by Matt Johnson
MI6 it was.
Chapter 23
Heathrow Airport, London
‘You’re brown,’ said Jenny.
I grinned, dropped my bag, and threw my arms around her. ‘No Becky?’ I asked.
‘She’s at home … at the house. A new man from Toni’s office is looking after her until we get there.’
‘No worries.’ I placed my hands on Jenny’s face, caressed her cheeks and then kissed her gently. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Likewise. You look really well. And before you say anything, Toni has told me all about your heroism. Saving beautiful Romanian princesses from certain death now, are we?’
I laughed as I leaned down to recover my bag, nearly tripping over it as I did so. ‘News travels fast; that’s a slight spin on the story, I think.’
Jenny held my arm tight. ‘Why didn’t you say anything when you telephoned?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you … make you think I had been doing something risky. It really wasn’t a big deal, I just happened to be there when she got into difficulties.’
Jenny stopped, turned to face me and shook her head, gently. ‘That’s so typical of you, Robert. A girl owes you her life and you make it sound like what you did was all in a normal day’s work.’
I cracked a grin. ‘OK … so maybe I did a good thing. But anyone else would have done the same. Now, where’s the car?’ For a moment, I thought I detected a mischievous look in my wife’s eyes.
‘In the short stay, come on … let’s go.’
As we walked to the car park, we chatted and laughed. I felt good, better than I had in weeks. I explained about the extra dive course, the Romanians and who Marica was. Then, as briefly as I could – given Jenny clearly wouldn’t rest until she knew everything – I explained what had happened on the day Marica had nearly drowned.
‘Well, it sounds to me like you definitely saved her,’ she said. ‘You must have taken to the diving then?’
‘It was amazing. I used to love the helicopter trips in the army but this was way better. It was like being Superman, able to float and fly … to be weightless.’
‘Worth the trip, then?’
‘More than. And being in the right place for Marica was the icing on the cake.’
‘She was grateful?’
‘She was very grateful.’
‘Oh, really?’ Jenny answered, coyly. ‘How grateful?’
‘Enough to invite us both to her wedding in a couple of weeks.’
‘She’s getting married in Egypt?’
‘In Romania, at her home near Bucharest. She gave me an official invitation.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’d ask you.’
‘But you’d like to go.’
‘I think so … but I’m not sure if work would permit me the time off. I’m due to start the new job on Monday with a new team. They might not be keen on me taking leave so soon.’
Jenny paid the parking fee with a credit card as we chatted, and then we made the short walk to the first floor and along the lines of cars. Her reaction to the invitation was more positive than I had expected. Somehow she had read about Romanian weddings and was aware they could be great parties with a lot of music and dancing. But the cost, that would be a significant factor. Whether we would be able to afford the trip might decide whether we went or not.
As we drew level with a little yellow car sat at the end of one line, I saw Jenny glance across at it. The familiar shape filled me with sadness. A 2CV. Just like the one that had been blown up on our driveway some weeks previously.
I made to walk on, looking for our Audi, but Jenny turned in front of me, and placed her hand on my chest. Without uttering a word, she held out some keys with a Citroen fob attached. The reason for the mischievous look in the arrivals hall became clear. This was the surprise she had been teasing me about. There were tears in my eyes as I threw my arms around her. Between salt-flavoured kisses and hugs, we eventually put my bag on the back seat and then climbed in.
‘You bought it?’ I asked.
‘It was in the supermarket car park with a ‘for sale’ sign in the windscreen and a phone number. It was impulsive, I know, but I rang the number straight away. The man who owned it came out of the shop and we agreed a price there and then.’
‘Some things are just meant to be, I guess.’
‘It was £750. But, I didn’t think you’d mind.’
I didn’t. Jenny drove us home. I was tired and the surprise of the car had left me feeling a little emotional. For the whole drive home my hand subconsciously stroked Jenny’s left knee. I didn’t speak, there was no need.
Chapter 24
Reluctant as she was to admit it of someone so new, Toni Fellowes was impressed by Stuart Anderson. A transfer in from the police, he was a quick learner and had a wealth of experience.
He was surveillance trained, an expert interrogator and spoke Arabic thanks to his time in Special Branch. In many ways he was ideal Security Service material. He wasn’t a graduate, though, which explained why he hadn’t been noticed earlier. It was only recently that the Service had realised the need for Arab linguists. Stuart became one of the fast-tracked entrants. He was yet to complete his initial MI5 course and had been allocated to her department temporarily until he did. As a result, his security clearance was very low, which limited what she could do with him.
Stuart had been a little reluctant about child-minding – that was until he had actually met Becky. Her cheeky laugh and huge smile won him over, as Toni knew they would. Inside of ten minutes, the two of them had been sat side-by-side playing Nintendo on the television.
With Becky now settled on a different game, Toni led the new addition to her team on a tour of the safe house to discuss the layout and security risks. She left doors open so they could be sure their charge was OK.
Stuart’s assessment of the house was spot on. With strengthened windows and doors, the building was to some extent a fortress, but one that could only withstand so much. Its real strength lay in its anonymity and secrecy. As they walked around, she brought him up to date on the Finlay family and what she knew about Webb, Monaghan and the hit team that had been employed to kill former soldiers.
