Eight

by James R. Vance

  “Can you help? There's been an accident. A car's skidded off the road down an embankment.”

  Massey leapt from his seat and followed him into the chilly evening air. There were patches of frost on the road. They glistened like fuzzy blobs, illuminated by the reflection of the red tail-lights of the man's vehicle. In that split second, they reminded Massey of pink candyfloss from his childhood days in Blackpool.

  The man pointed towards a bend in the road, some hundred metres distant. “I was approaching the bend when this bloody car came towards me out of control. It must have skidded on a patch of ice. It missed me by soddin’ inches, crashed through the fence and disappeared into those trees.” He pointed farther down the road.

  On reaching the broken fencing, Massey could see that the vehicle had toppled down the embankment, rolled onto its roof and lodged at an angle against some pine trees. Two wheels were still spinning slowly. He scrambled down through the scattered carpet of autumn leaves and wafer-thin patches of frozen snow. The driver of the other vehicle followed him. The detective mentally registered that the car carried French plates ending in the number sixty-two. That's from Calais, he thought, reflecting on a previous trip to France.

  There were two occupants. On checking the driver, he found him to be dead. The impact had crushed him. The passenger appeared to be a young man. Massey kicked in the remains of the shattered windscreen to reach him. He was unconscious but moaned as the detective reached across to detach his safety belt. He was suspended from the top of the overturned car, still strapped in his seat. The car must have been quite old; no air bags had deployed. The young man's arms hung limply downwards. He was in a bad way.

  It required the efforts of both men to extricate him through the smashed window. Massey was concerned about the heat from the engine; there was a strong smell of fuel. As they carried him to safety up the slope, a blinding flash and loud explosion propelled them to the ground. The vehicle burst into flames. They scrambled towards the road to avoid the searing heat that blasted from the resultant inferno.

  Caroline had called the emergency services but the paramedics were too late to save the young man. Within minutes of his rescue, he had died from multiple internal injuries and trauma. Despite their speedy arrival from Glossop, the fire services could only extinguish what was left of the burned-out car.

  The bedraggled detective introduced himself to the local Derbyshire Constabulary who had responded to the emergency call. Some induction to my new job, he thought.

  8888

  On the fifth floor of an office block overlooking the River Thames, a couple sat on opposite sides of a desk, one drinking coffee, the other iced water. The attractive young woman sipped her water. She had completed her language studies. According to her tutor, Petra's conversational French was ‘passable’.

  She listened intently as Rob Smith, her mentor, outlined her first assignment. “As you may be well aware, this country has its problems with illegal immigrants from outside the E.U. Since the French closed their detention centre at Sangatte, visible numbers have fortunately decreased. However, some refugees desperate to escape aggressive and despotic regimes are still willing to take risks to gain entry to the U.K., even at the cost of their lives. Others, who have the means, pay vast sums to organised crime in an attempt to legitimise their entry into the country. It has become a cat and mouse game between the immigrants and border control.”

  “What has that to do with us?”

  Rob grimaced. “Amongst these arrivals there could be terrorists or potential terrorists. Despite stop-lists and intelligence reports, there will always be loopholes. We have to be one step ahead and investigate every deviance from the norm.”

  He crossed the room to the window and looked out across the capital's skyline. “Out there, lies a constant threat to our way of life. Our role is to prevent that threat from becoming a reality. As you know, we are involved in a global conflict where constant diligence is paramount to suppress our adversaries.”

  He turned towards Petra. “We're about to send you on a mission that may appear trivial. However, if it is what we think it is, the situation could become extremely dangerous. We'll cross that bridge if and when necessary. Hopefully, it should be straightforward, so it is a perfect opportunity to initiate you. Also, you won't be entirely on your own.”

  Rob returned to the table and faced his protégé. “The U.K. Border Agency has brought to our attention the fact that there has been a recent influx of young French nationals, passing themselves off as students or simply as visitors.”

  “Surely, that could be quite normal. Students often cross the channel both ways, especially youngsters. As a teenager I went on a school trip to the Loire valley.”

  Rob agreed but went on to explain in more detail. “These visitors are not in groups or organised parties. They have been filtering into the country over several weeks either in pairs or as individuals. In some cases, a male adult accompanied them. Some have crossed via the ports at Dunquerke and Calais arriving in Dover. Others have even entered the country by air to Stansted and East Midlands airports. The flights originated from Limoges in the Limousin region. Some of the vehicles that crossed the channel carried a registration ending in the number eighty-seven, denoting that same area of France.”

  “Maybe it's just the result of some educational initiative in that region,” Petra suggested, wondering where the conversation was about to lead.

  “Why were none of them white? All have appeared to be either African or Asian, but have held French passports. The documentation was almost certainly false. With no previous, they would not have shown up on any stop-lists. The car registrations have proved subsequently to be either invalid or of vehicles reported stolen. None of the young men who have entered the U.K. under this guise have appeared on exit lists. In other words, they have failed to pass through customs on a return journey, unless they are using different false passports.”

