by Lee McGeorge
Paul McGovern has a British issued passport under the name of Alan Jay. (A copy of his new identity is attached to this message.) He has bank accounts in this name with Credit Suisse and Union Bank of Switzerland through their Zurich branches.
He is attempting to gain Swiss residency by creating a paper trail of business accounts.
The value of his theft in Albania was grossly under-reported, the real amount of capital at his disposal is approximately three and a half million Euros.
McGovern is communicating with the outside world using a Russian email host (Details below). Access to his emails could provide fresh leads to his location.
Association with Albanians has ceased but reengagement may happen with little or no warning. I believe the Albanians already have access to McGovern’s emails.
Time sensitive. Please forward emails to me if they can be accessed.
I am in Brasov and available for debriefing.
“This is going to make someone happy,” he mumbled to himself. “People are going to shit when they see this.”
He called Ciprian. “Hey, it’s Cornel. Where are you?”
“I’m at the station. How did it go?”
“We have McGovern’s new name, he’s calling himself Alan Jay. The Albanians discovered Ildico Popescu last night and went to her home. I was praying you got her out.”
“We did. Lupescu put her up in Dumbravita.”
“Dumbravita? She didn’t go into Witness Protection?”
“No. Lupescu said he wasn’t picking up the bill for that until…” Ciprian took a breath. “No, she didn’t… but listen, I saw you leave with the Albanians and got good pictures of them. Better still, I found the taxi from Private Club and know where they’re staying; they’re at a farmhouse in Sacella.
“Sacella?” The wheels began turning in Cornel’s head. “Ciprian, stay there, I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”
----- X -----
Queues snaked through the police station lobby. Chattering people waited for validation on whatever bureaucratic piece of paper was in their hand. Pushing through them was like fighting to the bar in a busy nightclub. The holidays were definitely over and the people in need of a rubber stamp had all come at once.
“What’s on your mind, Cornel?” Ciprian asked.
“You know where the Albanians are staying? Let’s get a GPS unit on their van.”
They descended to the sub-basement garage. The scent of petrol fumes filled the air, rows of police cars awaited duty. The head mechanic, Giorgio, recognised Cornel. “Hey, are you even supposed to be here?” He wiped his hand on a rag before holding it out to shake.
“I can’t keep away. Listen I need a favour. You know those trackers we have on the police cars, the GPS locators? I need to get one onto a civilian vehicle. How do I do it?”
Georgio chuckled, “I heard your car got stolen, you want to keep better tabs on it, eh?”
“It’s not for my car... I need to fit a tracker to a vehicle that isn’t mine without the owner knowing.”
Giorgio leaned against the wall. “What’s this about?”
“Bad people. I’m working as an advisor through Europol and I need to track a vehicle covertly.”
“Uh huh. Do you have access to the vehicle?”
“No. I need to fit it secretly and I probably won't have a lot of time to do it. The trackers are magnetic, right? You just clip them in place?”
“They’re magnetic, yes, but they need power. What sort of car is it?”
“A van, a Volkswagen Transporter.”
Giorgio turned his head away and nodded shallowly. “Do you only need to track it, or do you need to immobilize it on demand?”
“Immobilize it?”
“The trackers you buy off the shelf allow you to immobilize the vehicle if it’s stolen. You send a text message from your phone and the engine shuts down.”
“That would be great.”
“That would need full access to the engine.” Giorgio tossed his oily rag aside. “You need to get into the engine anyway because tracker units are powered from the vehicle’s battery. If you just want to track it you can install a unit within seconds, you just clip two wires to the battery. Tracking is easy, controlling the engine takes time.”
“Do you have a unit you can give me?”
“No, but they’re dirt cheap and you can buy them in town. That isn’t the problem, the problem is access. Do you have any way to get in? Do you have the keys, can you open it?”
Cornel shook his head.
“Then it’s going to be tricky. Let me do some research.”
----- X -----
“Are you playing?” Agron was offering a seat at the card table.
Miklos shook his head. “Later. I need to check in.”
He found his Romanian mobile phone, connected the battery and stepped outside. Phones tracked positions when not in use, even without a SIM card they still pinged the network towers so the less they were used the lower the footprint. Not that there was anything to worry about in this shithole country. There wasn’t a judiciary or police department in Romania who couldn’t lose important court files for money.
He climbed into the van and turned on the heater. He made the call.
“Kjo eshte Romania,” he said. This is Romania. “I have a message for the chief.”
The voice on the other end of the line said, “Go ahead.”
“Do you have the paperwork on the young lady?” Miklos asked.
“We have it all,” replied the voice.
“I was told she is in police care.”
“It is only part true. We think she is close to you and are working on a location. You should remain where you are and contact again in twelve hours.” Miklos checked his watch and marked the time.
The call ended. He remained in the van. Snow was falling like handfuls of cotton wool. They would find her. They could always find people.
----- X -----
“I have solved your problem,” Giorgio said.
“And I have the tracker,” Cornel replied showing the box. He opened it to find a tiny electronic unit the size of a matchbox.
