Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  Then he heard a rumbling sound – faint and growing louder. As the ground beneath his feet began to shake, he caught the flickering halogen lights of a slow approaching freight train and craned his neck to take a better look. It was trundling towards him with ease and making light work of the uphill gradient. He knew it was a long shot, knew he had to run the gauntlet, but he might even catch these bastards napping.

  It was perfect!

  His foot cut to ribbons from the sharp track ballast crushed stone, he crawled beneath the long line of stationary freight wagons and waited. His mind running amok, what he wouldn’t give for a size nine shoe and an AK-47 Russian assault rifle right now. Crouching low beneath the skyline, he tried to get a better fix. There was a strong stench of diesel fumes, and it almost caused him to sneeze.

  It was all about timing and making the right decisions. One false move and he would die under a hail of bullets and his body taken to a crematorium for overnight disposal. That’s how these bastards operated. Out of sight and out of mind.

  The rumbling noise grew louder.

  It was close!

  He pocketed the syringe and crawled forward a fraction. Nerves jangling on edge, at the very last second, he scampered in front of the slow-moving freight train and caught the sheer look of horror on the engine driver’s face.

  Textbook, he smiled, as a warning horn almost caused him to scream.

  Then over his right shoulder, Chameleon caught the unbelievable look of astonishment on the senior armed officer’s face – he was almost home and dry.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Jack Mason nearly jumped out of his skin the moment the helicopter swooped low overhead. Hovering some forty feet above his position, he watched as two smoke grenades were thrown from an open doorway. He could see the slow-moving freight train passing in front of them, and Yavlinsky breaking from cover. He was slipping away from them, looking over his shoulder and hobbling into the swirling white mist.

  Out foxed, there seemed little chance of catching the Russian now. Having made good his escape, he was making towards the small coppice opposite just as Mason had predicted he would. In what seemed to take an eternity, the freight train finally cleared their path. The next thing he heard, as Mason crossed over several lanes of high-speed track, was the warning horn of a fast-approaching Intercity train.

  He stiffened.

  Then, all hell was suddenly let loose.

  First, a short burst of automatic gunfire, followed by sporadic single round gunshots. He could hear shouting to his left, but his visibility was impaired by swirling smoke. Mason’s first reaction was to take on a defensive stance, confront the Russian if he tried to retreat.

  As gaps opened up in the smoke, his grip on the Smith & Wesson tightened.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Mason demanded.

  ‘Yavlinsky’s surrounded, boss,’ DS Savage replied, closing down on his position and pointing. ‘There, just below the road bridge.’

  Eyes straining through white mist, not sixty metres away Mason could see a group of specialist firearms officers huddled in a circle. One of them, the senior officer, kept pointing in a southerly direction as if giving out instructions.

  Mason pushed forward.

  Still no sign of the Russian showing, these people seemed far too relaxed and he was itching to take back control. Then someone shouted out to him, and it caused him to jerk his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mason demanded. ‘Where the hell is Yavlinsky?’

  ‘Somewhere between Lamesley and Birtley,’ came back the reply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Relax, Chief Inspector. All railway lines between Newcastle and Durham have been shut down for safety reasons.’

  Not until reaching the road bridge did Mason see the full extent of the damage – and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Normally in charge of operations such as these, he now was forced to play second fiddle to Special Branch. This was his patch, his territory, and he didn't like it at all. He’d been here before, of course, but this time felt different.

  Then out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a severed arm. It was lying trackside along with other chunks of human flesh. Moving forward to take a closer look, the area suddenly resembled a slaughterhouse.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ Mason demanded.

  A sturdy built man in his late thirties stepped forward and was quick to signal his position. ‘We’re all but done here, Chief Inspector. It’s down to you now.’

  Mason glared at him. ‘What happened here exactly?’

  ‘It seems your man ran into the path of an oncoming high-speed Intercity-Express and never saw it coming.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Mason gasped.

  ‘I doubt there’s much left of him, especially the speed the train was travelling at. He would have burst open like a balloon full of water.’

  ‘He ran in front of it, you say?’

  ‘Well that’s what my report will say,’ the officer nodded.

  As it slowly began to sink in, Mason had calmed down a tad. ‘Is this all that remains of him?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. But he’ll not give you any more trouble.’

  ‘Anyone else hurt?’

  ‘None of my team, that’s why we insisted you people stay put.’

  Feeling a right prat, Mason stood for a moment, thinking.

  ‘I saw him break cover but the moment he ran into the smoke screen I lost all track of him.’

  ‘He was obviously disorientated.’ The officer smiled. ‘Smoke and stun grenades only adds to their confusion.’

  Mason stared at him. ‘I thought I heard gunshots. What was that all about?’

  The officer was quick to react. ‘Once my men have returned to base, they’ll all be debriefed. That’s how it works, I’m afraid. No more questions.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mason acknowledged, knowing he’d overstepped the mark.

