‘Salam, Doctor. Fekr mikonam parastar azman khoshesh namiad.’ (Hello, Doctor. I don’t think the nurse likes me.)
Neither Kelly nor the doctor had expected their patient to speak perfect Farsi. Doctor Shabazi replied, ‘Motmaenam shoma eshtebah mikonid, Parastar Carter hamara doost dareh,’ (I’m sure that’s not the case. Nurse Carter likes everyone), before slipping back into English. ‘Where did you learn Farsi? It’s very good.’
‘Thanks. Just through my line of work,’ Monahan replied, saying no more than he needed to.
The doctor went through his various questions about Monahan’s well-being, before hooking up a new syringe of morphine. He then wrote up a repeat prescription for the powerful pain relief.
‘Okay, we’re all sorted,’ the doctor said reassuringly.
‘I’ll take it from here, Doc. I know how to set up my own drip,’ Monahan assured him.
‘Nice try. My morphine, my rules. The nursing service will set up and monitor the syringe driver. You’re not in the field anymore, soldier.’
The doctor had never once asked Monahan what he had done for a living. He didn’t have to. Growing up in Iran, he had experienced his fair share of military types.
‘Nurse…’ Doctor Shabazi beckoned as he made his way to the front door. Out of earshot he whispered, ‘Just watch yourself with that one. I’ve found that Special Forces usually have special enemies. Don’t tell him anything about yourself. His type use information like weapons. That’s the reason I ended up in Scotland: to make sure I was far away from folk like that.’
Kelly thought about what the patient had already deduced about her marital status, and thanked the doctor for his advice. When she returned to the bedroom, Monahan was sleeping with a strange smile of satisfaction across his face as the morphine did its work. He remained like that for the rest of her shift.
• • •
By 7.30am Kelly found herself standing at a supermarket checkout, having grabbed some gammon steaks, eggs and pineapple rings, which would do for tonight’s dinner. It was as uninspired as she felt after coming off a mid-week night shift. Kelly viewed cooking as a daily battle. There were only certain foods the kids would eat and if you gave them the same too often, then they went off them.
She had left her patient still sleeping, making him one of his protein shakes, and leaving a sandwich and fresh water by his bed. He was a curious sort, for sure. And she’d never seen a set-up like it, like a private hospital room you see on an American medical drama. Some houses Kelly went to, you were lucky if the poor patient had a spare set of sheets.
Then there was Doctor Shabazi’s strange warning about ‘Special Forces having special enemies’. It was just weird. But now she was too tired to think. Kelly shuffled her way past a newspaper stand towards the checkout, staring vacantly at the headlines vying for attention. It was the Daily Chronicle that caught her attention with yet another front-page splash on the death of Princess Diana. They were obsessed. Kelly chucked to herself, thinking, Nearly twenty years on, guys, and she’s still dead.
She picked up a copy and added it to her basket, not knowing when she would actually have time to read it.
5: How the mighty have fallen
Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bing’ Crosbie had once been tipped for the very top. He ticked all the right boxes and was the epitome of a commanding police officer in the 21st century: part law enforcer, part social worker, part politician. But around two years ago he started to undergo a fundamental personality change, and he was scared to try to find out why. The last time he had sought professional advice someone ended up dead.
Part of this change was a sort of inner Tourette’s syndrome, a torturous affliction for Crosbie, who abhorred bad language – a fact his alter ego seemed to revel in. His alternate self would trot out every swear word known to man, then some that weren’t. It wasn’t even restricted to his inner monologue anymore, with offensive obscenities frequently escaping his lips. It had earned him the new nickname of ‘Boom’ Crosbie, because almost every time he opened his mouth he dropped a swear bomb. It meant he was good fun to work with for the rank and file, but his bosses had had enough and he was moved sideways to one of Police Scotland’s new high-tech call centres, in the hope that he would soon be up on a gross misconduct charge for inevitably swearing at a caller. He could then be dismissed from the force post-haste. In the meantime it was a case of out of sight, out of mind, as far as his superiors were concerned.
It had a devastating effect on Crosbie. He was having trouble enough battling his inner demons before being effectively demoted and demoralised. Now he didn’t have the willpower to keep the bad Crosbie at bay.
He had also been a regular contact for Connor Presley and April Lavender over the years. He was one of the few commanders that police press officers had trusted to give journalists off-the-record briefings and gentle steers. But all that changed with the Leveson Inquiry, set up in the wake of the News Of The World phone-hacking scandal, to look into the culture, practices and ethics of the British press, yet strangely ignoring the even wider institutionalised hacking by law and insurance firms. Several journalists later ended up in court accused of corrupting police officers with bribes – in other words, paying them for stories, a practice as old as Fleet Street itself. The law had rarely been enforced in over a hundred years. Afterwards, all contact between serving police officers and members of the press was strictly off limits.
But Crosbie didn’t care to follow the dicta from high command.
‘Whaddsup, motherfucker?’ Crosbie asked, while sitting in his three-sided, open-plan office cubicle, still wearing his phone headset as he made the call on his mobile.
