‘Never a dull moment.’ Mason smiled.
◆◆◆
That evening in the lounge of the Ship Inn, in Benton, Jack Mason was aware of the minutes ticking by. After another hard-fought day in court, he was really looking forward to another relaxing evening with his physiotherapist friend, Barbara Lockwood. It was a funny old world, Mason thought. One minute you were down on your luck, the next you were in seventh heaven.
He took a deep breath and stared at the text message again – 7:30’s fine, X.
Mason’s marital life had been a total train wreck, there were no other words to describe it. Ever since the divorce he’d struggled to settle into a regular routine. His financial affairs were a mess, and the thought of being stuck in the same house on his own for the rest of his life was slowly driving him insane. He felt ready to freshen things up in his life, start up new adventures with a new partner.
He was about to order another pint, then thought better of it. Instead, he let the dregs hang in the bottom of the glass. The more he thought about it, the more he was looking forward to meeting up with Barbara again. She was an extremely good-looking woman, intelligent, and above all else, he’d shared a lot of his troubled past with her. Yes, he was attracted by her, and they did have a lot of things in common. But he didn’t want to rush into it and spoil things, that was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Good evening, Jack. Still working hard, I see?’
‘Hello, Barbara. You are looking beautiful tonight.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘It’s nice to get out of my working clothes for a change.’
Mason gave her a warm agreeing smile. ‘I know the feeling.’
‘You need to loosen up. Those injuries of yours won’t just mend overnight.’
He ordered a round of drinks, and they sat in a corner seat.
‘So, what do you have planned for me tonight?’ she asked inquisitively.
Shit, Mason thought. He hadn’t organised anything special, let alone book a table for two.
‘What kind of night were you thinking of?’
She wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Anywhere that serves nice food.’
Mason groaned inwardly. He was floundering and gagging for another pint to steady his nerves. Easy does it, Jack. Don’t go and spoil it!
‘I do have a place in mind,’ he whispered.
‘Oh,’ and where might that be?’
There was a look in her eyes that he’d not seen before. Inviting, sensual, that had instantly taken his breath away. He’d not felt like this in a long time and he’d forgotten how to handle it. Yes, he’d dealt with some hair-raising moments in his time as a senior police officer involved in serious crime, but nothing compared to this.
He steadied himself. ‘If I told you that, I’d giving my secrets away.’
‘Umm. . . this sounds like I’m in for a real treat.’ Lockwood gave him a sensual look as she placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘I like a man who has everything under control.’
Mason took another mouthful of beer, then let his head fall back. Never in a million years did he ever imagine she would fancy him, and here he was on his second date. He still hadn’t the foggiest idea where he was taking her, or where they’d end up for that matter. With any luck he would come up with somewhere nice to eat – an upmarket Italian restaurant where they served good food and the finest wines.
But right now, he couldn’t think of one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Stephen Rice wasn’t feeling at all well. Having been up most of the night suffering severe stomach cramps and vomiting, he felt he was coming down with a fever. At first, he thought it was Norovirus, but he didn’t have diarrhoea. Feeling distinctly sorry for himself, he crawled out of bed, made a fresh pot of coffee, and shuffled awkwardly onto the balcony overlooking the fishing village. Nestled at the foot of the Roca Mountain and lapped by the azure Mediterranean, L’Estartit’s picture-postcard beaches were unfolding before him. It was pure Catalonian charm, not that Rice cared much about picturesque charm at six o’clock that morning. His head was pounding, and the temperature had already reached eighteen degrees Celsius.
Having flown into Girona airport the previous evening, he’d picked up a Hertz hire car and driven straight to his newly rented luxury apartment before crashing out on the king size bed. Sweating profusely, Rice put it down to cabin fever or something he’d picked up at the airport.
He’d read somewhere it wasn’t the recirculated cabin air you breathed that was the problem, it was those nasty little microscopic bugs that came out to bite you in the middle of the night. According to one top lab research technician, most deadly bugs were spread via surfaces found in a variety of indoor environments. Aeroplane dropdown tables were a particularly nasty place for picking them up, as were airport toilets. Avoid the aisle seats, the article had warned, they were the most likely contaminated areas. According to one report, a group of passengers – all sitting in aisle seats – experienced norovirus symptoms within hours of stepping off the plane. It was the very definition of the shit show according to one scientist, and Rice had every sympathy for them.
Earlier that week, having arranged to meet with his Spanish lawyer Cornelius Casillas, he had been looking forward to his trip to Barcelona. The two of them were old friends, and the last time they’d lunched together was at Cornelius’s daughter’s christening.
How could he ever forget that?
Feeling like shit, Rice opened the lid of his suitcase and changed into a clean sweatshirt and some comfortable knee-length shorts. It was eight o’clock, and after another bout of vomiting he knew he wouldn’t make it to Barcelona. Not in this heat. Not sat in a car for two hours knowing he could throw up at any moment. Whatever he’d picked up on his journey over from England it had certainly got a grip of him. His joints were aching, and his head felt like it was about to explode.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he decided to give Cornelius a call.