  This wasn’t the kind of ending he’d hoped for, but at least it meant less paperwork. Soon the transport police would arrive, and a major clean-up operation would begin. It wouldn’t take long, and in a few hours from now everything would be back to normal again – whatever normal meant. God, what a mess.

  Mason turned his head instinctively as the two police helicopters came into view again. Hovering low above a small piece of waste ground some twenty metres to his left, the specialist armed officers swiftly clambered onboard. Minutes later, they were airborne and skimming the rooftops over Birtley and heading in a southerly direction.

  Mason shifted his position as his radio crackled into life. It was his counterpart from Special Branch.

  ‘Sorry about the mess, old boy. You deserve better.’

  ‘No problem,’ Mason replied.

  Relieved it was over, the Chief Inspector began to take it all in. Seldom did the ground troops ever receive accolades for their achievements as it was considered part of their job. Once the dust had settled and the diplomatic channels had been smoothed over, no doubt the senior officers would be looking favourably at the annual honours list. It was strange how some officers crawled out of the woodwork on occasions such as these. It was an all too familiar occurrence – people you’d never met before, faces you didn’t recognise, the cockroaches from under the floorboards.

  More than pleased with the way his team had handled the operation, Mason began to think about his future. At least young Martin Kennedy was safe, and that was a major plus.

  His iPhone rang, and he checked the display.

  It was Barbara Lockwood, his physiotherapist. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.’

  ‘I’m rather tied up at the moment, Barbara,’ he replied, staring down at what remained of Yavlinsky. ‘Can I call you back later?’

  ‘Is everything on for tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Its just that I have a little surprise in store for you.’

  His mi
nd all over the place, Mason could barely contain himself. God, he thought. He’d never felt like this in a long time.

  His friend hung up.

  ‘I take it you’ll not be joining us for tonight’s pub quiz final?’ DS Savage said desperately trying to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Not tonight, Rob. Something rather urgent has cropped up.’

  ‘Pity,’ Savage sighed, ‘because tonight’s the big one.’

  Indeed, Mason thought. In more ways than one.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Jack Mason felt upbeat when he entered the Chief Constable’s office the following morning. Now that Yavlinsky was no longer a threat, he could turn his attentions towards the other exposed people involved in the trail. He still had a few loose ends to tie up, but that was mainly paperwork and the odd interview he’d arranged. It had been one hell of a ride, not to mention his spat with DI Gamble. He’d lost control as usual, and it had almost cost him his job because of it. But that was behind him now, and he was really looking forward to some quality time off.

  He stared at his notes and smiled. Never in a million years did he dream that his physiotherapist, Barbara Lockwood, would agree to them taking a long weekend break away together. Italy, Florence, where they could take in a few tourist attractions and get to know one another better. Nothing serious, of course, and it was all new territory. There was so much to talk about, and they’d reached a point in the relationship were past secrets were about to unravel.

  ‘It’s not general knowledge,’ the Chief Constable began, ‘but I’ve just been informed by the Home Office that Special Branch had been shadowing Grigori Yavlinsky’s for a considerable length of time.’

  ‘You’re joking, sir.’

  ‘That’s Secret Services for you, but I thought you should know.’ The Chief Constable’s frown lines tightened. ‘Which reminds me, Counter Terrorist Command will want to interview you over the Yavlinsky incident. It’s purely a clean-up exercise, but they’ll probably ask a few awkward questions nevertheless. . . national security and all that.’

  Mason thanked him, and then said. ‘What about the trial itself, sir?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Special Branch about that, and according to sources in Whitehall they’ve now uncovered at least another dozen new fake companies connected with this money laundering scam. Apart from the usual suspects, they’ve revealed an important link to a bank in China.’

  ‘Really?’

  The Chief Constable cocked his head to one side. ‘No thanks to you, the CPS now have enough hard evidence to prove that much of the dirty money coming out of Russia is being routed through South American banks including several branches in Mexico. From there it can go anywhere, and I’m told a trail involving 48 countries and over 15,000 offshore banking transactions has since been uncovered.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s unbelievable, sir.’

  ‘And all because of a tiny USB memory stick no bigger than your little finger.’

  Mason drew back in his seat. ‘No doubt the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau are cock-a-hoop over this.’

  ‘They are, as most of the money that vanishes into the twilight world of offshore banking is difficult to track down. It’s a well thought out operation, and one that cleverly mingles fake transactions with real ones. Once the money lands in offshore accounts it simply vanishes into the London property market. Having said that, the problem that Special Branch are now faced with is that at least one in ten of the properties in the London borough of Kensington & Chelsea are owned through a “secrecy jurisdiction” such as the British Virgin Islands, Jersey, and the Isle of Man.’

  ‘Do we know who is masterminding it?’

  ‘That’s one for the Home Secretary to sort out.’ The Chief Constable put his pen down and gave Mason a guarded look. ‘If nothing else it shows the true extent to which these people are willing to go.’