  Petra was unsure of her involvement in the situation. “If it's not a stupid question, why are we being tasked to check out illegal immigrants? I would have thought it to be the responsibility of border control or the immigration department.”

  “But what if that wasn't the case? Perhaps something more sinister is taking place. Interpol in Lyon and G.C.H.Q. have reported increased traffic in communications amongst suspected terrorist activists, especially in P2, the Western Sector. If our assumptions are correct, some well-organised outfit must be running the operation to send over these young men with such a carefully planned cover. That requires substantial funding to which these types of young men from that region would not have access. The questions are why from that area of France, who is responsible and what is their purpose? If they had arrived from Pakistan or other areas of the Middle East, it would be more logical, but from France?”

  “You're thinking Al Qaeda. They could be providing funding for terrorists or potential suicide bombers recruited from that area?”

  “It's a possibility. However, they are more likely to recruit from North African Moslem communities, especially ex-French colonies than from the mainland of France. As you commented earlier, there could be an innocent explanation. On the other hand, it still flags up as being very strange, especially as two of them have now turned up dead in the Greater Manchester area. They both carried I.D. cards from the same football club in Limoges.”

  “Really?” Petra suddenly exhibited some interest. She now understood the relevance of this information. “After my intensive French lessons, I take it that I am being sent to this place in France. What's the name again?”

  “Limoges. It's the major city in the region of Limousin. We have a contact there, Jean-Marie Fauchet, a retired gendarme. He will be on hand to assist you. His career has taken him to Algeria, La Réunion and Guadeloupe in addition to various areas in France itself. His knowledge of French nationals in both the country's ex-colonies and their current overseas departments could be vital.”

  “So, why not us
e him? Why send me with my limited knowledge of France and its language?”

  “He's just a contact, not an operational officer. There's a suburb of Limoges in the north of the city called La Bastide. It's an area with a predominance of North African immigrants, overtly French nationals. One could class a small part of it as a rather downmarket ghetto. Consequently, criminal activity is quite commonplace. Our gendarme associate is well acquainted with the area and often watches the local football team, which plays in one of the French minor leagues. Most of the players are coloured and usually they tend to recruit locally. Recently, according to his reports, new faces have started to appear on the scene as team members, but disappear just as quickly.”

  “What do you mean by ‘disappear’?”

  “They arrive at the football club and move on without playing a game. Fauchet believes that, if there is a Limoges connection to the recent immigrants here in the U.K., it's possible that La Bastide could be a sensible starting point. Additionally, we have targeted the club because the I.D. cards found on the two stiffs in Manchester were from that same football club. This all fits with the reports from Border Control and Interpol, but we don't know why. We can only make assumptions.”

  Petra sipped some water. “I cannot understand why they have to stop off at a football club in Limoges.”

  “It's possible that, having been smuggled across the Mediterranean, they arrive at Limoges to be briefed, processed and set up in some legitimate guise to enter the U.K. Perhaps they're here as sleepers until some kind of directive arrives to activate them. Again, we are guessing. Unfortunately, because of his background, Fauchet would find it extremely difficult to infiltrate the club. They tend to close ranks where outsiders are concerned, especially if the interloper happens to be an ex-gendarme. A young white female taking interest in the local team might be viewed differently.”

  “But I would stick out like a sore thumb in such an environment.”

  “Absolutely. You would become the centre of attention, a pleasant distraction. Who would consider you to be working undercover? The players would fall over backward to make your acquaintance. Finding a contact within the football club is vital. You would need to gain someone's trust. You never know what you might dig up.”

  “It's all a bit iffy, isn't it?”

  Rob shrugged his shoulders and opened up his arms. “Give it a few weeks. If nothing turns up, you come home. Nothing gained, nothing lost.”

  Petra continued to prevaricate, considering her involvement in a negative light. “But they would realise that I wasn't French. They would want to know my reasons for being there.”

  “We will set you up with a plausible cover. You'll be a researcher with the European Cultural Foundation on a secondment at Limoges University researching some cultural aspect of French life. You choose your specific subject area.”

  Petra interrupted him. “Excuse me, but what on earth is this European thing?”

  “It's an organisation that supports arts and culture across Europe. Don't worry; it's an obscure independent foundation that nobody over there will have heard about. You'll be able to waffle to your heart's content. To support your interest in their football team, your other passion will be soccer. We'll fix you up with some footie memorabilia that you can use to further substantiate your story.”

  Petra smiled. “I did watch Manchester United when I was younger. I used to fancy Ryan Giggs and more recently David Beckham.”

  Rob considered that she was finally on board. “Perfect. They should be able to relate to that. United is probably the best-known English team over there. Giggs and Beckham are football icons. That will be your common ground, but remember that your mission will be to elicit information from them relative to our investigation. Spend time with Fauchet; he will advise you. When we have sufficient info on which we can act, you can return to the U.K. The Counter-Terrorism Units on both sides of the channel will follow up anything of value that you may pass on.”

  “So, it's only for a few days, then?”

  “No more than a week, maybe two. I promise.”

  “Will I be wired or carry a hidden camera or will I be expected just to memorise everything?”

