Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  He greeted the In-flight service director in Cantonese and was shown to his seat.

  His luggage tucked safely in a compartment at the side of his seat, he slumped into the overly large chair and buckled up.

  He had an eleven hour flight ahead of him. Unlike a normal journey of this type, he would not be watching countless films but instead prepared his laptop for a briefing from one of the best in the business. As soon as they were in the air, he would switch it on and start reading JD’s briefing document.

  The aircraft soon filled, people further back fought with their far-too-large carry-on luggage and huffed and sighed at the thought of spending eleven hours next to someone they didn’t know and really couldn’t be bothered to engage with.

  Cade smiled and said internally, “Thanks for spending my hard-earned cash JD – very much appreciated.”

  He meant it.

  He had often marvelled at how humans could sit quite so close to one another, for hour after hour and in some cases, never speak.

  As he pondered on the foibles of the average human being, CX198 taxied onto Runway 19 at the eastern end of the terminal and started to roll forwards, gathering speed. Cade looked out of the window and could see the terminal racing by to his right, to his left, the sea.

  The 340s Rolls Royce Trent engines thrust the aircraft down the runway until almost imperceptibly the pilot eased back the yoke and they were airborne.

  Cade could soon see the beautiful Hauraki Gulf beneath them with Auckland at its centre, the famous Sky Tower vying for attention on the skyline.

  As soon as the seatbelt lights extinguished, Cade drank his complimentary Moet, set his chair to recline and kicked off his shoes. He unzipped the carry bag and removed the laptop. In seconds he was knee-deep in a mass of data which JD has added a sound file to. Cade plugged his Bose noise-cancelling headphones into the computer and started to listen as a member of the crew offered him a top up.

  “Greetings, Jack my lad; I thought I’d offer you a sound file in case there were prying eyes on board. By now you will be thanking me for upgrading you to Business Class and trying to fathom why and when and how and probably all those other interrogatives that pass through our minds when they are in overdrive. Just try to relax for at least as long as the flight.”

  Cade smiled. It was a wild guess on his mentor’s part, but a good one nonetheless. He continued to listen.

  “Now, the events of the last few days have been a mixture of many incredible things and I know your head is spinning at ten thousand RPM, but you have to try to focus. What I’m about to tell you will help. Down in that case of yours which is by now freezing away in the hold is a mixture of documents, a huge collection of business cards, computer data and importantly, a significant collection of passports. Hit next.”

  Cade looked around. no-one was remotely interested, so he eased open the laptop to reveal the screen and what he saw made him extremely interested.

  The slide showed imagery taken from the business card folder. Whilst there were indeed hundreds of cards there was a single theme – they all belonged to diplomats, consuls or ambassadors and almost without exception they all hailed from countries in Africa and all appeared to have the same address on them: Quartier Rubens, Block C2 1040 Bruxelles, or more simply, one of the most significant branches of the United Nations.

  He shook his head. “Elena, what were you wrapped up in girl? Was this stuff even yours?”

  JD had filmed the documents and as the camera ran by each one he picked out some common themes – he knew that Cade was a qualified document examiner so threw in phrases that were important.

  “Look here, a diplomatic passport in the name of Noel Sankara, which matches this business card and this birth certificate and this set of passport images. Interesting, eh?”

  Cade scanned the documents.

  “By the way, Sankara is probably linked to the famous revolutionary from that part of the world, Thomas Sankara. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Where was I? Ah yes, see how they react to UV? Indeed, the Intaglio printing is of a high quality, the UV thread is spot on, the watermarks react as they should, the micro-printing is a work of art, security threads, they even have optically variable inks…Jack they look bloody good and do you know why?”

  He paused, awaiting an answer that would never come, as if he were engaged in a face-to-face conversation with Cade.

  “Indeed, because they are genuine, that’s why!”

  Cade continued to cast his eye over the footage which played in front of him, checking the quality of the printing and not doubting for a second that these travel documents were, as his friend had stated, nothing more than bona fide passports. The question was, why did Elena have them?

  “OK, so we know that the passports are genuine and she’s got thirty, and each is accompanied by supportive data as you can see; other documents that support their integrity and give weight to them being genuine. The business cards are probably kosher too. I’ve run a few checks on the names; it transpires that none are reported stolen. The countries are all on the fringe Jack, there or thereabouts places that you and I would most likely never visit and in the main places most normal folk have never heard of.”

  He started to reel off a list.

  Benin, Burkina Faso, Burundi, Comoros, Djibouti.

  There were other better-known states, but the majority were small, almost anonymous.

  “Jack, Interpol confirm that all the docs are technically live, but most haven’t been used to travel since arriving in Belgium a while ago. In theory, the owners work in the UN community – or at least purport to. My biggest question, my greatest misgiving is…”

  He didn’t need to ask it. Jack was thinking the same thing.

  Why? Why Dimitrova?

  He could ask the question ad nauseam. He did. But the answer never came. Clearly this spellbindingly pretty girl was not all she seemed – but still he felt that she was genuine, on-side, possibly now with an agenda but definitely an ally. Had she stolen the case? Or, rather had she been given it by someone else? Were the contents and their true value even known to her?

