Failsafe Query

by Michael Jenkins

  Chapter 13

  Baker Street, London, 12 April 2016

  Sean arrived at the Baker Street complex alone. He pressed the bell next to the intercom. Alfie was now an official ‘MISSING PERSON’ case with the Metropolitan Police and access to his flat was strictly controlled following a forensic search. Jack had arranged access to the flat, which was on a mezzanine floor in a set of mansions close to the Tube station in Marylebone.

  The porter opened the door to Bedford Mansions and greeted Sean with a very polite nod, a smile and the words ‘Welcome, sir’.

  ‘I’m here to see Ron,’ Sean explained. ‘I’m the agent for number 24.’ He was politely asked to enter and invited to sign the visitors’ book. Ron was sitting in his small office situated just to the left of the large reception area, which was decorated with large black and white pictures of the enormous mansions located near the Tube station, all of them from the ’30s. It was useful to have an ex-army manager, thought Sean – someone with whom he could build a rapport to see who had been visiting or entering Alfie’s small dwelling.

  He agreed with Ron that he needed a couple of hours inside the flat to make an inventory and take photos for the owner.

  ‘Did he have many visitors over the months?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Hardly any that I was ever aware of,’ Ron replied, taking his glasses off. ‘We can have a look at the visitors’ book and I’m happy to help in whatever way you need whilst you’re here – did you know him?’

  ‘Not very well,’ Sean said. ‘Just the odd time when he popped into the office. I noticed your military pictures in your office by the way – and the marching music. Who did you serve with?’

  ‘Twenty-two years in the Royal Green Jackets – man and boy,’ Ron said. ‘Retired a few years ago and landed this job as the facilities manager. Love it.’

  Ron walked Sean upstairs, explaining his career history as they went. ‘Best thing I ever did, retiring,’ he said. ‘This company looks after me well and I get a tidy little flat plus they give me time off for my regimental association work too.’

  ‘Sound like a really good deal,’ Sean said. ‘Nice to see you landed on your feet and they value your service.’

  ‘Love it when a plan comes together,’ Ron said with a beaming smile as they arrived at number 24. ‘Feel free to do whatever you need, and pop in if you need me for anything.’ Sean shook Ron’s hand, turned the key to enter the flat and made a mental note to check the CCTV later.

  He wondered if there were any hidden cameras as he stretched his neck looking around the apartment. He couldn’t be sure of anything being safe now. Especially after Alfie had been so easily lifted and nabbed by the opposition before Jack could get to him. From this point onwards, he knew he could be followed and wondered exactly who the opposition were.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered, scanning the small flat. ‘Too many places to hide things, old-style decor and wooden floorboards everywhere.’ He suspected Alfie would have been ingenious if he had hidden anything in the flat relating to his escape plan – and he also knew that the police search teams could easily have missed anything Alfie had cleverly concealed.

  He tried to put his mind into Alfie’s. He sat on the leather seat in the small lounge that overlooked Baker Street and thought. How would Alfie have done it? Where would he hide something important? He sat there for a good fifteen minutes, the sounds of traffic on Baker Street occasionally interrupting his thoughts, and then set about his task. If it was him doing this, what would he do to leave a clue in the event of being kidnapped? What kind of trail would he leave? Where would he hide such a clue?

  He felt sure Alfie would want to leave a clue, a trail, a jigsaw puzzle to lead to the files as a contingency if he was lifted or killed. A kind of failsafe plan. He figured that Alfie would want to have done just that to show he was committed in what he was doing, believed in exposing the truth and would leave his own unique, indelible mark on the world once he was gone. His own legacy, but how? What did Sean need to look for? He knew any IT devices would have been forensically searched by the police and wondered if Box or MI6 were at all involved at this stage and, if so, what did they know? Did they know anything at all of Alfie’s plan to whistle-blow? Was Dominic right that only he and Jack knew? And the other agencies didn’t? He cast his mind into the track and trace world of an old master spook of the past. What would Wynthrop have done, he thought?

