After his meeting with Khan, Grigori had left the country. He had to collect the device that had been specially prepared for him and was waiting in Moscow. He would need to get it into the UK and this time he had to make sure he was not stopped. This was an important assignment, the most important of his career, and it deserved extra attention. He would not fail.
Since Bland’s arrest all airports, seaports and land frontier customs entry points had been put on high alert. Grigori’s picture was on Scotland Yard’s computer database and on The Met’s. The Americans had done the same. There was always the chance they might pick him up entering or leaving another country and for that reason Interpol had been alerted. Naturally all of the high level of activity had not gone unobserved by the KGB. The UK and U.S. governments had invited the Russian ambassadors in London and Washington to comment but they had nothing to say. ‘This has nothing whatsoever to do with us,’ was the official line and they were sticking to it.
Ana was in the kitchen helping her aunt with the preparations for lunch. Sunday had come round faster than either of them would have liked but for different reasons. Ana had not confided in her aunt preferring to keep things to herself. It would only make her aunt nervous; she reasoned that the fact that she herself was a mass of nerves would be put down to worry and inexperience because Señor Blanco had been insistent that the lunch should be perfect and would not tolerate any hitches.
Ana wore an apron with two large pockets, inside one of the pockets and wrapped in a small tea towel she carried a small cellular phone. No one would know she had it but she had to carry it with her at all times.
It was 9am and still early, the guests would not be arriving much before midday but there was still much to do. They were in charge of the kitchen and would not be serving; there were employees for that and all were Blanco’s bodyguards. He didn’t trust any faces that he didn't know or had not been vouched for by a member of his team.
At La Cañada the guests were starting to arrive. First to get there was Jose Ortega in the back of his BMW 540i ‘protection’ car, a bullet-proof luxury sedan with some very special modifications. It had cost him a fortune but that didn’t bother him, he wanted the best and figured this was it. Soon the others started to appear, nobody wanted to be left out or miss on any of the conversations that would be taking place the moment they walked in the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Good morning.’ Tim said when he saw them walk into the hotel lobby. They had been out for some last minute shopping prior to leaving Costa Rica.
‘Morning,’ said Tina, ‘we’re ready for the journey home.’ She turned to Joe, a happy smile on her face. It was evident that they were getting on famously, a fact that made Tim happy, especially as his uncle was too much of a loner. They made a good couple despite the age difference.
Just then Elliott came out from the lift and went over to greet them.
‘Hi everyone. Hi Tina,’ he said and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. Tina was looking radiant and very happy to be in Joe’s company. Yet again she was living up to her reputation of liking the older man.
Tim turned to his uncle and said. ‘Well Uncle Joe, you can tell mum she can stop worrying, I just have one or two loose ends to tie up and then I’ll be back home.’
‘I’ll tell her, but I can’t promise she’ll stop worrying,’ he said smiling, ‘you know your mum.’
‘Elliott, I think we better get going if we’re going to get them to the airport in time; traffic can be murder at this time of day,’ Tim said.
Their luggage was already stowed in the boot of a large Toyota Landcruiser and, a few minutes later, they left the hotel to make their way to Juan Santamaria International airport.
It was just after midday when Elliott and Tim got back to San Jose. Elliott had checked into the same hotel that Joe had used and went up to his room to freshen up, leaving Tim to wait for him in the Bar Bufo Dorado. When he came down twenty minutes later Tim spotted him and raised his hand to beckon him. The bar was busy. Away in one corner, a giant TV screen with the sound turned down low was screening a local match between Saprissa and Alajuelense; a group of men were glued to the set. A John Coltrane track from the ‘Blue Train’ album was playing in the main bar. Elliott sat down and before he could say anything, a waiter materialized out of nowhere and asked if he wanted a drink.
Tim was drinking a Whisky Soda.
‘I’ll have the same, but just ice. No soda.’
The waiter left and a few minutes later he was back with his whisky.
Elliott took his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful operation,’ they touched glasses.
‘Part successful operation,’ Tim reminded him ‘we’re not quite there yet!’
Sure enough, Elliott knew there was more to the operation than the recovery of the Lima Booty and the treasures of the Gold Train but, for him, it was success enough.
‘So what now, Tim?’ he said, taking a sip of his drink.
‘Now we wait. But you’re right. Your part is over and you’ll soon be off though you’ve not quite got rid of me yet.’
‘I didn’t know I was trying to do that,’ Elliott said smiling. He’d grown fond of Tim and would quite like to stay friends.
Tim explained that his special cargo had arrived in Panama and that he’d been instructed to escort him there and take him to the bonded warehouse to reunite him with his property.
Elliott could not believe that he would soon be back in the presence of the crate containing the looted carriage from the Gold Train. The thrill had made him almost forget that he was a millionaire. Yes, a millionaire! The advance payment from Esteban Blanco had seen to it. He didn’t need any more wealth than that. As to Göring’s loot, he wasn’t so sure what he would do with it and kept reminding himself that he didn’t need the money. The one thing he was sure of was that he was going to open the crate and look inside. He didn’t know what he would find and wondered what could be so valuable that it was worth the lives of Joseph Keating and Edward Hannah and the misery caused to their families, not to mention the suffering of the Jews whose property it ultimately was.
The following morning Elliott checked out and his luggage was waiting in the lobby when Tim arrived.
‘Morning Elliott; packed and ready I see. C’mon I’ve got a car outside.’ He turned to the porter who was standing by ready to help carry it to the car. They set off for the airport to catch a Lacsa flight to Panama City, and on arrival were met by a field agent from the local DEA office. The agent was young and drove a new Ford Taurus. He seemed to be well acquainted with the local traffic, nipping in and out of the lanes.
