Latent Hazard rkadika-1

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  There was a brief silence after Kate provided him with the information and then Steve came back on the line. ‘I’ve emailed you the details we have on each of these individuals. I’ve tried Roger’s mobile but it’s switched off, as is his voicemail. I’ll send him a text message and put a note on his desk letting him know to get in touch as soon as he’s back. Wait a minute! I am a berk -of course he’s not answering; he’s flying back from his holiday in the States. What’s your timescale?’

  ‘Yesterday would be ideal. As soon as possible, please. It’s really important,’ urged Kate. ‘Steve, if you or Roger can’t get through to me, here is my fax number. Please mark any faxes as Urgent.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said, I can’t promise that Roger will remember where the new cold store is located. He keeps a number of notebooks, but I’ve never been able to decipher what he puts into them. One of us will be in touch first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, while I’ve got you on the line,’ said Kate, ‘What other fast track ways into the UK are available?’

  ‘Off the record, news agency journalism is a good one,’ Steve replied. ‘Interestingly, representatives of overseas newspapers who are employed and paid in the UK don’t need a work permit. All they have to show is evidence that they’ve been engaged by a news organisation outside the UK, that the posting to the UK is a long-term assignment and they have sufficient funds to live here. We don’t always have the time to check that the foreign organisation is in business. The process is remarkably straightforward. Like fish processors and filleters, journalists aren’t seen as a priority area to scrutinise. The paperwork often gets only a cursory glance. And did you know that after four years they become eligible to apply for residency?’

  ‘No I didn’t… Could you look up a few more companies and check if they’ve made any visa requests that look in any way out of the ordinary?’ asked Kate.

  When they came to the venture capital business, AGVC, Steve said, ‘Yes! They have an individual who fits your description: an overseas journalist who joined them six months ago. He’s setting up a weekly newspaper on the venture capital sector. I’ll email his details to you.’

  They found nothing more.

  ‘Thank you Steve. You’ve been really helpful,’ said Kate. ‘Best wishes to Lucy. Tell her from me that you’re a star for coming into the office on your day off.’

  Kate printed out the details on the eight individuals and bounced the email on to Jeremy who, as luck would have it, returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Jeremy, could you help me track down the eight people I’ve just emailed you? They are employed by the terrorists’ businesses and have all taken advantage of the fast track visa application process. It seems that they’ve been here, acclimatising to the UK way of life, for between four and sixteen months. The likelihood is that they’re using false names.’

  As an afterthought, Kate forwarded the email to Colonel Matlik in Tallinn, with a short covering note: These people have come up on our radar screen. Do any of them look familiar to you?

  She then called across to Emma. ‘Have you made any progress with the trawlers?’

  ‘Yes; they’ve got a fleet of eight modern vessels. Four are registered at Peterhead, two at Grimsby and two in Tallinn. I’ve confirmation that three of the Peterhead trawlers are out in the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in the vicinity of Iceland, and they’re due back next week. The fourth, Northern Rose, is in port at Peterhead. The two Estonian trawlers in the Norwegian Sea are due back in Tallinn late Sunday or Monday. Unfortunately, Highland Belle and Rosemarie from Grimsby are still unaccounted for.’ Emma continued, ‘And I’ve been talking to the coastguard. The talk is that Northern Rose in Peterhead is due to sail tomorrow around lunchtime.’

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘And, they have a cold store and processing unit in Peterhead,’ added Emma, ‘From which they supply hotels and restaurants country-wide. I wonder why they don’t have a cold store in the South of England. It would make the distribution process simpler?’

  ‘The north side of London would be ideal,’ commented Kate. ‘Somewhere near Willesden, perhaps?’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Emma. ‘Anyway, I phoned their sales office in Peterhead, posing as the manager of a fish restaurant in South London. I enquired whether they operated around London. The reply was that their nearest depot was up North. They do deliveries to London, but there was a large minimum order. The person I spoke to believed there might be plans afoot to open a facility outside London, but she hadn’t been formally told as yet. She asked me to give her a ring in six months time.’