  He began in the bathroom and looked carefully for any subtle changes to pipework, decor or panels that would, to a very observant eye, show the absence of the normal or the presence of the abnormal. It was his eyes that did the searching, nothing else. He knew Alfie wouldn’t have concealed items in obvious places as the police would have found them. Sean knew it would be a devious, cleverly thought-through concealment. Next, he moved to the hall and looked for small cavities, openings and recesses that might conceal small credit cards or notes. He looked at the balustrades for any sign of tampering, and he looked at the fixtures and fittings for any signs of small voids, chip marks or paint missing from screws. He noticed some paint scratches on a low-level plug fitting, but the sealant looked OK and was undisturbed. He knew Alfie wouldn’t have concealed anything in items that could be removed, such as TVs, radios or bedside lamps.

  It took him over fifty minutes to search using only his eyes. And then he sat down for a rethink. He closed his eyes and tried to put himself inside Alfie’s mind again. He wouldn’t have used the floorboards, clothes or removable items and he discounted difficult to get at areas such as the ceiling.

  ‘I know you’ve done it, Alfie, but where, you devious bastard?’ he mouthed out loud.

  It wasn’t until he looked inside the tiny broom cupboard in the hall, just as he was about to leave, that something appeared odd. He noticed a light fitting but couldn’t see the light switch. That was until he peered round the inside of the door frame, with some discomfort, and saw that there was indeed an ancient, dysfunctional switch. He hadn’t seen that before when he had first looked inside with a small torch. He flicked the switch. Nothing. He then manoeuvred himself by bending his back and reversing into the cupboard to look more directly into the darkness at the switch cover. No good. He couldn’t see a thing. He tutted. Then he squeezed out of the space to stretch into a more upright position.

  ‘That’s bloody hard to get at,’ he said. He went to the kitchen to grab the larger torch from a toolbox he had looked at earlier and then squeezed himself back into position. His heart began racing at the prospect of finding a possible clue. He shone the torch, noticing that the switch cover was not firmly fitted to the wall, and that the seal on the paint around it had been broken. He could immediately tell that the cover had been removed after painting had taken place and that a gap had been left in the seal. He used the tiniest of Phillips screwdrivers to remove two screws with some ease. It was the smallest of voids, but enough for a plastic-wrapped package. Sweat dripped from his brow and he started breathing faster, knowing he had found something important.

  He extracted the wraps in the light from the corridor. Inside were two credit cards, a passport and a number of pieces of paper with codes on them. Some seemed like bank PIN numbers; others he didn’t recognise at all. On another piece of paper were numerous email addresses. And on another, writing that seemed to be the user name and codes for a web portal. He looked at this one more closely. There were only three pieces of extremely small, but very immaculate, handwriting:

  Erg58@gmail.com – DF452Hdc – PB

  ‘Bingo,’ Sean said out loud. ‘Nailed it.’ He popped the packages into his right jacket pocket, turned the door handle to exit the flat and left.

  *

  He left Baker Street, heading south towards Oxford Circus. The sun blinded him as he strode purposefully, but at a slow pace. A distant siren, merged with the heavy traffic, accompanied the persistent noises in his mind. His heartbeat rose. His thoughts became intense as he reminded himself of the trauma that people had inflicted o
n him.

  He had one more thing to tend to before he left London. And it involved a kill.

  He turned right onto Crawford Street, then back on himself, and made numerous turns down the quiet Marylebone back streets. He headed back towards the Edgware Road and made a deliberate U-turn, browsing occasionally at some of the antiques in shop windows. Finally, he turned left onto Enford Street and walked quietly into the Thornbury Castle pub.

  He made his way to the bar and ordered a pint of Rebellion beer. He paused, turned his back to the bar and cast his eye around the few local punters before making his way to the far corner of the pub, which provided an excellent view of the entrance.

  Exactly twelve minutes later, ‘One-Eyed’ Damon walked through the entrance. A beast of a man, just shy of six foot seven inches of sheer bulk, he made his way to the bar with a white stick. No words were exchanged as the bearded barman slipped a pint of pale ale across the bar and indicated with a glance that Sean was sat on the higher deck in the corner.