  “Technology is certainly an option, but in that kind of environment, you will need to discuss its use with Fauchet. You should heed his words; remember, he's the one with local knowledge. It's important to establish yourself in your assumed role. The embassy in Paris will deliver a case containing standard issue equipment to your apartment in Limoges. It is an emergency resource. Your mission is simply to infiltrate, gather intelligence and exit. You are not to put yourself at risk. Any suspicion of being compromised, you must step away. Any whiff of danger, you're out of there. Understood?”

  Petra nodded, unsure why she was about to participate as a novice in an assignment that Rob had described initially as straightforward but now appeared to imply dangerous undertones. Maybe it was to test her expertise, her initiative. Once again, her whole being was filled with trepidation, yet tingled with excitement.

  She imagined herself as a modern equivalent of a spy about to drop into occupied France. There was an obvious foe then but who was the enemy now? According to George Bush, the western democracies were involved in a ‘war on terror’. Jackboots and Nazi uniforms identified the enemy during the Second World War. In this conflict, the enemy was invisible, hiding behind perceived normality. Friends and enemies now dressed the same, leading similar lifestyles.

  Shit, she thought, this is for real and in a foreign land. I've trained for this. It's up to me now. I have the ability, so the instructors told me. The only downside is that my skills have not yet been tested in the field. I suppose that I must simply accept the challenge. I've never failed before. Why have doubts now? Panic over!

  She took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks and tried to look relaxed, despite displaying clenched fists. “When do I go?”

  Rob opened his briefcase and withdrew a folder. “You're booked on the Eurostar to Paris tomorrow morning. You'll find an info pack with travel documents, a passport in your new name and some basic details of your accommodation. From Gard du Nord in Paris, you will take a taxi to Gare d'Austerlitz where you are booked on a train direct to Gare Bénédictins at Limoges. Jean-Marie Fauchet will be there to meet you.”

  Petra slid the folder towards her, still relatively daunted by what lay ahead. “Why can't I fly there direct?”

  “An overland journey will give you the opportunity to ease yourself into an awareness of France and French life. Use the trip to enhance your powers of observation. I suggest that you spend the rest of the day packing and reading through that little lot.”

  Rob stood up and held out his hand. “Bon courage, Louise Charrière.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered. She was about to stumble into a world that she could not have imagined in her wildest dreams.

  8888

  Massey sat at a cluttered desk in his office, acquainting himself with the unfamiliar surroundings. He was making notes in preparation for meeting his new team. There was a light tap on the door before it swung open to reveal a friendly face.

  Detective Sergeant Newton held out his hand. “Welcome to Tameside.”

  Massey walked around the desk and hugged him. “It's so good to see an old pal. Still based at Mottram nick?”

  “Closed it down, didn't they? It was part of the cost-cutting exercise to centralise everything. I'm afraid that I'm here at Ashton now.”

  “They probably transferred you to keep you out of the Stag across the road. Don't tell me that you're part of my team.”

  “Absolutely, and I'm here to offer my congratulations on your appointment. I believe that you've made D.C.I. at last. I also heard about Chris Turner. Having met the guy, I can feel your loss. It's distressing to lose one of our own at any time but the circumstances must have been traumatic.”

  “It's something I have to learn to live with. Hopefully, coming back up north will help: a new job, new
area, new team and renewing old acquaintances will occupy my thoughts.”

  Newton nodded in acknowledgement. As a former colleague, he knew how deeply Massey would feel the hurt of Turner's premature death. No words of comfort could extinguish his grief. It was time for the detective to move on.

  Newton pointed at a file that he was holding. “Well, now you're in charge, I suppose there's no time like the present to stimulate the old grey matter. Actually, I'm here about something that has already involved you.”

  “I'm intrigued already. Sit yourself down.” Massey settled back into the chair behind his desk.

  “I believe that you've already met the top brass during your short induction. The Chief Super called me in this morning and, aware of our previous, he asked me to brief you. Last night's accident near the Beacon has thrown up some interesting info. The Derbyshire traffic cops who attended the scene had difficulty in tracing the occupants’ I.D. et cetera. The fire had virtually incinerated everything. Their forensic team's busy sifting through the charred remains of a holdall that was pulled from the boot, but don't hold your breath on that. However, enquiries with the French have traced the number plates to a car theft in Northern France.”

  Massey concurred. “That figures. The vehicle carried a Calais registration.”

  Newton placed the file on the desk. He extracted a copy of a small laminated card carrying a photograph of the young man pulled from the wreckage. “The driver was burned beyond recognition but the young coloured lad, whom you managed to rescue, matched this I.D. card that was discovered in his pocket. There was no passport. It was probably in the holdall.”

  Massey examined the photocopy. “This was issued by the Federation Francaise de Football. He seems to have been a footballer. What's this Ligue du Centre Ouest?”

  “They've checked that out. He's not famous. It's a minor league in South West France. The club for which he played is situated in Limoges.” Newton passed another sheet to Massey. “This is a copy of the reverse side of the registration card. It's been signed by a doctor to confirm that he was fit to play, probably for insurance purposes. At least they should be able to trace his next of kin.”