‘Que Paso?’
‘It’s me, Cornelius––’
‘Stephen! How are you? It’s lovely to hear your voice again.’
‘I’m not feeling at all well, Cornelius.’
‘Oh, what’s the matter with you? You sound terrible.’
‘It’s something I’ve picked up on my journey over from Bristol,’ Rice replied.
‘Planes are shit, airports are shit, and nobody gives a damn about spreading germs about anymore. Let’s leave it a couple of days – you can always give me a call when you’re feeling better.’
‘What about these new business plans?’ asked Rice.
‘We still have a fortnight to sort things out; it’s you I’m more worried about.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. I’ve already started the ball rolling with the new boat owners, so there’s nothing to worry about. This is an amazing new business venture of yours, and everyone is talking about it. What’s more, the ship’s captain is a good friend of mine and I’m certain you’ll get on like a house on fire.’
‘I’m sure we will.’
‘He’s very excited about it and keen to show you what the Catalonian coastline has to offer. Besides, he has a few innovative ideas of his own he wants to share with you.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘It is, and you’ve certainly caused quite a stir amongst the local dignitaries. Anything that’s good for the tourist industry is good for Spain.’
‘Exciting times, eh?’
‘Very much so. Once you’re back on your feet again, I need to talk to you about a few little opportunities of my own – more about that later.’
‘I’m so sorry to be such a pain, Cornelius, but there’s no way I could face the long drive to Barcelona in this heat’
‘You need to rest, Stephen. It’s not a problem. Now you’re back in the country we have all the time in the world to sort things out.’
‘Thanks–– You’re a gem.’
‘You take care
of yourself, and I’ll call you back in a couple of days.’
With that Cornelius hung up.
Seconds later Rice made another dash for the toilet pan, oblivious to the terrible death he was now facing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The day had started bright and breezy, and the North Sea sparkled like jewels in a crown as Jack Mason strolled along the clifftop close to Old Hartley village. Despite all his planning, the team were bored out of their minds. The operation had stagnated, but the minute you dropped your guard it was Murphy’s law that something big would kick off. He’d not heard from Special Branch in a while, and Operation Drawbridge was going nowhere, it seemed.
A creature of habit, Mason hated complacency at any level. Now back in the driving seat, failure was no longer an option. Earlier that week, he’d run several mock kidnapping exercises at Martin’s school, but still wasn’t satisfied. Practice made perfect, but there was nothing like the real deal when it came to focus the mind.
His phone buzzed in his pocket – number withheld.
‘Jack Mason!’
‘Where are you now?’
Speak of the devil, he thought. It was the senior Special Branch officer whom he’d met in Gregory’s office.
‘I’m out walking.’
‘See any penguins?’
‘It’s the middle of July for God’s sake!’’
‘I didn’t think you got much sunshine up in Newcastle.’
Mason chuckled inwardly having seen the funnier side. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been seeing an unusual upsurge in activity around the Russian Embassy lately, and the phone lines out of Eastern Europe have never stopped. Tell me, what sort of security arrangements do you have in place?’
‘Probably not enough.’
‘You may wish to reconsider your options then.’
‘And do what?’
‘If you have any reservations about the boy’s safety, I’d strongly advise you move him somewhere else. I’ll keep you informed if any new developments crop up – but we’re getting bad vibes.’
‘Do you suspect something is afoot?’
‘We believe so. Despite all the hullabaloo, the Kremlin doesn’t want problems with the UK government. Not that they’re squeaky clean, but Moscow is never happy to see anti-Russian headlines in Western newspapers.’
‘I thought the Russians denied all knowledge of these international money wire transactions?’
‘Let’s just say there’s a lot of individuals in high places with offshore banking interests. Not all are Russians, might I add, and I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘So, what’s Yavlinsky’s interests in these recent wire transfers?’
Mason’s phone went quiet for a minute. ‘We know Yavlinsky has been making £20k daily transfers into his personal bank account to pay for a recent loan he took out. We’ve been through his account details and found he uses a bank line of credit. It’s another clever scam, as the daily payments he’s making are for money he owes so it doesn’t show up as a cash transaction, it shows up as a negative loan balance.’
‘What does that mean in layman’s terms exactly?’
‘Anyone who checks Yavlinsky’s bank account details sees a negative balance, which means the real money is invisible.’
‘How much does he owe?’
‘Ten-million-pound sterling.’
‘What!’
‘I thought that would excite you, and it took a team of financial experts three days to fathom that one out.’
‘Why don’t you just arrest him?’
‘Easier said than done. Besides, it’s not exactly illegal what he’s doing – it’s where his daily income is coming from that’s the real issue. Yavlinsky’s the target of a larger set-up, so were we to question him over it the whole operation would be thrown into jeopardy.’
Mason shook his head in disbelief. ‘And those involved.’
