Hunting the Wrecking Crew: An Eric Stone Novel

by Nick Albert

  Eventually, desperate for money, he returned to his native England and performed in bars and on street corners, picking up money wherever he could; usually it was from someone’s wallet. Magicians rely on sleight of hand, manual dexterity, and misdirection to perform an illusion; the same skills are needed to pick pockets, and Peter White was a very capable pickpocket. His route into the Wrecking Crew was slightly unconventional.

  One sunny afternoon in Reading Town centre, Peter was caught trying to pick the pocket of a violent and vindictive man who was also one of the Wrecking Crew’s security men. By pure luck, Kitten’s twin brother Bunny, happened to spot the skilful theft. Peter thought he had gotten clean away, until a massive hand closed around his arm like a steel vice; then he thought he was about to die. For once, the two Neanderthal bodyguards acted with some initiative and kept the hapless pickpocket in the boot of their car until they could speak with their boss. The Fixer immediately realised that this hapless thief had skills and contacts that could add value to the capabilities of the Wrecking Crew, and he made Peter White an offer he could not refuse. Join us or die.

  For Peter, it was a good decision, regardless of the alternative, as he soon became a successful and respected member of the crew. As production manager, he was responsible for most activities that involved getting someone close to a target. Carefully put together and rigorously trained, his regular team of over fifty people included actors, magicians, pickpockets, prostitutes, and former military personnel. They had an excellent performance record, and were skilled in the arts of surveillance, theft, intimidation, and bribery. At first sight, the cast may have seemed overly large, but to use a theatrical analogy, many of the players would only have walk on parts.

  Even the apparently simple act of planting a bug in someone’s house to gather information for a client could require a team of ten or twelve people. First, the target (or ‘mark’) must be followed to ensure that the people planting the bug are not discovered. If you want to covertly observe a mark who is out walking, you cannot just put on a hat, a false moustache, and sunglasses, and walk behind him; you are likely to be spotted within a couple of minutes. Successful surveillance would require a walking box of at least four people, surrounding the mark at varying distances of up to thirty feet, almost like an unseen security detail. To prevent the mark from seeing any player too frequently, these four close-in players will move around within the box and randomly be replaced by players from a second team acting as a wide perimeter. All of the players would be in constant communication, via micro radio receivers, with a central controller who can visually monitor and direct the mission.

  At the same time, a second team would be needed to observe and monitor the house where the bug was to be planted. Two to four players would watch the street to ensure that the entry and departure was unobserved. Finally, a further team of three would actually perform the break-in and plant the bugs.

  Even then, the circumstances may not be suitable to permit an entry on the first, second, or even the fifth attempt. Perhaps the street was too busy, perhaps the mark was too close to the house, or more likely, the lock refused to yield to the lock pick at the first attempt. The apparently simple task of planting a bug in a mark’s house could require a team of sixteen people, and take several days. The Wrecking Crew may charge a considerable fee for its services, but they had a flawless record of achievement — until now.

  With a snort of disgust, The Fixer dropped the report on the table, pointed at Becka, and barked a single word.

  “Explain.”

  Becka leaned back in her chair and raised her palms in the international sign of innocence.

  “Hey Boss, it wasn’t my fault the guy offed himself, I did just what you asked.”

  She carried on talking rather too quickly, counting off the points on her fingers as The Fixer continued to stare at her unblinkingly.

  “OK. First, I got close enough to this guy, Rathbone, so that I could get remote access to his smart phone. It was ridiculously easy — some people are so careless. I sat at the back of the pub where he was having a meal with some guy. I had my laptop set up to scan for Wi-Fi requests and within seconds his house name popped up. Most people make that mistake, calling their home Wi-Fi network something obvious. As I said, some people are stupid. Then I created a clone of his home Wi-Fi, logged him in, and enjoyed a drink as his phone backed up all of his data onto my laptop.

