.’
He handed the cab driver a slip of paper with Stephen Rice’s name written on it, along with a roll of bank notes. As the taxi pulled up outside a Barclays Bank branch, he caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He was eyeballing the wodge of fivers he’d given him, and his brain was all over the place.
‘Sure, Mr Rice. Leave that with me,’ the cab driver said turning to face him.
Chameleon looked down at his watch, then into the driver’s rear-view mirror again. The street outside looked exposed, dangerous, and full of CCTV cameras.
‘Your fifteen minutes starts from now!’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Have a good day!’
◆◆◆
The coffee shop wasn’t overly busy, and Chameleon soon spotted Stephen Rice. He was sitting in a corner seat overlooking the high street and watching the world go by. The hedge fund auditor looked gaunt under the strip lighting, as well he might have been. The man had given the Organisation a lot of unnecessary grief lately, but that was about to change.
He pulled up the seat opposite.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Rice replied.
‘Looking forward to some sun time?’
Rice steadied himself. ‘I take it you have everything ready for me?’
Chameleon opened his weekend bag and pulled out a portfolio of exclusive properties he’d brought with him along with a bunch of keys. Placing them on the table in front of him, he caught the trace of a smile on Rice’s lips. He knew what the man was thinking and let him do the talking. That’s where most of his information came from, and he knew which side of the fence Rice was sitting on. Running away from the authorities was one thing, but you never knew who you might bump into in the middle of the night.
‘I’ll come straight to point with you,’ Rice said, as he stroked the outline of his jaw. ‘I’m setting up a new business venture in Spain and have a few irons in the fire.’
‘What sort of business venture?’
‘Wreck diving.’
‘Sounds interesting, what made you come up with that idea?’
‘I was looking at Malta initially, but it’s overexposed.’
Rice was growing in confidence, and Chameleon had picked up on it.
‘In what way?’ he asked, pretending to show interest.
‘Too many people, and too few wrecks,’ Rice replied. ‘They’ve recently sunk a few old naval vessels in shallow waters, but it’s not the type of wreck diving I’m looking for.’
Rice fiddled with the teapot lid, and Chameleon’s eyes lit up.
‘So why L’Estartit?’
‘The funny thing is,’ said Rice, ‘when you finally came up with this long-term property plan it really set me thinking. It’s perfect. Spain’s perfect. And the minute I saw the villa you had to offer, I knew it was for me.’
‘Glad to be of assistance. A man who knows what he wants. . . there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘Now that the contracts have finally been signed, I can’t wait to get started.’
Chameleon tapped the keys with the flat of his hand and fiddled with the key fob. His hesitant, but flawless English, was delivered with an unmistakable Eastern European accent. ‘It sounds like you’ve done your homework, Mr Rice. When exactly do you intend to fly out to Spain?’
‘Later tonight.’
‘Tonight!’ Chameleon repeated, accentuating his surprise.
‘Yes. I’m booked on the seven o’clock flight to Girona.’ Rice pushed back in his seat looking hesitant. ‘I was thinking. Would it be possible to take the property keys from tonight? I know it’s a week earlier than we agreed, but I’m willing to pay extra.’
Chameleon nodded and then said, ‘I can’t see that being a problem.’
‘That’s great,’ Rice grinned. ‘When you deal with money all day, you know who you can trust.’
‘Indeed.’
Chameleon had thought long and hard about a lot of things lately, and how best to finish the job. There were plenty of methods to choose from, and the list seemed endless. Hemlock was an old favourite with the ancient Greeks, and about eight leaves of the plant usually did the trick. Aconite was another preferred toxin used by some of his connections, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Also known as wolfsbane, aconite left only one post-morten sign that he knew of, that of asphyxiation as it caused arrhythmic heart function which led to suffocation. But he wanted a much slower death, subtle, and dimethylmercury had crossed his mind. The only problem with that was, it usually took ages to take effect.