‘DCI Crosbie. It’s been a while,’ Connor said.
‘Sure has, bro. How’s it hanging?’
‘You been on an African-American awareness course, or watching Ali G again?’
‘Nah, just bored out of my tits in this cunting call centre.’
‘Bloody hell, I knew you’d been bumped sideways, but I didn’t know it was that far sideways.’
‘Ha, I know. Me, doing customer shitting service. I know they are just waiting for me to cock it up. Everything’s recorded.’
‘I’d be very careful what you say then, Bing.’
‘Easier said than dicking done. I hate it. I mean, fucking hate it. “Ma man is trying tae stab me again”,’ Crosbie said, mimicking one of his callers. ‘I’m so tempted to shout, “What do you want us to fucking do? You married the psycho prick!”’
‘That probably wouldn’t be seen as sympathetic,’ Connor said sarcastically.
‘Aye, exactly. That’s what the cunts want me to say. Blow off at some of these common cunts and be out the cunting door.’
‘A few too many “cunts” to follow there, but I get the drift. Apart from that, anything I can do you for, Bing?’
‘Nah, not really. Just thought I’d let you know I’m not dead and haven’t been fired yet. And, who knows, I might even still be of some use to you. Is the Big Yin there?’ The ‘Big Yin’ was one of the kinder terms Crosbie used for April Lavender.
‘Nah, she’s off home. And I’m going to the gym. Catch you later, Bing.’
‘Twatty bye,’ Bing replied.
‘Twatty bye, indeed,’ Connor responded, doubting that his once prime contact would ever be of any use again.
6: Beast Shamer
April received a message from Luigi, owner of her favourite restaurant in Glasgow. He texted exactly how he spoke: with a thick half-Glaswegian/half-Italian-stereotype accent.
Hey April. Why I no see you? Why you no come in for my meatballs? Your fiancé misses you. Xxx
The word ‘fiancé’ leapt off the screen. What had she done? Luigi had proposed so often to her since becoming widowed that it had become something of a running joke. Then last year, out of the blue, he had produced a diamond
ring and, inexplicably, April said yes. She had regretted her decision ever since.
April loved his restaurant and his food. She loved how he made her laugh. She even loved being the object of his desire. But April did not love Luigi. And that was really the crux of the problem. Recently she had been avoiding him, which neither helped nor solved anything. But she was too much a creature of habit to let anyone else into her life. She just wished she’d thought of that before accepting his proposal.
Soon Luigi. I’ll come and see you soon. Just been so busy at work. Xx. She hoped that would placate her Italian Lothario a while longer.
Just a two kisses? You used to send me three. Xxx.
April sighed. She just wasn’t feeling in the mood anymore. I’ll see you later this week Luigi. Promise. She then added the three kisses, to appease him more than anything.
The exchange had been no more than a distraction from what April had really planned for her evening. She excitedly messaged her colleague: What is website called? Beastie Boys something?
Connor loved the directness and absurdity of April’s messages – they made him smile, even if that wasn’t her intention. He had also just finished his workout and was in the mood for a wind-up, with the endorphins having well and truly kicked in.
Beastie Boys? What the hell would you know about the finest rap trio that ever walked the earth?
The three dots appeared on his iPhone to let him know April was typing a reply. He could just imagine her peering at the tiny screen with her half-moon spectacles, her sausage fingers pressing several unwanted keys at the same time. Eventually the reply came: Not Beastie Boys. Beastie something. The one with all the dirty old lords.
Oh that one. Just Google ‘bestiality’, and ‘secret’ and ‘cam’. That’ll take you straight to it.
There were no three dots this time. He knew April would be typing the words into her search engine. Minutes later he got the reply he expected: That’s not it, you dirty boy. Why would anyone want to do that with animals? Now I have a huge horse’s willy on my screen I can’t get rid of.
So it’s not all bad. Here’s the real link: www.beastshamer.com.
April tapped the link on Connor’s message and was immediately greeted by a warning:
The material on this website has been stolen from the British Government. You may be prosecuted in your home territory for viewing or sharing it. Most of the content is of an adult nature with many distressing images. Users enter at their own risk.
The message made April think for only a fraction of a second before she decided to click Enter. If caught, she could always claim it was for journalistic purposes rather than just being nosy. ‘What the hell?’ she said aloud as she was met with another message:
I used to work for the Government’s secret services but I became disillusioned with all the cover-ups. That’s why I have launched this website, which the UK Government have so desperately tried to shut down.
I believe my life is in danger for sharing some of the state’s most shocking secrets. But I shall continue to drip feed classified documents every evening at 7pm BST until the UK Government agrees to prosecute the high-ranking members of the establishment who have been – and many still are – involved in the systematic abuse of vulnerable minors.
April checked her watch, it had just gone 7pm. The statement continued:
Today’s classified information contains a photograph taken on June 10th, 1983, and shows a student of a top public school taking part in an initiation ceremony where he had to insert his penis into the mouth of a roasted goat’s head. This practice has gone on for decades and some of the most powerful men in Britain – from future bankers to politicians and high court judges – have taken part in it. There have always been unequivocal denials that these secret practices even existed. But as you can see, here it is in black and white. It shows that such sordid behaviour is par for the course at the very top echelons of our society. And also how easily the establishment spout their lies and denials. But a picture speaks a thousand words.