  “It took me a day to sort through the data. His phone yielded all of his bank information, mail, diary, and his password; we got lucky there, he used the same password throughout. Then using his bank details, Helen was able to make payments to a cloned credit card that she had already used to create accounts at some of the least reputable porn sites.”

  The Fixer gave Helen a small nod of acknowledgement and a smile, which was politely returned.

  “A couple of days later he was back at the same pub again and I was able to upload a good chunk of our own kiddie porn collection to a hidden folder on his phone, I also added a new history and some interesting bookmarks to his browser, and disabled the privacy settings. The next time he synced that phone to his laptop, all of those pictures, videos and settings were copied across.

  “Later that week, I used one of our sleeper agents to plant the fake report about Rathbone in Afghanistan; you may recall that our guy is a file clerk with the Ministry of Defence. He’s still involved in his little gun running operation; it’s quite profitable, so he was more than willing to help. Once I had called the police and given an anonymous tip about Rathbone accessing child porn, the whole project grew legs of its own.”

  Becka raised her hands a little higher this time, to emphasize the point.

  “My work was exemplary, perfect in every detail. No fault here…. He wasn’t even due to be arrested until next week, so it wasn’t my fault that he got cancer and blew his head off!”

  She sat back and folded her arms with a huff worthy of a disgruntled teenager.

  “OK, Becka,” The Fixer conceded after a long pause. “Good work as always. You can relax.”

  He gave her a brief smile, and rotated his uncomfortably direct gaze towards the opposite side of the table.

  “Peter? Tell me about the surveillance; any problems?”

  “No, nothing Boss,” Peter shook his head firmly. “It all went like clockwork. I brought in a team of watchers from way south of London, all unrecognizable. As usual, I added one local guy to help with the geography. He had never met Rathbone and didn’t know him, so he couldn’t have been recognized either. We were clean.”

  “Norris here dug into his data bank and got us a good deal of tracking history from Rathbone’s mobile, his credit card, and a radio frequency chip — I think it was from his shoes?”

  He looked at Norris Halpin, who nodded to indicate that the information was indeed correct. Peter continued.

  “So we knew at the outset where he was likely to go. That made it easy to plan ahead. The surveillance was textbook. The guy was as regular as clockwork, so regular it was boring; Christ, he even took a dump at the same time every day. There is no way that he made us…. NO WAY!”

  He rubbed his face in frustration.

  “As you know, we started our operation as soon as he arrived back from his trip to America. Since then he was never out of our sight, except for when he was in his home, and the three times that he went into the House of Commons, where even we couldn’t follow — not without special passes. Anyway, thanks to Becka, we knew from his diary that he was meeting with the current MP for his local constituency. She’s an independent MP who is retiring before the next election. We believe he was trying to win her support for his campaign. Our brief was just to watch and report; up to the moment that he stuck the gun in his mouth, everything seemed in order. It’s all in my report.”

  The Fixer slowly flicked through the pages before him for a second time, the uncomfortable silence was emphasised by the rhythmic tapping of his pen on the table. Finally,
he closed the report, folded his fingers together, and gave his team a wide smile.

  “OK. For the time being we will file his death under ‘Shit happens’, but it still seems a little odd. Let’s find out what we can about this guy Stone — but off the books please, I don’t want the client to know we have any doubts about this suicide.”

  He pushed the report to one side and subtly changed his posture to one that was less threatening.

  “We all need to get back to our desks, so let’s quickly summarise the progress on our other live projects. Item one, Harry Harrington and the planning application for Whitewater farm. Sorry Peter, back to you again — any progress?”

  This time Peter White sat forward and spoke with an air of excitement.

  “Yes Boss, we got a result there. My people were able to keep tabs on this Alan Merry, the Councillor from Reading. We got photos of his family, wife, grandkids, and his new girlfriend — it was the usual stuff. I used one of our London girls to give him a few afternoons of unforgettable pleasure; the poor guy never saw it coming. Then I caught up with him at a pub to deliver the message, ‘Vote for Whitewater farm or else’, and he folded up like a cheap stepladder. Job done…case closed. Incidentally, I’ve put this Alan Merry character into the sleeper file — he may be useful again.”