  One-Eyed Damon was a Northern Ireland and Iraq war veteran. A surveillance and weapons expert who, even with only one eye left, was still at the top of his game and who had contacts in the city who could do anything that was needed. Pick a lock, Damon was the man. Provide a weapon or plant some bugs, Damon was the man. He shuffled up the small steps and crouched over his pint next to Sean.

  ‘Long time, mate,’ Sean said.

  ‘You’re looking old and angry,’ One-Eyed Damon replied, smirking widely as his false eye glistened and twinkled in the low light. He was wearing a Union Flag lens.

  ‘Fuck off mate, you know I’m never angry. Just badly mad,’ Sean retorted. ‘And you can wipe that smile off your face, at least until you’ve paid me back for keeping your arse out of jail all those years ago.’ Sean had provided a glowing reference at Damon’s court martial in Colchester after Damon had ‘accidentally’ beaten up an RAF officer for touching up a woman in a Southend bar.

  One-Eyed Damon broke into laughter. ‘Great days those, mate – he deserved it and you did indeed save my arse. But I hear it’s you who’s been in jail getting your arse pounded this time, Sean.’

  ‘Very fucking funny,’ Sean said. ‘Anyway, what’s the SP?’

  ‘No one is on your tail,’ Damon said, lifting his head from his beer and looking cautiously around the bar. ‘I followed you from that swanky hotel, all the way to Baker Street and then on your very obvious counter-surveillance route around Marylebone. You really need to sharpen up on your skills you know, mate.’

  ‘My mojo is coming back – don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘What’s next then, Sean?’

  ‘A kill,’ Sean said. ‘A slow one, but a purposeful one that I need you to look at. I’m going to be busy for a while with a job. Are you happy to do some stuff for me?’

  ‘Yep. Normal fees please though.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Sean pulled out a small business card. ‘I need you to find this man. Find out everything about him, where he’s living, his pattern of life, who he’s shagging, what he loves, the lot.’ One-Eyed Damon turned the card over. The name on the card was Frazer, with a telephone number and a company address.

  ‘I assume this is the guy that got you shafted then?’

  ‘You could say that. Be careful though. He’s running Albanian gangs in the city as well as major drug-running operations across the continent. He takes pleasure in hurting his friends too.’

  ‘Fine. A real bastard then, who needs sorting out. I’ll find out everything about his movements and people. I look forward to hearing your plan on the kill.’

  Sean stayed silent, smiled and stood up ready to leave.

  ‘Go via Samantha,’ he said. ‘She’s the conduit for this job. And feel free to leave a marker for him – just so he knows.’

  Chapter 14

  Enfield, London, 12 April 2016

  Sean walked briskly to Baker Street Tube station heading straight for the Jubilee Line, whilst making a mental note of the faces he saw in the street and those around him.

  He began a series of counter-surveillance moves on the escalators and concourses of London’s Underground until he was sure no one could have tailed him. He emerged in Enfield, and made his way to an internet café on the High Street.

  Sean had firmly set out his plans in his mind. He had found the secret codes that might lead to the whistle-blowing files that held the list of spy moles Dominic so eagerly wanted – or at least one of the clues to the case, he thought. He was due to leave from Liverpool Street on the 19.10 to Ipswich that evening to meet Melissa at the safe house that Jack had arranged on the Suffolk coast. He wanted to check the web account first, but was wary of anyone following him to an internet café and then interrogating his online activity after he had left. He had to continue to make sure he was not being followed.

  He found a snug corner in the internet café and logged on to the internet. What he found in the account Alfie had opened was incredibly curious. PB stood for Photobucket – a cloud-based photo and imagery portal. He opened the cloud account, punched in the passwords and looked inside. Alfie had produced his own obituary and uploaded it as a jpg photo file. ‘Had he used steganography to conceal secrets?’ Sean wondered. He also found a series of documents with passwords relating to the credit card bank accounts, other email addresses and passwords to get into the iPad, iPhone and two laptops he held.