  Mason thought a moment. ‘Stephen Rice had certainly done his homework, and there was little wonder why the Russians were keen to get rid of him as they did.’

  ‘Money laundering is rife, Chief Inspector, and the British government is keen to put a stop to it.’

  ‘Do we know who Yavlinsky was working for?’

  ‘We do,’ the Chief Constable said, matter of fact. ‘He was employed by a Russian organised crime group which mainly operates in Europe with connections to the political underworld. Corrupt Russian Oligarchs mainly, and several well-known dishonest British businessmen who between them have set up a network of dummy offshore accounts. Now that Yavlinsky’s undercover operation has been blown, things should quieten down a tad.’

  ‘Is this how the Russians are able to buy into the London property market, using corrupt British property agents?’

  ‘Indeed, and it just goes to show what we’re up against.’ The Chief Constable looked at his watch as if time was a premium. ‘When are you due to meet the press?

  ‘Eleven-thirty, sir.’

  The Chief Constable folded his arms and gave him a serious look. ‘I’m instructed by Special Branch to divert the media’s attention away from any mention of a Russian connection. As for Yavlinsky’s death, we need to convince the public that he took his own life by jumping in front of a high-speed train rather than face the reality of a hefty prison sentence.’

  ‘He probably did.’ Mason smiled. ‘But what if they question me over the barrister’s death?’

  ‘Let’s stick with our original story on that. As far as the press are concerned, we’re still in the throes of investigating a suspicious suicide and are keeping an open mind about it. Six months from now, and everyone will have forgotten that the case ever existed.’

  ‘And Stephen Rice? How do you wish me to handle that?’

  ‘Rice had nothing to do with the Northumbria Police as far as I’m concerned – that’s strictly a matter for the Metropolitan Police to sort out.’

  Mason checked his watch as he stood to leave. ‘I better get going, sir.’

  ‘There is one other thing––’

  He turned sharply back from the door. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There are a few aspects of your conduct that appear to have fallen well short of that expected of a senior police officer. No doubt the Area Commander will fill you in with the details.’

  ‘Regarding what exactly?’

  ‘I’m led to believe there’s been an official complaint lodged against you.’

  Mason smiled. ‘That wouldn’t be Detective Inspector Gamble, would it?’

  The Chief Constable lifted his head as if the matter had already been decided. ‘If you do have plans for future promotion, may I suggest you curb your hostility towards junior ranking officers. Anger is a normal, healthy emotion. But it’s unhealthy when it flares up and spirals out of control.’

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Only to say that I’m more than pleased with the way you and your team have handled the operation, you’ve done the Northumbria force proud. This has been an extremely demanding case and you have tackled it with the utmost professionalism under very difficult circumstances.’

  Mason closed the door behind him knowing full well he wasn’t in line for any future commendations, let alone a mention in any New Year Honours list. No, Mason thought. Best leave that to the top brass to sort out, and let the grassroots officers get on with what they do best. . . fighting the real villains.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Twenty minutes later, Jack Mason was sitting in his office answering emails. At least the CPS now had enough hard evidence to make corrupt Eastern-European bankers think twice about moving their ill-gotten gains into British shores again. More importantly, the barrister Margaret Cooper hadn’t died in vain. It wasn’t the greatest ending he could have wished for, but after months spent trying to bring about Grigori Yavlinsky’s downfall, he’d finally stepped into the path of an oncoming high-speed train rather than face the cruel death of toxic poisoning. It wasn’t general knowledge, of course, but he knew that cross-contamina
tion had played a major part in all of this.

  Thinking he was having a good day, his desk phone rang.

  ‘Jack Mason, how can I help?’

  It was his old boss back at the London Metropolitan, and his voice was in sombre mood. ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient, Jack.’

  ‘Everything’s fine. What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. It’s about your ex-wife––’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Brenda was involved in a tragic road traffic accident at 7:32 am this morning and was pronounced dead at the scene.’

  Mason sat stunned. His head was spinning, and he could not stop shaking. Even though they were never on good speaking terms towards the end, he still had a lot of fond memories.

  ‘Dead?’ he whispered. ‘What, Brenda?’

  ‘I’m sorry Jack, but that’s as much as I know at this stage.’

  ‘Was she driving. . . alone. . . what happened?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that it occurred on the northbound carriageway of the M25, and a male passenger who was with her at the time was also pronounced dead at the scene.’

  ‘This is awful––’

  His phone went quiet for some seconds.

  ‘There is a helpline number you can ring, and I’m sure they will tell you more than I can.’

  Mason picked up a pen and couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. Nothing made sense anymore, as if his entire world had suddenly been turned on its head and he was spiralling out of control. He wrote the number down and repeated it back over the phone.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The phone went quiet, then dead.

  Still deep in shock, Mason stared out of his office window and tried to think straight. Never in a million years had he imagined it would all end like this. He’d experienced death in the family before, many times, but nothing compared to this.