  “Well done, Peter,” The Fixer nodded with a smile. “Please thank your team for their excellent work.”

  Peter smiled back proudly. “Thanks, Boss.”

  “Right then, item number two.” The Fixer paused for a moment, his lips drawn tight in obvious anger. “Last month Becka received information from her source in GCHQ that someone had searched for, accessed, and copied files relating to our work. Obviously, any leak of this information would pose a considerable risk to us all. Our usual operative was already engaged in other duties so, given the need for urgency in this matter, I immediately dispatched Kitten and Bunny to solve the problem.”

  The Fixer looked over his shoulder and gave his two massive bodyguards a tight smile, which was met with an almost imperceptible nod. When Kitten spoke in heavily accented English, his voice had an unnaturally high pitched, almost girlish, quality, brought on by years of steroid misuse. He read his report, slowly and carefully, from a folded sheet of paper that he had removed from his jacket pocket.

  “As directed, we picked up the subject at his house. He was an old man and gave no resistance. After a short interrogation…” Kitten paused and gave what he may have considered an ironic smile, “the subject gave us a data stick that contained the files he had stolen. We questioned him thoroughly to make sure that we had the only copy of these files.”

  Kitten’s eyes took on a dreamy quality, as he replayed the event in his head. He carried on reading in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  “Afterwards we took him into the woods, where we broke his hip. Then we set up a tent for shelter, so we could stay warm while we waited for him to die of exposure.”

  Kitten gave a nod and respectfully handed the report to The Fixer. Not to be left out, Bunny added his postscript.

  “It was cold and wet, and we had laid him in a muddy puddle, so it didn’t take too long for him to die. I played with his dog while we waited.”

  A few people shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. The Fixer put the single sheet with the other reports and lifted a final page.

  “Ah yes, we can close with this one. The South West rail franchise, I have a final report from Chameleon.”

  The people around the table stiffened visibly.

  “Our client wanted to gain the upper hand in the bidding process and felt that his competitor’s greatest strength was their formidable and charismatic chief executive, Lynda Devon. We were tasked with removing the dear lady, permanently, but without any suggestion of foul play. Naturally, I handed the completion of this assignment over to Chameleon.”

  The Fixer nodded to himself.

  “It seems that early on Tuesday morning, Ms Devon was driving her car along a quiet stretch of road, when this expensive vehicle’s automatic stability system suddenly malfunctioned, causing the car to swerve and collide head on with a fully laden HGV. According to the police report, Ms Devon was initially seen to be alive, although gravely injured. In his statement, the lorry driver, who was himself shocked but uninjured, reported that while he was calling the emergency services, a passing pedestrian had attempted to administer CPR. However, when the lorry driver returned to the scene a few moments later, Ms Devon was deceased and the helpful pedestrian had vanished.”

  The Fixer scanned the faces around the room, like a teacher checking that all of his pupils were paying attention.

  “The coroner’s report later showed that Ms Devon had suffered several serious, but survivable injuries to her legs, chest and face, but had died from choking on a marshmallow that had become lodged in her throat. An open packet of marshmallows was found in the side pocket of the car, the mystery pedestrian was never identified.”

  He gave a little smile.

  “This tragic news caused the share price of Devon Rail to fall sharply, and on the back of this turmoil, our client has now secured the contract he desired so dearly.”

  There was a moments silence while The Fixer placed the report on top of the other files.

  “Chalk up another success to the elusive Chameleon. Now we can all sleep safely in our beds,” Helen Atkins said with heavy irony.

  “Or not!” Becka added. “His is not a face that I would ever want to see, or even know.”

  “Last thing you ever saw if you did,” Gordon McIntosh spat coldly.