Two of the would-be assassins were dead, she explained, and the remaining pair were in the high-security prison at Belmarsh. Of those, one was just a sleeper; he knew nothing. The other, Dominic McGlinty, wasn’t talking; as a seasoned IRA man he knew better. Toni had interviewed him briefly, about a week after she had inherited the Finlay case. It had been a wasted exercise.
She also shared her concerns with Stuart about the cleansing of Monaghan’s home. Although he was new, Stuart had a policing career behind him, and he agreed with her assessment that the possible removal of any forensic evidence they might have gained was more likely cock-up than conspiracy. Just like the Met, MI5 was a big, unwieldy organisation and was well known for its communication breakdowns, both internally and externally. It was no surprise that a department would be tasked with taking care of a dead operative’s house without thinking another department might be investigating his death.
Howard Green, she kept out of the conversation. If he came up trumps then she would learn more about what had driven Monaghan to murder and how Richard Webb had been pulled into the plan. As things stood, Stuart didn’t need to know where that information might come from.
They had not long finished the tour of the safe house when the Finlays returned from the airport.
Toni noticed the changed appearance as soon as Finlay walked through the door. A slight suntan made him look much healthier and he was smiling. It was a warm smile, telling her his emotions hadn’t been completely killed off by the events of recent weeks. It was a good sign he might just be on the road to recovery, and suggested her decision to send him to Egypt, although convenient, had been the right one.
She introduced Stuart, who offered to make tea and then, as a group, they sat down to talk. Throughout the di
scussion, she was careful to appear that she was talking from a welfare perspective, but occasionally, carefully, she slipped in a loaded question. Did Robert have any problems saying he was a driving instructor? No. Did the girl he saved have lots of friends with her? Yes; and he provided some useful detail. When he mentioned the incredible coincidence of Marica’s family being the publishers of the very book Jenny had given him to read on the holiday, she smiled to herself. It was a pity Chas Collins hadn’t been there, but now, with the book so fresh in his mind, Finlay would probably take the opportunity to talk to the author should they meet in Romania. There was one awkward moment – when Finlay asked how she already knew he had saved the girl – but she easily deflected it by reminding him the hotel was approved for use by MI5 officers. The answer seemed to satisfy him. On the subject of whether the couple could afford a trip to Romania, however, she played it safe, suggesting it was unlikely funding would be available for a second trip.
But, all the while she promised herself – hell or high water – Finlay, would be going to the wedding.
Chapter 25
The following day, Toni was working late. It was almost eight o’clock when an email came through from GCHQ. If she had had any doubts about persuading Finlay to take up the wedding invitation, the contents of that email removed them. It concerned Chas Collins’ literary agent.
Almost all monitoring of telephones was automated, with certain trigger words being programmed to prompt further attention. If used during the conversations of ‘persons of interest’, a report would be generated.
The agent was a ‘person of interest’.
A short transcript was attached to the email. It read:
Subject: Maggie (Margaret) Price
Occupation: Literary Agent
Date of recording: 10/21/2001
Time of Recording: 1525 hrs
Trigger word combination: Robert Finlay
Type of recording: Cell phone
Transcript part summary:
Incoming caller: Her bodyguard had to be helped by the tourist.
Subject: Really, didn’t the bodyguard swim?
Incoming caller: I’m not sure. Anyway, I have the man’s name. Can you check on him? Marica wants to invite him over here to her wedding.
Subject: Give me a minute (pause). OK, what’s his name?
Incoming caller: Robert Finlay [trigger]
Subject: Not heard of him, give me a couple of days. Have you googled the name?
Incoming caller: Done what?
Subject: Googled. Run the name through a search engine, the internet. That will give you a heads-up on him I should think.
Full Conversation Time: 3 mins 7 seconds
The email concluded with contact details for requesting a full transcript or recording. A recording would be put on CD and sent via secure mail; it would take up to seven days.
Toni tapped her pen on the edge of her desk. Someone was asking Maggie Price to check on Robert Finlay. She had no doubt in her mind it was a member of the Cristea staff.
She typed ‘Maggie Price Literary Agent’ into her secure search engine and found the agency’s website. She scanned the various pages: how to contact, submission guidelines, fees, clients, etc. Then, on the events page, she found the very information she sought. Accompanying Chas Collins to the wedding of his publisher’s daughter – looking forward to letting my hair down. Maggie Price was going to Romania … and so was Chas Collins.
She keyed in the request for the full transcript. It would make for interesting reading.
Chapter 26
Sex Trafficking Unit, New Scotland Yard
The first meeting with my new boss had gone badly. Starting a new job by asking to take a long weekend off was never going to go down well. And Superintendent Max Youldon wasn’t known as ‘Mad Max’ without good reason. The thin walls of his office seemed to shake as he roared his disapproval.
Youldon was an experienced career detective. He had read my police file before my arrival and, as he took pleasure in telling me as I sat down, had immediately gone to see Grahamslaw to register his disapproval.