April looked at the young, privileged man in top hat and tails, with a huge grin on his face. It was the unmistakable image of a well-known television personality. One of that breed of journalist/presenter/host/entertainer who would make his name for holding politicians to account and making celebrities squirm. For daring to push the boundaries. Someone who had started to believe himself a cut above the stars, MPs and public figures he was paid so handsomely to question. A man who revelled in his influence and status. With his penis in the mouth of a dead goat.
April was already looking forward to tomorrow evening’s revelation.
Two hours later a press release from the television host’s agent stated that he would be stepping down from his presenting duties with immediate effect.
7: The heist
Monahan was enjoying a morphine-induced dream again. They seemed so much more vivid than normal dreams. Although this was more of a memory: he could recall in minute detail his audacious raid on a bank vault in Zurich.
The Swiss were undoubtedly the best security experts in the world, having kept billions of pounds for despot dictators, stolen Nazi gold and artworks safe from prying eyes, no matter what international pressure was exerted on their institutions.
But their security systems hadn’t been tested by the likes of Monahan.
He and his team had been ensconced in a rented apartment in Zurich’s Niederdorf district for almost four weeks. That had given them enough time both to plan their raid and carry out several dry runs too.
The banks were virtually impossible to break into. Just one innocuous-sounding codeword from a kidnapped member of staff would set off a chain reaction of shut-downs and police responses. But the banks had a weakness in that they always presumed the bad guys were after the contents of their vaults. However, Monahan was only after a single piece of information: a code held on this particular bank’s database. He didn’t even know what the code was and he didn’t care. He was given an order and he would carry out his mission as usual.
The bank made a point of not having its computer network connected to the web and the outside world. That way it couldn’t be hacked. So Monahan had to get his hacker inside the bank and give him long enough to retrieve the code from the system. Their target was the security office based beside the bank’s rear entrance. All they needed was the guard’s computer, which Monahan had discovered on a reccie posing as a delivery man. Monahan always insisted on gathering his own intel. He felt he had more chance of staying alive that way.
Monahan had passed the security office enough to know that when the fat guard was on duty by himself he kept his door open a fraction while having a fly cigarette. Detailed observations correctly predicted that the smoker would be working when Monahan and his team advanced. They struck with the element of surprise, using stealth and under the cover of dark.
The large security guard had just taken a long draw on his illicit cigarette when he was disabled by a brutal blow to his windpipe. As usual Monahan’s timing had been perfect. The guard fell to the ground gasping for air and choking on his smoke-filled lungs. Monahan flipped the man onto his front with ease, and secured his hands behind his back with plastic security ties, before wrapping thick gaffer tape around the unfortunate low-paid employee’s mouth. Smoke billowed from the guard’s nostrils as he desperately tried to expel the cigarette fumes and replace them with fresh air.
One of Monahan’s team entered the guard’s room and plugged a laptop into his computer. A little under three minutes later, the hooded men left, having got what they came for.
The guard knew he would be sacked for smoking on the job. How else could he explain the unlocked door? He strained and fumbled to get the remote alarm switch out of his pocket. Maybe if he activated it and they caught the bad guys he’d get to keep his job? He huffed and puffed as he moved into position and pressed the button with
the tip of his nose. In what seemed like seconds the frantic wail of sirens could be heard descending on the bank from multiple directions. A police control centre was already studying CCTV footage, instantly picking up two men in crash helmets escaping on a powerful motorbike. What they didn’t see was the back-up team slowly dispersing in various directions into the night and anonymity.
The police controllers flicked from screen to screen as the bike passed the thousands of cameras in Zurich city centre. A helicopter was scrambled and police roadblocks set up to cover all escape routes. The motorbike seemed to be heading for a trap as it entered the Uetilberg tunnel, overtaking a white Iveco van as it did so. The CCTV controllers flicked to a camera inside the tunnel, but the screen came up blank.
‘Must be a malfunction on that camera,’ one of the controllers said.
They switched to another camera at the exit of the four-and-a-half kilometre stretch of roadway and waited for the superbike to come roaring into view. It never came.
A senior police officer immediately radioed a command to his men on the ground: ‘They’re in the tunnel. Close it off. Close it off!’
Police cars screeched to a halt at both ends of the tunnel, and twitchy cops took cover as they pointed their guns towards the dimly lit interior. But there would be nothing to aim at, never mind shoot.
The Iveco van had barely changed speed when its rear doors were thrown open and a metal ramp lowered to the ground. Monahan needed only a little more throttle to take him up the elevation into the back of the van. Seconds later the ramp raised and the doors closed once more. Keeping 10kmh under the speed limit at all times, the van trundled off into the night.
A smile stretched over Monahan’s face as he slept in the hospital bed of his flat, dreaming of happier times.
8: A familiar face
Wicked Leaks Page 3