  Kate frowned. ‘That ties in with the comment from Steve at Immigration about them looking to expand. So they could well have bought a property in the South of England.’

  The phone rang. John picked it up. It was one of Jeremy’s MI5 colleagues. ‘Jeremy asked to be kept informed of the whereabouts of Basel Talal. Sorry for the delay; some information has just come through from the Belgian authorities. Your man, Talal, landed in Paris last Tuesday morning almost two hours before Jameel flew out from there to Marrakech. We don’t know if they met.’ The MI5 man hesitated. ‘As Basel had no onward flight we had assumed that he was staying in Paris. The boss, however, wanted us to be more thorough and we gained access to the French, Belgian and Dutch passenger manifests. It transpires that Basel hopped onto the TGV to Brussels, boarded a flight to Copenhagen and then flew on to Reykjavik. He must have antifreeze in his blood to go there at this time of year! We’ve sent an operative up to Reykjavik to investigate and another is keeping an eye on Jameel.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said John and hung up. ‘All of you, our man Basel has done a runner and – would you believe it… Gone to Iceland?’

  Jeremy’s journey across town was straightforward and he arrived at the coffee bar with a couple of minutes to spare, wondering whether he had whetted Pete Lockyer’s appetite, or if he would be wasting his time.

  Pete was on time. Jeremy watched him saunter into the cafe. He was of medium build, slightly paunchy with receding mousey-brown hair. His face told a story of too many late nights. Pete was smiling, which was presumably a good sign.

  Pete spotted Jeremy, came over and sat down opposite him. Introductions out of the way, the coffees were ordered and they started chatting.

  ‘What have you got that makes it worth my while being here?’ asked Pete bluntly.

  ‘I am doing a bit of undercover work on a rather wealthy individual who has his fingers in some interesting pies and I’m not certain what’s in it for you yet.’ Jeremy watched Pete. He didn’t look overly pleased.

  ‘Have you ever met a real spook before? I thought not. Well at least this can be marked down as part of your professional training.’

  Pete had been studying Jeremy, who was athletic in build and had one of those faces that was handsome but didn’t stand out. Pete realised he wanted to find out more.

  ‘Are you really MI5?’

  ‘Yep, have a look at this.’

  Pete scrutinised Jeremy’s MI5 warrant card, looked up at his smiling face and considered things. He’d just put a good story to bed and had a second almost completed. He didn’t really need another one right now. But he did have a spare hour or so. What the hell! The spook was fascinating.

  ‘I might be able to help. It depends on what you’re after,’ said Pete carefully.

  ‘I could do with tracing a fast motor vessel. I’ve got two leads as to who the owner might be; both mix with the great and the not-so-good! Can’t tell you what it’s about as it’s highly sensitive, but you’ll be the first to know when the story breaks.’

  ‘That’s a bit thin,’ said Pete.

  ‘My sources tell me you’re a man up for a challenge,’ replied Jeremy.

  ‘How’s about we go back to my office and see if we can turn something up in the library?’

  It was a short walk across to the shiny, glass-fronted building. Pete signed Jeremy in and they made for the library.

  Jere
my gave Pete the details of Maryam, her husband and the sheikh, and showed him the photos that Emma had sent to his phone.

  ‘Where do we start looking?’

  ‘First let’s look under their names. Let me show you how the manual and electronic cataloguing and indexing work. I suggest you start over here and I start at the other end and we see how we do,’ said Pete.

  Jeremy looked at the mass of catalogued photos. Bloody hell! If only MI5 had this type of information on people! He was fascinated by the tabloid approach to life. Some of the pictures made the mind boggle and the eyes water. They surely couldn’t publish many of them, but he supposed they made for good bargaining tools!

  It soon became apparent that Maryam and her husband were landlubbers; they loved high society, opera and the Arts. There was nothing to do with them and boats.