He pointed out in no uncertain terms that, with the exception of a short stint on a crime squad in Kentish Town, I had no CID experience. I hadn’t completed the CID initial course at Hendon Detective School and I knew little about interrogation, forensics, crime investigation, running informants or any of the other skills he considered essential to detective work, particularly the rank of Detective Inspector. He objected to being, as he put it, ‘lumbered’ with me.
Grahamslaw, much to my relief, had sent him packing. I was coming to his command, whether he liked it or not.
He stared at me intently for a moment across the top of his glasses, and snarled, ‘You, Finlay, are what we call a plastic. You’re a cop in name only. You protection people wear the uniform but how many collars have you felt, how many court cases have you put together, how many times have you gripped the rails at the Old Bailey?’
His questions were clearly rhetorical, and I thought it best to keep quiet.
‘Right, I’m teaming you up with Matt Miller and Nina Brasov. Matt’s also an inspector but he’s a proper DI. He’s been Flying Squad as well as come through the mill on division. If you drink Penderyn whisky you two might just get on. Nina … well, you can find out about her yourself, but she won’t be with us for long, she’s off to the Organised Crime Squad. Now get out of my sight and see if you’ve got enough detective ability to find them.’
It was as I left the office that I asked about time-off to go to Marica’s wedding. I probably could have timed that better.
It didn’t take me long to find the first of my new workmates. Fortunately for me he was much friendlier than Youldon.
Matt Miller had just transferred in from Kentish Town. We were soon chatting like old mates. It turned out we had attended the same promotion classes when we had been studying for the inspector exam. There were fifty places that year. I had come fourteenth on the list, Matt was sixteenth. The more we talked, the more we realised we had in common. It seemed our paths had nearly crossed many times even though we had never previously spoken.
Nina Brasov still hadn’t arrived. ‘You’ll know her,’ was all Matt would say about her.
He was right. At about half past nine, Nina walked in: very tall, probably six foot, with long blonde hair, and, when she removed her long coat and hung it on the back of the door, the most incredible figure. Her tan, knee-length skirt was almost as tight as the black cashmere jumper that accentuated her curves. To say she was built like an Amazon was no understatement.
‘You must be Finlay?’ Nina shook my hand as I stood to greet her. ‘Nina Brasov, DS. I’m your bag carrier, but if you ask me to actually carry your bag then watch out.’ She laughed at her own joke, but I understood what she meant. Nina might be my subordinate but this was her world, and I was the new guy. It was clear she was a highly experienced detective and, although I had the strong impression she knew how to use her looks, she didn’t take advantage of it.
‘I’ve prepared some files for you to both look at,’ Nina continued. ‘Then there is a PowerPoint to view and finally some victim statements. Shall we make a start?’
Thus Detective Sergeant Nina Brasov began our education. For the next hour we read and discussed information she had managed to glean from a UN investigator called Irena Senovac. Irena had uncovered sex-slave trafficking across Europe on a previously unimagined scale. She had been sacked from her UN job, according to Nina, due to the corrupt involvement of people she worked with. Irena had taken her employers to an industrial tribunal. She had won her case and been interviewed in both the newspapers and on television.
I had heard of sex trafficking. Like many, I imagined it was a problem that was most prevalent in the Far East. I was only vaguely aware there was some in Eastern Europe. So what I learned from Nina in that hour shocked me.
We were shown personal accounts of women who had been abducted, tricked
and manipulated into the trade. Once inside, they found it impossible to escape. We also learned how the trade infiltrated the corridors of power, how influential people became complicit in the business as customers, as organisers or simply by turning a blind eye.
The previous year, the UN General Assembly had debated and approved a resolution that had been called the ‘Palermo Protocol’, by which the UN Drugs and Crime Office would assist member states to develop anti-trafficking strategies and laws.
For the time being, the Met contribution to the fight was Matt, me and Nina.
One story I found particularly disturbing. A girl called Relia had been tricked into leaving her home in Romania to become a personal assistant in Bucharest. I was drawn to the story, having met so many Romanians in Egypt. Their lifestyle seemed a million miles away from this slave girl.
Relia described how she had been beaten, drugged and raped by more men than she was able to count. Even the women she met on her journey were exploitative and dangerous. She was sold to brothel owners in Bucharest, Milan and then London. Each time her new ‘owner’ would be provided with details of her family at home so she could be intimidated into work. Every new establishment she entered would warn what would happen to her family if she did not co-operate.
Relia wasn’t paid, and she was only given the barest of provisions to ensure she could survive and fulfil her role – to have sex with as many men as the owners decided. With girls like her no longer paid a wage and being required to service many more men, punters who could not have been able to afford the service previously, were now able to. This triggered a new cycle of demand and with it the need to supply more girls. It was a lucrative business for the criminals that ran it and a disaster for its victims.
The girls had a limited shelf life. Relia had been picked up during a police raid on a brothel near Euston Station. Just four hundred yards from where passengers passed by in their tens of thousands, there had been a massage parlour where nearly twenty East European, Thai and Polynesian girls were living in squalor.