  Peter joined in. “Privacy and secrecy is why he is so successful. Isn’t that right, Boss?”

  “Alright children, that’s enough!” The Fixer shouted, waving his hand at the group. “Let’s all get back to work, please.”

  He helped himself to some coffee and a pastry from a side table as the team shuffled out, then he looked towards Kitten and Bunny, who were still leaning against the far wall.

  “You two as well please, I have some work I need to do. Close the door as you go.”

  The twins glanced at each other for a moment, shared a barely perceptible shrug, and walked casually out of the room.

  When the door was shut, The Fixer returned to his seat where he slowly ate the pastry and sipped his coffee, savouring the bitter taste in silence as he organised his thoughts. After a while, he picked up the report on Charles Rathbone and carefully read through it again, stopping occasionally to write notes in the margin and underlining a particular name with three heavy lines. At the end of the report, he paused for several seconds, tapping the page with his pen before coming to a decision.

  The Fixer reached forward and switched off his mobile phone. Then he reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a second mobile. There was one person on the planet who knew the number of this phone, and the phone’s memory contained only one number. He dialled that number now and listened, counting quietly as it rang six times, before hanging up. Then he sent a single word by text, an identifying code word. The word was different each day; it was always the first three letters of the day, three days previously. Today was Wednesday, so he sent the letters MON. If the code were ever incorrect, the number that he dialled for the second time would remain unanswered forever. Today it was answered on the second ring; a flat metallic, computer generated voice grated sharply in his ear.

  “SPEAK!”

  Even though he was the employer, he found his throat constricting involuntarily. He coughed to cover his tension and then spoke the single word that re-established his authority. There was a moment of silence, disturbed by a faint electrical crackle, before the voice of death spoke again.

  “Go ahead, I am listening.”

  “Hello Chameleon, I have two new targets for you.”

  ***

  Stone had stopped the video to allow himself a few moments of silence to process the enormity of what he was hearing. Staring at the face of his best friend,
temporarily frozen by the video in an unfortunate comical pose, stuck somewhere between a laugh and a sneeze, Eric had no doubt that Charles was telling the truth. Any allegation of child abuse tended to prompt an instant reaction of revulsion along with an internal dialog of, ‘No smoke without fire’. Even if the allegation was later proved false, the damage was instantly done and permanently irreversible. However, in the case of Charles Rathbone, Eric was certain — as absolute as the existence of gravity and as unquestionable as the sun coming up tomorrow — that the allegation was made up.

  On the other hand, the story about this Wrecking Crew seemed more like a conspiracy theory, easy to claim but difficult to prove. With his stomach growling with hunger and the first indigestible seeds of doubt, Stone leaned forward and tapped the play button once again. Charles’ image was released from its unfortunate pose, and he began to talk again.

  “Eric, I know that the idea of this secret organisation sounds fanciful and made up, but I can assure you that every word I am about to tell you is true. The information first came to me from a trusted source that knew about this Wrecking Crew and had high-level access to documents through his position at GCHQ. He was a man of the greatest integrity, he was fiercely patriotic, and yet experienced enough to understand that sometimes governments need to perform secret and unpalatable acts to protect its citizens. To believe otherwise would be naive.

  The Wrecking Crew is a privately operated team with some very special skills. They even have their own assassin who calls himself ‘Chameleon’, I think he may be ex-special forces, perhaps Russian or Israeli. This team of specialists was originally put together as a deniable asset that was able to manipulate, discredit, destroy, or dispatch, anybody, anywhere — for a fee. However, as the world security situation became less cold war and more about fighting insurgents, the military requirements became less subtle. Consequently, this Wrecking Crew started to take on freelance work, mostly in the UK — and not all of it was deemed acceptable. In his research, my source found clear evidence that the Wrecking Crew was now operating beyond government control, and in a way, that was undermining our freedom and democracy. He was so disturbed by what he had found that, at great risk to his life and liberty; he copied those documents and gave them to me.