  Then Pete struck gold. A colleague had been working on a story about oil magnates and beautiful celebs. There were pictures of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women and there, amongst the pictures, was the sheikh with a movie star draped across the back of a sleek-looking monster of a powerboat.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Pete. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one of those. She looks like a Sunseeker Predator 75 if I’m not mistaken. Like shit off a shovel. I reckon her top speed would be something like forty-seven knots – over fifty miles per hour… Fast boats are a daydream of mine.’

  Pete looked carefully through the similar pictures. ‘Damn it! None of the photos show the boat’s name. Don’t worry.’ He picked up the phone and chatted to a colleague, and within moments was talking to a specialist yacht broking agency. He spoke to them for a while and then hung up. ‘This is the boring bit of the job – the waiting for someone to phone back with the info. And the coffee’s cold!’ commented Pete.

  They didn’t have to wait long. The yacht broker advised Pete that a limited number of these boats were built each year. The manufacturer had given him the names of the boats constructed in the past five years. The broker reckoned that it wouldn’t take him long to track down whether any of them were owned by a rich Arab sheikh.

  Jeremy smiled. It was great to see a professional at work! Pete didn’t give away who he was researching. He reckoned Pete could give a lesson or two to some of his younger colleagues. To pass the time, and not wishing to lose an opportunity, Jeremy pulled together a bit of information on Maryam and her husband.

  Less than twenty minutes later Pete’s broker contact phoned back. He’d identified three such boats which were owned by Arab sheikhs.

  ‘The first one is owned by a Sheikh Tufayl.’

  ‘Voila!’ said Jeremy.

  ‘Her name is Flying Goddess,’ continued Pete. ‘She is usually moored at either Monaco or Cannes and has a full-time captain.’

  The information cost Pete €500. On the basis that it would help with a story, he would mark it down to expenses. Pete made a couple more calls and discovered that the boat wasn’t in Monaco or Cannes. His contact in Monaco reckoned that the boat left late last year for a refit somewhere or other, but not locally.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t tell you much at the moment, but odds-on this morning’s work will have been your most profitable yet.’

  ‘Exclusive as and when?’

  ‘Of course, but in the meantime our discussion remains just between the two of us,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.’

  On the journey back, Jeremy phoned Emma.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘You’ve got the name, the make and the type of boat and even know that she’s being refitted.’

  Kate called across to Emma, ‘Look at Iceland first. If that’s where Basel is, I bet that’s where Flying Goddess is having a makeover. Have a chat to Jeremy’s colleagues and get them to pass the information on to their man travelling to Iceland.’

  The morning had gone by fast; it was already 12.15 p.m.

  Emma called across to Kate. ‘You’ve got a phone call from a DI Rick Feldon in Manchester.’

  ‘Afternoon. We have pulled in Stone and Wesson,’ said a businesslike Mancunian voice. ‘The story is that we’ve linked them with a paedo ring – indecent images, etc. Well, that’s what the paperwork says. Could have got it wrong, though,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ve made sure that neither of them can see any outsiders. Mr. Stone is complaining vociferously, and his solicitor isn’t best pleased – human rights and all that!’

  Emma called across, ‘Remember to ask him about whether they use outsourcing companies in their police station.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Kate under her breath. ‘I had quite forgotten.’ She asked Rick the question.

  ‘Yes, catering,’ came his reply.

  ‘Do me a favour. As far as the two from Dewoodson are concerned, treat all your caterers as hostile! I’ll explain later.’

  ‘Will do,’ agreed Rick with a hint of surprise in his voice. ‘We picked up William Wesson at a property he was valuing. He’s like a feral cat and is seriously pissed off.’

  ‘Wesson’s computer has been set up in the interview room and we asked him to show us all his files relating to PREH. The little bastard tried to delete the folder they were in. Thankfully we stopped him. Phil Scott is emailing the valuation report to you as we speak. By the way, if you want any more of the clowns at Dewoodson brought in, please let me know. It would be my pleasure. We’ve spoken to Mr Stone’s number two and explained the sensitivity of the situation. He’s agreed to close the office until Monday. Also, a couple of suits from MI5 turned up to give us a hand – said they were friends of yours. They’re giving the offices a once-over.’