  What stayed in the forefront of his mind, haunted him the most, was John Daniel’s final summing up.

  “Jack. I can begin to explain a lot of what makes this group tick. We’ve skirted around the peripheries of them since we first met. We know they are well organised, at times unpleasant and in the main, I hate to say it, successful. In essence, they are no different from any other organised criminal group in what drives them; greed. But what is in that case adds up to something else. False or genuine passports, stolen to order, possibly for identity or financial gain. My instinct tells me that our target intended to use these to gain some credibility on the European or even world stage. That’s the easy part. The bit that I don’t get – don’t yet understand is the document that is in your hand luggage in the last unmarked envelope.”

  Cade thought back to the large manilla covering – he’d ignored it, dismissed it as a copy of an official document that only a solicitor would ever be able to interpret.

  “You probably opened it, gave it a cursory flick through and put it back. I did too, on the first run. But late last night I read it again. Jack, it’s not just a document, it’s dynamite in the wrong hands and for now I encourage you to keep it close hold, like it’s a part of you. I’ve held the original, as you know, you have a copy. But guard it as if it were able to destabilise a government. Because quite frankly, it could.”

  The Cathay flight was cruising at five hundred and fifty miles an hour, crossing the vast expanse of water that was the Pacific Ocean. People had settled in to their in-flight entertainment and had polished off the first meal. Cade had been offered a very passable fish dish; red snapper and a choice of steamed seasonal vegetables.

  The dessert was a heady concoction of tropical fruit which cascaded off a heavenly cheesecake. These were followed with the freshest of coffee, served in a china cup and a choice of handmade cho
colates. It was as good as any meal he had ever had. Either that or he was exhausted and simply didn’t care. Either way, he knew there would be breakfast in eight hours and on-demand food from the galley, only a button push away.

  As a final nod to a hedonistic form of travel, he was offered a choice of either a dessert wine or a spirit. He could have had both, but as a nod to his dear old friend, he chose a twenty-year-old Bowmore.

  He savoured each drop before allowing the staff to clear his table. The electric motors on his seat soon made light work of turning the already comfortable chair into an even more relaxing bed. He stood up for a moment to stretch his tired legs and looked along the infinite alloy tube that now skipped across the night sky, heading for Papua New Guinea.

  A few people, those who were awake at least, looked back at him, clearly despising him for his good fortune. Their grey, almost lifeless faces stared impassively. He had some sympathy. Having travelled many thousands of miles in the rear end of such aircraft, escorting waifs and strays back to their homelands, he knew just how hard international travel was. It was anything but glamorous.

  His sympathy ended soon after he pulled the covers over his cooling body and laid his head onto a goose down pillow. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  He woke with a start many hours later after an incredible, dreamless sleep.

  “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your First Officer Tony Baker; we are about two hours from Hong Kong where the temperature is currently twenty-nine degrees. Soon the crew will be serving you breakfast, which will consist of either a cooked or continental meal, I hope you enjoy it as much as we just have.”

  It raised a few weary titters of laughter. Everyone else in economy wanted to eject the smug bastard as they were almost guaranteed not to get their first choice.

  “Finally, as we approach our destination, on behalf of the crew I’d like to thank you for flying with Cathay Pacific today, we do appreciate you have a choice. The captain, Michael Wilson, and the rest of the team wish you safe travel if you are heading onwards from Hong Kong.”

  Cade couldn’t believe how much he’d slept. The combination of the previous week had obliterated his sleep patterns. He rubbed his eyes and accepted a hot flannel from a very attentive steward.

  Daylight had arrived as they skipped across the South China Sea. An hour and a half later, with a favourable tailwind, they approached one of the busiest airports in the world – Chep Lap Kok or to give it its more common name, Hong Kong International.

  Chapter Ten

  The A340 touched down at its home port without drama, onto the Northern Runway and was soon rolling along the taxiway towards Terminal One before arriving on time, on block at Gate 30.

  It was at times like these that Cade appreciated the benefits of travelling in style. He thanked the crew in both Cantonese and English, collected his belongings and left the aircraft, leaving behind the usual seething mass of litter, stale air and quietly bristling, exhausted economy passengers.

  In less than twenty-five minutes he was outside the terminal and in a taxi heading along the North Lantau Highway towards one of his favourite destinations. He nodded quietly, wishing that she was here to share it with him.

  They crossed the Tsing Ma Bridge, offering a magnificent view across to Hong Kong Island and its crowning glory, Victoria Peak. All that stood between the two was a swirling, darting mass of interwoven highways and tunnels, bridges and interchanges. It was a simply brilliant lesson to the world on how it should be done.

  Once more he found himself admiring the determination of the locals to move the city into a well-earned place as one of the most vibrant and successful on the planet.

  They cruised across Stonecutter’s Bridge, which scythed through the immense container port before veering right onto the West Kowloon Highway. Cade took in the familiar sights and begun to smile. He was back in a place that some years prior had become, somewhat unexpectedly, responsible for his financial independence.