“You’re lucky the van is a Transporter. There is something special we can do.” He laid a few pages of schematics on the table. “This is the engine,” he said pointing to the plans. “The engines for these vehicles have a lot of sensors. Sensors for temperature, oil pressure… everything.”
“Uh huh.”
Giorgio tapped a point on the schematics. “These sensors need power and on the underside of the engine the electronics come out through this connection bay. If you can climb under the vehicle without being seen, it’s possible to tap power from this point.”
“I can do that,” Ciprian said.
“No,” Cornel replied. “I can do that.”
“And what if you’re caught? They know you. If I’m caught I can pretend to be a thief. You have no excuse.”
----- X -----
The village of Sacella was six or seven kilometres further out than Noua and just as dilapidated. It’s only saving grace was, unlike Noua, there were no tower blocks which gave the area a rural charm, but like Noua there were no streetlights and the roads were dirt tracks.
“I’m going to get cold,” Ciprian said. He was pulling off his coat and pullover to strip down to only a thin t-shirt; undressing awkwardly in the passenger seat of Cornel’s car. It was eleven in the evening. They’d been parked up since ten.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“I know.”
Ciprian tossed his clothes onto the back seat and tried on a pair of safety goggles with LED lights in the arms and clipped a hands free headset to his ear. “I feel like I’m in Mission Impossible,” he said trying to smile; it came off awkwardly.
The car was tucked into a driveway along a dirt track. Sporadic houses lined the route. There were chicken coops, workshops, sheds and gardens along the way. The Albanian vehicle was parked at the end o
f the road, their home the most visible. “Don’t take chances. If it looks dangerous then don’t even try. I only want you to do this if you’re one hundred percent you can succeed.”
“I think I’m ready.”
“And don’t get caught,” Cornel added. “For God’s sake don’t get caught. I won’t be able to help you.”
They both looked down to the van. It was against the building, the engine closest to the home. There had been no movement from the house for at least an hour.
Ciprian stepped out. His telephone beeped and the earpiece answered automatically. “Can you hear me?”
He whispered into the headset, “Yes, I can.”
He walked along the lane, sticking to the sides and behind cover.
“It’s looking clear,” Cornel’s voice said in the earpiece.
Ciprian stooped forward as he jogged the last few meters. It felt kind of stupid, obvious that he was up to no good. He crouched beside the rear doors of the van and swept away snow with his hands. “I’m at the van…” he whispered. He put his head to the floor to look under the chassis. “There’s not much space, but I can make it.”
“You’re good. There’s no movement from the house.”
“I’m going under,” he said getting onto his back. He pulled and pushed himself, the snow building up against his shoulders. He was burning with adrenalin but it was obvious he would begin to freeze quickly. This had to be fast.
He grabbed the exhaust to pull himself, feeling dirt or rust break away and fall onto his face. He was glad for the goggles.
“Shit,” he whispered. “This is hard. I can’t move quickly.”
“It’s fine. Take your time,” Cornel said in his earpiece. “There’s no movement from the house.”
Ciprian had to reach back to push aside the snow that had built up from above his shoulders. It was awkward. If he breathed in all the way his chest touched the underside of the chassis, when he breathed out there was a fine gap to walk his shoulder blades backwards.
“Ciprian wait... Don’t move!”
He stopped and instantly felt the cold driving deep into his muscles.
Seconds ticked by.
“Cornel…” he whispered. “Cornel, what is it?”
“Nothing… You’re okay. There was movement. I can see shadows on the curtains, but it stopped.
“I’m under the engine,” he whispered. “I want to turn the light on. Am I clear?”
“You’re good.”
He slid a small switch on the side of the goggles. “Can you see me? Can you see the light under the van?” he whispered.
“No, I can’t see anything.”
Ciprian moved his head from side to side, sliding his hand along the engine cradle, trying to spot the electrical box. He couldn’t see it. He’d scrutinised the plans, imagined it, visualised it, but now underneath the vehicle it couldn’t be seen. He shuffled himself to the far right and moved awkwardly against the build-up of snow to check the other side. Within seconds he could rule out this side. There were a lot of things here that didn’t make sense. Pipes and hoses. When seen from underneath, it looked nothing like an engine.
“Freeze! Ciprian, don’t move… no… wait… no it’s good. People are moving inside the building. They keep casting shadows. Never mind you’re good.”
“For Fuck’s sake, Cornel…” When he spoke he felt the judder in his jaw. The cold had penetrated.
“Wait… yes, it looks, I think it’s good.”
He thinks? Jesus Christ, did he not realise where he was? The cold suddenly soaked into him like he was lowering into ice water. His shoulders and legs began shivering uncontrollably and his breathing juddered. He had to do this now and get out otherwise he would be too cold to finish the job. “C-c-come on, Cipria-a-a,” he whispered in juddering speech. “F-f-f-inish it.”
He found a cable folded neatly into a machined groove that disappeared towards the rear. He shuffled back and saw more wires converging.
“How are you doing, Ciprian?”
“I’m str-str-uggling.”
“You’re making noise. I can hear you grunting and straining. Take your time.”