It had all come down to something a little more suitable in the end. A slow but silent killer with no known cure. His associates had demanded he use a chemical nerve agent and had insisted they supply him with it. What type, he had no idea, but knew it had effectively been used on former defectors and well-known critics of the State. Some had taken all of three weeks to die, others a little longer. He knew the risks he was undertaking, but all traitors had to die at some point. It was simply a matter of principle.
Chameleon peered over at Stephen Rice’s teapot again and checked in his pocket for the small container he’d brought with him. No time was ever convenient in this game, and it would need to be done with the utmost discretion. This was an extremely dangerous substance he was dealing with, and he wasn’t taking it lightly.
Then those magic words!
‘Is there a Mr Rice in the room?’ the waitress suddenly announced.
Still holding up the café telephone receiver in her hand, the moment Rice moved towards the service counter Chameleon was onto it like a flash. First, he checked the surrounding tables, then slipped on the rubber gloves. Next, he carefully screwed the lid of the container open and poured the contents into Rice’s teapot. As the hedge fund auditor continued to argue his case over the telephone, he gave it a quick stir.
Perfect!
Rice looked confused as he sat down at the table again. ‘Sorry about that . . . some asshole of a taxi driver must have got his wires crossed.’
Chameleon smiled as Rice poured himself another fresh cup of tea. Just one mouthful would be enough! He tapped the property portfolio with an index finger and then said, ‘It’s an excellent choice, might I add, and the diving around the Mediterranean is all the rage now.’
Rice thought for a moment. ‘What about staff . . . cleaners, fresh linen, that sort of thing?’
‘Leave that with me, Mr Rice. Everything is taken care of. We can even supply a cordon bleu chef should you require one.’
Rice’s face lit up. ‘I’m ever so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I can’t thank you enough.’
The Russian assassin cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘May I ask when you intend to start this new business venture of yours?’
‘I was hoping to start in a few weeks.’
‘That soon?’
Rice looked at him and frowned. ‘That’s if everything goes to plan, of course.’
‘It’s a very popular location, and I know a lot of people who go diving there. You should do really well for yourself, especially with the number of new wrecks that keep popping up.’
Rice took another huge swig of his tea and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘If things turn out as I’m hoping they should, I may even wish to extend the lease. Do you see a problem with that?’
‘Absolutely not, Mr Rice,’ Chameleon said trying his utmost not to laugh. ‘Who knows, twelve months from now and you could be the richest man in Spain!’
Rice’s grin
broadened as he finished off the dregs of his tea.
‘Only time will tell, Mr Tarik.’
Indeed, Chameleon smiled inwardly – and pigs might fly!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Seahouses August 2016
They couldn’t keep young Martin Kennedy indefinitely cooped up in a safe house over the school holidays, something had to give. Having sought advice from the National Crime Agency, Jack Mason had finally sanctioned a short break to the Farne Islands. Just a few hours, nothing elaborate. At least it made sense, and there was more than enough armed protection officers to keep the boy safe during their visit.
It was a beautiful day; rays of sun were streaking through the unmarked pool car’s windscreen as Detective Carrington sped north along the rugged Northumberland coastline towards Seahouses, with Martin keeping her company. She’d taken an instant shine to the boy. They got on well together, and he was not like some of the toe-rags she’d encountered during her time on the force. A little boisterous perhaps, but he was always well-mannered.
Given the choice, she would have preferred to have taken some time off herself, but that wasn’t possible now that the Chief Constable was involved. Planning anything nowadays was a nightmare come to think of it, as Operation Drawbridge had taken over her life.
‘What kind of birds are those?’ Carrington asked.
Martin shielded his eyes from the strong morning sunlight and pointed to a small flock of birds. A dozen or so, skimming the water at speed. ‘They’re black Guillemots,’ the boy explained. ‘They breed among the rocks at the base of the cliffs and dive into the water to catch their prey.’
‘What are they searching for?’
‘Fish and crustaceans mainly. The mad thing is, it’s possible to tell if the bird is left or right handed by the way the fish points in their mouths when they carry them.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.’
‘You’re quite the little expert, aren’t you?’
‘Nah.’ Martin shrugged, as if unaccustomed to praise. ‘It’s just what I’ve picked up on the internet.’
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