  The taxi bypassed the toll booths and soon they were making great progress under the harbour. Cade’s driver skilfully negotiated the numerous lanes, amongst myriad other red and white taxis which were as ‘Hong Kong’ as the famous Star Ferry. The cars jostled for position with their peers, with tour buses, delivery trucks, motorbikes and the now ever-present Mercedes Benz, BMWs and Rolls Royces. Occasionally a Lamborghini would dart by, a break from the monotony of the boring luxury saloons, twelve-cylinder engines rasping, clawing at the air and ricocheting off the immense skyline. And yellow – just to buck the trend.

  A blue Wraith whispered by, the mirrored glass shielding the occupants from the intense heat and prying eyes. Cade shuddered involuntarily, blaming the air conditioning, all the while knowing that the very image of the British icon would forever make him think of the past and what might have been.

  It wouldn’t be the last Rolls that he would see; in a city which claimed more owners than any other, he would soon turn a blind eye, just like everyone else.

  Soon they re-emerged into the stunning sunshine and entered Connaught Road. Five minutes later they arrived outside the iconic Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It had been a trouble-free journey and thankfully, almost anti-socially, it had been quiet. Conventionally Cade would have made the effort to strike up a conversation in the local dialect, but not today.

  As he exited the cab, having settled his bill, Cade noted that the Concierge was already directing staff to collect his luggage. A few Hong Kong dollars were exchanged and Cade made his way to reception, pausing for a second to wipe a thin veil of perspiration from his forehead.

  It didn’t matter how many times you visited the more tropical climes, they never failed to surprise you with their innate ability to drain you of your energy in moments. It was a way of life for many, but for Cade it was something he only ever intended to experience for a few days.

  The usual details were exchanged for a key card and six minutes later he walked into his Harbour room. His luggage was waiting. It was almost perfect; all that was missing was a green-eyed, playful redhead. Despite the superb view and wonderful facilities, he felt empty.

  He acquiesced, accepting that he was alone, fired off a text to JD and threw his clothes into a laundry basket before stepping into the shower.

  The glass-walled room offered a brilliant view across Victoria Harbour into downtown Kowloon, the tallest spires of which were lost in the familiar haze.

  He luxuriated in the hotel-supplied Hermes’ body wash as the multi-headed system got to work unravelling his tired and over-stressed muscles. A good ten minutes later, with the glass and mirrors obliterated by steam, he wrapped a thick white dressing gown around himself and stood in the window.

  He knew he needed to eat, but first had to make a few phone calls. As he walked towards his phone, he flicked a switch on the Nespresso machine.

  The number on Cade’s phone connected and started to ring.

  It was answered in fewer than two rings.

  “Ni hao.”

  “Wai.”

  “Hóunoih móuhgin.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone went quiet for a second, as if the owner was trying to place the caller’s identity. He was.

  “It has indeed been a long time…but forgive me, I can’t quite place you…”

  “Ngaw serng ngaow!”

  Cade had deliberately informed the anonymous voice that he was feeling a little unwell. It was unusual, but it broke the ice and allowed the missing piece of the jigsaw to fall quickly into place. With a mixture of surprise, delight and deliberately spoken English, the voice responded.

  “Well, my dear Mr Cade, it has indeed been a long time since that happened. Fuck me Jack, where have you been all these years. Where are you? Talk to me!”

  “In a room overlooking the harbour at the Mandarin Oriental, give me time to finish this coffee and I’ll even think about coming to say hello my good friend.”

  “Cade, forget the coffee I’ve got a bottle of
Glenmorangie in my filing cabinet.”

  “You kept it all these years, I’m impressed!”

  “I made a promise that one day we would finish it off. I tell my staff that if one of them so much as touches it – I kill them!”

  They laughed. It was good to hear the voice of an old friend and as he was a chief inspector in the Royal Hong Kong Police, it was even more reassuring. If he had been followed at least he felt safe in a city where theoretically he was as much a foreigner as anyone from Eastern Europe.

  “Get out of that free dressing gown Cade, put on some clothes – but try to look stylish, I’ll have a car there in twenty minutes.”

  The phone disconnected. Cade knew better than to argue, as tired as he was he needed to meet up with Kwok-Leung Tsang or as he was often known by his Anglicised name, Andy. It had been far too long, and they had a lot of catching up to do.

  When they had last met Tsang had been a newly promoted chief inspector, Cade was keen to find out how his career had progressed. He sipped his coffee and selected some clothes, lightweight chino trousers and a smart-casual shirt. He sat at the teak desk and opened his laptop, connected to the wi-fi and entered the Hong Kong Police website.

  He let out a low whistle as he read his old friend’s biography. It transpired that Andy had indeed progressed. He had served mainly in crime units at regional and headquarters levels for most of the early stage of his career.

  He drank more of the intense, hot coffee and continued.

  Between late 2006 and 2010, he was seconded to the Interpol General Secretariat in Lyon, France, as a liaison officer. Cade knew this part. Subsequently, he was promoted in the organisation as deputy director heading the Interpol Asia & South Pacific Branch.