  The obituary was curious but the remaining files were standard email accounts with Yahoo, Google and BT. Sean then spotted a series of photos, one of which stood out – it was of a cottage. He spent some time analysing this photo of a low-roofed, single-storey cottage with large hedges surrounding it. It was just a small cottage with two windows, a back-garden gate, a chimney, a front door painted pastel blue and some potted plants outside. Sean knew this was key to his next moves and pondered if this was what Alfie would have used as a bolt-hole before exposing his secrets and starting his new life somewhere else in the world.

  Sean magnified the image of the cottage in stages then finally, at 800 per cent, saw a piece of text too small to view at lesser magnifications. In the bottom right-hand corner was the number 66190. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. It certainly didn’t represent a postal address. Could it be a UTM grid reference he wondered? Or a postcode of some sort? Sean got to work trying to decipher where this cottage was. It wasn’t as easy as he had thought it would be until he began to think that Alfie would need to get away from the UK and have an escape plan overseas. Eventually, after chastising himself for his foolishness not thinking of it earlier, he cross-referenced all European postcodes with that number. His search revealed a small fishing village in south-east France – Collioure.

  *

  Sean checked in with Jack to see whether Mike and Billy Phish were on their way from Barbados. They were. He then made his way to a café, sat down in a quiet corner and ruminated for a while, fiddling with his lighter, before finally working up the courage to call Samantha.

  ‘I knew you’d call sometime,’ she said cheerily. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you, Sean?’

  ‘Of course I can’t, but I need your help on a job this time, Sam.’

  ‘Oh, do you now? You must have missed me lots. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Away, overseas.’

  ‘Hope you stayed away from any tarts,’ she joshed, flirting with him as always.

  ‘Oh I did, believe me. Not a sniff where I was living.’

  ‘Good. I’m your lady, as you well know. When are you coming to see me? We have lots to catch up on, you know.’ Samantha was always insistent that Sean would become her man on a full-time basis, one day. Whenever he was ready. She had the charisma and intelligence to nurture her quarry with a style that many other men would have succumbed to by now.

  ‘Won’t be for a while, I’m afraid. I’m caught up in something big.’

  ‘You bastard. Not happy with that.’

  ‘Do you know a bloke ca
lled Jack P from MI5?’

  ‘Yes. He mentioned you’d call – said you were a tit.’ Sean laughed.

  ‘Good. We both need your help on this case, Samantha.’

  ‘I’m all yours as you well know – whenever you get your ass in gear for my needs.’ Sean smiled, embarrassedly, then coaxed her into the more pertinent necessities he had, asking her to be a little more patient.

  ‘I’ll send you some details of some target phones I need to be tracked and traced. I need some geolocation data Sam. As stuff emerges, I’ll send it over to you.’

  ‘Right you are. I’m here to help – send it over and give me a call whenever you want me to come into the field. It will certainly be worth your while.’ Sean was only too aware that Samantha always enjoyed being on the ground as an operator rather than being cooped up doing analytical work as a signals intelligence liaison officer in MI6.

  ‘Great. Oh, and by the way, One-Eyed Damon will be in touch at some point too. Just relay his thoughts. Catch up soon, Sam. Take care.’ Sean signed off with a wry smile, happy he had called her. She had been a close friend for many years since he had first met her back in 2001. He had borne her persistence for a long time, wishing it wasn’t always so.

  Sean changed his mind and decided to play safe by hiring a car in his new name and driving to Suffolk under his own steam and using his own timings. He would trust only himself from this point onwards. He collected his hire car in Enfield and made his way to Suffolk.

  As he drove, he considered the options for tracking where Alfie may have gone from his seaside cottage in Languedoc-Roussillon. He also thought about the logistics of getting a small team there to operate undercover on French territory. But for now, he needed to find out to what extent Melissa had been involved in Alfie’s plan. He wondered why Melissa was still alive when Alfie had been taken. Especially when whoever had taken him would be keen to make sure no residual threat of information leakage lay, even subconsciously, with Melissa. She was damned lucky that Jack had got to her first, whisked her to the safe house and got her off the radar.