‘Exactly. It’s not just young Martin Kennedy who is at risk here, there are hundreds of individuals caught up in the scam.’ The line went quiet for a moment. ‘This Newcastle trial is merely the tip of the iceberg, and there are dozens of interested parties monitoring the situation. This isn’t just about money laundering anymore, it’s about moving dirty money into legitimate assets––’
‘So, what are your plans?’
‘The Home Office are keen to come down hard on these people . . . make them think twice about using the UK financial system as their base. That’s why the Home Secretary is personally involved. . . they want to put a stop to it.’
‘Holy crap.’ Mason sighed. ‘Now I see what this is all about.’
‘It’s not general knowledge, of course, so I’d appreciate you keep this to yourself.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Our response must be decisive, and proportionate, and based on unmistakable evidence. That’s why we’re closely monitoring Yavlinsky’s Belgravia apartment. There’s been an awful lot of people activity taking place there lately, which has nothing to do with the ongoing renovations he’s having done.’
‘Where’s Yavlinsky, now?’
‘He’s still in the capital as far as we know, but he’s an elusive operator to pin down.’
‘Hence the codename – Chameleon.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What about credit card transactions?’ Mason asked.
‘That’s already been taken care of. If he hires a car, books a flight or train ticket to Timbuctoo we’ll immediately know about it.’
‘That could be useful.’
‘Not really as he uses cash most of the time or gets someone else to pay for things.’
‘What about undercover surveillance?’
‘If we do get a sniff he’s heading north, you’ll be the first to know.’
Mason felt an adrenaline rush. ‘Before you hang up, this video you sent me. The one involving the woman boarding the plane at Heathrow airport with Yavlinsky. Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Tatiana Meshkova and she works at the Russian Trade Delegation building in West Hill Park. We’ve checked with the UK Border Force and she’s a regular passenger on the Moscow to Heathrow flight. From what we can gather, we believe Yavlinsky may have teamed up with her on a previous flight as we’re unable to find a connection.’
‘In other words, keep an eye out for Tatiana!’
‘Precisely. We know she carries a Moldovan passport and lives in Moscow, so she could be operating incognito.’
‘It all sounds a bit fluffy to me.’
‘I’m afraid so, but we do have a reliable source at the Russian Embassy ––’ The officer’s voice tailed off.
‘And?’
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about – not at this stage of our investigations.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ Mason replied.
His line went dead.
Mason turned to DS Savage who was staring over the harbour wall. ‘We need to tighten up on our security arrangements. . . got any thoughts?’
The detective stared at him and frowned. ‘What are the rules of engagement, boss?’
‘It’s still weapons-free according to the Area Commander.’
‘A shoot on sight policy or simply bring them to ground?’
‘I just want these bastards kept off my patch. How we achieve that depends on what Yavlinsky intends to do to the boy. I’m praying he’s forgotten about the Chopwell Wood incident, as I’m––’
‘Do you honestly believe he’ll do that?’ Savage cut in.
‘Probably not. But it’s a nice thought.’
‘We’ve been down this avenue before. It’s not enough to just kill someone, you need a plan in place beforehand. Believe me, these foreign agents will do their homework before they make any moves.’ Savage frowned. ‘Where’s Yavlinsky now?’
‘Somewhere in the capital according to Special Branch.’
‘It’s my view he’s planning to head north,’ Savage said thoughtfully.
Mason scratched his head in bewilderment. ‘What gives him the divine right to go after a ten-year child?’
‘Most foreign agents are self-employed entrepreneurs who are paid to do a job. Once all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, they don’t give a toss who they kill.’
‘You’ve been watching too many movies, Rob.’
‘Bollocks!’
Mason nodded as he wrote something down in his notebook. ‘Yavlinsky’s main interest lies in money laundering, turning dirty money into legitimate assets.’
‘There’s more to it than that. The clients who employ people like Yavlinsky want to know what they’re getting for their money.’ Savage glared at him. ‘And they certainly don’t want their identities exposed.’
Caught in two minds, Mason felt his throat tighten. ‘Is that how he’s making his money, do you think – a professional hitman?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Especially knowing the type of people he’s dealing with.’
‘In which case we need to make life difficult for him.’
As they climbed into the unmarked pool car and slammed the doors shut behind them, minds began to focus. They’d been over this ground at least a dozen times – each time was more intense. If the Russian was about to strike, they would need to be ready for him.
Shoot to kill and cover up later.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The idea of slipping into a wet suit and vomiting into a face mask somehow didn’t appeal to Stephen Rice. Not in a month of Sundays. One thing was for sure: obtaining a medical certificate to certify he was fit to dive in Spain was completely out of the question. He was ill and he couldn’t put a finger on it. His mind all over the place, Rice shuffled awkwardly along L’Estartit port’s cobbled streets feeling decidedly miserable. Everything was an effort these days, and it wasn’t getting any easier. Apart from developing lower back pains, large clumps of hair were falling out of his head. If matters didn’t improve drastically within the next twenty-four hours, he would need to check in at the town’s medical centre – which he knew was open daily from ten o’clock onwards.
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