  ‘Excellent work and thanks,’ said Kate.

  ‘Good luck at your end. Cheers!’ Rick was about to hang up, when he added, ‘Do you have a biro at hand? Here are Phil’s and my mobile numbers. If you need anything, day or night, please don’t hesitate.’

  ‘Thanks Rick and please make certain that no outsiders speak to either of them.’

  The email arrived; Kate opened the attachment and printed it off. Rafi scooped it up from the printer. He went through the valuation, marking off the properties which hadn’t shown up on the mortgage register. Two of the new addresses were prime high street shop investments, but two were definitely not prime: some elderly light industrial units in Stalls Lane, Heysham, and a commercial property in Castle Street, Peterhead. Both were vacant. Result! Two more possible properties, mused Rafi. He typed Castle Street, Peterhead, into the mapping software. It was next to the docks. He did the same for Stalls Lane, Heysham. ‘Oh hell!’ he uttered under his breath.

  ‘Found something?’ enquired Kate.

  ‘We can add another nuclear power station to our list! The Heysham property is bang next to one.’

  Rafi was about to continue when Emma piped up. ‘Our contact at the coastguard has traced both of the missing trawlers. Rosemarie has just finished a refit at the dry dock in Great Yarmouth and Highland Belle is at Troon dry dock. Both are poised to set sail.’

  ‘Well done, Emma,’ said Kate. ‘Are all the other trawlers at sea?’

  ‘Yep. Except Northern Rose; she is still in Peterhead harbour. That gives us three exit points,’ said Emma, who marked up the location of the two new properties and the two trawlers on the screen.

  Kate stood up and clapped her hands. ‘Let us recap on the information we have.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘We have trawlers poised to leave from three ports. Rafi has located suspicious properties at these five locations, and the terrorists have five missile launchers and sixteen unused missiles.’ She scratched her head, as she looked at the screen. ‘If we were to assume two targets per missile launcher then how might the properties and targets be paired? Any suggestions?’

  ‘What about putting the properties in Peterhead with, the St Fergus gas terminal and the Cruden Bay oil pumping station – as the targets for missile launcher number one?’ asked Emma

  ‘And then there is the Hartlepo
ol property which overlooks the local nuclear power station,’ said John, ‘but at the moment the second target in this pair is missing.’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘Number three could be Heysham nuclear power station – plus perhaps Hunterston nuclear power station up the coast? And launcher number four could then go with the Bacton gas facility and possibly Sizewell nuclear power station,’ said Emma.

  There was silence.

  ‘Which leaves us with bugger-all for the fifth launcher – could it perhaps be the nuclear train at Willesden Sidings?’ enquired John.

  ‘It’s all a bit iffy,’ said Kate with a note of despondency in her voice.

  ‘But a pattern is emerging,’ encouraged John. ‘The proximity of the various dots to PREH’s properties is too bloody close for comfort for this to be random. If you think back, twenty-four hours ago we had next to nothing!’

  The conversation was stopped by Aidan cutting in. ‘Can you stop what you’re doing for a moment? I need to hear your views on a couple of thoughts.’ Aidan looked at them from behind his growing piles of paper.

  ‘I still have more to do, but I’ve reached the point where I’m convinced that a small group of investors have built up sizeable positions in both the long gilt and the interest rate futures and traded options contracts. If the positions I’ve found at my bank are replicated elsewhere and these investors turn out to be right and the markets do crash – the terrorists will make huge profits and there will be lots of bloody noses.’

  Aidan turned to Rafi. ‘What if we were able to stop the markets from crashing – or more specifically prevent interest rates rising and gilts prices falling – and limit the impact of the terrorist attacks.’ He grinned. ‘If we could do this, we could turn the tables on them and wipe out their investments in the derivative markets.’

  Aidan paused. ‘I would be willing to bet that there are also a significant number of murky players with their snouts in the trough, who we could also take to the cleaners.’