He followed the cables to a plastic junction box and his fingers shot for it, pulling the cover open to reveal connectors just like Giorgio had described. “Cornel, I’ve fff-ound the electronics. I’m g-going, going to fit the tracker.”
He took the GPS unit from his pocket and touched it to the chassis. It clamped down with a satisfying but scary thump. The magnets were strong, really strong. Next he looked at the connectors in the power box. Giorgio the mechanic knew what he was talking about. Power came into a waterproof connector that needed to be broken and the tracker patched between the male and female edges. It was hard to grip due to his position and the connector was physically hard. It was strapped into place with cable ties and didn’t want to move under his shivering fingers. He pushed hard, trying to get his fingernail beneath the clasp until it broke away, his hand shooting upwards to stab his thumb along a sharp edge. Blood ran back along his hand. He was cut but felt nothing but the cold. He put his thumb in his mouth whilst he examined the connector on the tracker. It was like some impossible game show, trapped in a tiny space with a bleeding hand and shaking muscles whilst trying to solve a three dimensional jigsaw.
He attached the connector. “It’s done. I’m c-c-coming b-back”
“Great. Get back here.”
The line went dead. He turned off the light in his goggles feeling his arms moving slower than his brain commanded them.
There was a sound to his right.
A door opened. Voices. He tipped his head and saw feet come out of the house. The Albanians were coming. They were talking calmly, unaware of his presence. They unlocked the van and got into the cabin rocking the vehicle slightly. The door on the side slid back and two men got into the back, pushing down the suspension to press the chassis to his chest. Jesus Christ, he was trapped.
He felt panic rising. They were about to drive away, they would drag him, crush him. He pushed back as hard as he could, grabbing the exhaust and pulling with all of his strength but his body shook with the cold and his fingers couldn’t grip with enough power.
The engine started.
Jesus. They would kill him.
He tried to shout. He sucked air into his lungs and poised to slam his hand against the underside of the chassis. Fuck it. He had to give up and be caught. He would fucking die if they drove… He slammed his hand to the underside of the chassis and tried to scream, but the van moved and pressed on his chest, squeezing him into the snow. His hand slapped weakly on the underside before grabbing the exhaust as the van rolled backwards.
He readied himself to be revealed, expecting the van to roll off him. There was no hiding space left, he would be seen. He could stand and run, or try to run, God only knew how well his frozen legs would respond in a foot chase.
Then the wheels turned sharply and the van swung to the left as it reversed, the wheels turning to roll across his chest and cut him in half.
He clung to the exhaust with both hands, a burst of adrenalin buying the strength to survive as his body slid on the road, keeping him out of the wheel, but sapping the strength from his grip, his fingers losing their hold as the road surface pulled at him. He wasn’t sliding, he was being dragged and the turning wheel was rolling straight at him.
In desperation he jammed his left hand into the spring coil of the suspension. The rubber of the tyre pressed against his elbow, then his shoulder. Then came the snow chains, pulling through the fabric of his T-shirt and cutting into his flesh, wrapping his clothing into the sharpened links and dragging him against the wheel.
The van stopped.
The wheel turned on power steering, twisting to face the other way.
Ciprian tried to push backwards but his T-shirt was so entangled by the chains of the wheel that escape was impossible.
The brake pads disconnected.
“Oh Fuck!�
�
The gears changed.
“Stop. STOP. HELP!”
In an instant Ciprian saw his impending death. His hooked clothing would pull him over the axle to mangle him… and the shirt was solidly caught.
The engine revved, the van began to move. With the superhuman effort of a man facing his end, he jerked himself with all his might towards the rear of the van, throwing his hands above his head to get out of his T-shirt. The clothing pulled up and stuck under his chin, caught around his neck.
A rear wheel spun in the snow then stopped as it found traction.
“STOP!” he screamed.
He jerked down feeling the T-shirt wrap into a tourniquet in his armpit and neck as the wheel rolled taking his shirt with it and making a tearing noise that could have been fabric or flesh. Then his arm broke free save for his wrist which leaped and swung up and over the axle like it had a life of its own. It wrenched him back into the wheel, still wrapped in the shreds of his T-shirt.
It broke.
The chassis of the van rushed above and he felt the metal scrape along his chest. He felt his left foot nudged by the rear wheel and then two things seemed to happen at once. His left arm that had almost been mangled by the wheel dropped towards his side and was solidly crushed against the snow and the back bumper of the van clipped his nose and pulled the safety goggles off as he emerged into the night. He was flush on his back, bare chested and looking at the stars like he was making a snow angel whilst half dressed. He could feel blood running over his face but had the wherewithal to lay perfectly still and hope the van driver didn’t check his mirrors.
He listened for the engine until he couldn’t hear anymore, then rolled over and checked himself. The skin of his chest had a T-shaped graze from breastbone to navel. It looked like someone had attacked him with a cheese grater. Blood had pooled around him from his nose and as he got to his knees more blood dripped into the snow to make black pools in the moonlight. His left hand bled from a single puncture wound in the centre of his palm and his fingers felt like each had been hit with a hammer.