The warehouse was in a large, guarded compound and their escort drove up to the gatehouse to be met by an armed guard. After showing him his ID and the guard casting a curious eye at Tim and Elliott, he lifted the barrier and they went through. At the end of a long tarmac with lines of warehouses on either side, they arrived at one that stood alone and about fifty meters away from the others.
‘We’re here,’ their young driver said, stopping the car outside a large pair of sliding double gates that went from the ground to a height of around twenty feet.
The warehouse itself was painted a dull grey colour. One of the gates had a small door with a bell button. The agent rung it and a few moments later it was opened by a uniformed guard. They stepped inside into a vast gloomy space. It was cooler than it was outside and seemed to be air-conditioned. The guard threw a switch and suddenly the place was brightly lit and they could see whole isles with sections of large pallets stacked virtually floor to ceiling. It was a pitched roof and the trusses spanned from one end to the other.
There were forklift trucks parked here and there and Elliott stood taking it all in. He didn’t know what he’d expected but he was sure this wasn’t it. There was no mystery to it. No atmosphere.
‘I’ll just arrange to get your crates brought over,’ the agent said, and he turned to the guard who headed to the small o
ffice they’d passed when they came in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
La Cañada was a hive of activity. The last of the members of the cartel had arrived and gone straight in to the living room. All who entered came face to face with the gold statue. Its effect was amazing. They stopped and gawped and then went off to join their friends gathered in a group surrounding Esteban, who was busy holding court. They all congratulated him on his magnificent acquisition and they meant it. The icons were okay, if you liked that sort of thing, but this was in a different league altogether. They reasoned that paintings were fine and they understood they had a value but gold, diamonds, emeralds and rubies...that required no explanation! It had turned into a social gathering. For the time being they seemed to have forgotten the situation that had brought them together. Liquor was flowing like water and there was an element of healthy competition with the stories that were being bandied about regarding big deals done or about to happen.
Esteban Blanco was giving last minute orders to his men. They were more used to handling weapons than drinks trays and looked awkward as they passed among the guests offering everything from French Champagne to good old-fashioned whisky.
One of the bodyguards went into the kitchen to find Amparo preparing more dishes, helped by her young niece. He gave her an appreciative look and turned to the cook. ‘Don Esteban says to serve lunch in half an hour.’ He left with a last look at the young woman.
Ana had heard the guard’s announcement and she looked more flustered than usual. Amparo saw it and chided her, ‘Vamos muchacha que no es para tanto! It will soon be over and you can go home with a lot more money than you had this morning.’
Ana wondered what her aunt would have said if she’d known exactly how much more money. Certainly more than the 60,000 pesos she’d been promised even if that was twice the normal rate her friend Maria was getting working for a gringo family in Medellin.
Esteban was approached by one of his men saying that lunch was served.
‘I hope you guys are hungry because I’m not going to let you upset my cook.’ They all laughed and followed him into the dining room.
Grigori travelled by car from Libya and entered Algeria and then Morocco where he boarded a cargo ship and got into Spain without much of a problem. He had hired a car in Cartagena and driven into France using a route he’d travelled before that avoided border crossings. He’d arranged for a private yacht to take him to England. It would be a night crossing but the yacht was well equipped with the latest navigation equipment; the owner was from Marseille and his boat was moored near Calais. He’d done this before. It was good money with no questions asked. When they approached the English coastline near Dover, he dropped anchor and lowered an inflatable into the water. Grigori put his suitcase into the boat and started its small outboard engine. As he neared the coast he cut the engine and rowed the rest of the way. He hid the inflatable in a sheltered cove and set off on foot. It was 2am and the area was deserted. Just a few farmhouses here and there dotted the landscape. Not a single light coming from their windows.
Grigori was dressed in casual clothes. A brown wool jacket over a checked flannel shirt and corduroy trousers to make himself look ordinary, like a local and he’d disguised his face as much as possible with a flat cap he wore pulled down over his face.
He approached the farmhouse in the dark. There was a faint stirring and suddenly a dog came bounding up to him barking, it was an Alsatian and its paws landed on Crigori’s chest pushing him to the ground. A minute later the dog was dead, its neck broken.
In the house the farmer had heard something in his sleep as in a dream but then it had stopped. He was a heavy sleeper and since his wife’s death he slept alone. He had a small holding and got casual labour from the town to help him run the farm. They usually arrived at five.
Grigori eased the window latch with the point of a large knife and gently pushed the kitchen window open. He went through quietly and stood looking around getting his bearings, listening. The sound of loud snoring led him to the bedroom door. It was ajar. He walked in quietly. A floorboard cricked and he stopped. The farmer rolled over. Another three steps and he reached the side of the bed standing beside the snoring farmer. He took a pillow and placed it over his head. A few minutes later the farmer’s legs had stopped thrashing and Grigori was able to step away.
He took the farmer’s wallet that he found on the bedside table beside him and walked out of the bedroom heading for the hall where he found a bunch of keys hanging from a hook by the door. He took the car keys and left the house shutting the door behind him. The car was an old green Morris Traveller. It was unlocked. Grigori put his luggage in the back seat and got in.
There was a small torn piece of cloth on the front passenger seat that he used to wipe the condensation that had formed on the windscreen and he then did the same to the rear-view mirror. He made himself comfortable. He put the key in the ignition and cranked the engine. It made a whining noise but did not start. He noticed that the fuel gage had moved the moment he’d turned the key and was showing the tank was three quarters full. He pulled the choke out halfway and pressed the accelerator to the floor. He tried again and this time, after a few seconds, it started. He eased the pressure on the pedal and let it idle until it warmed up. After ten minutes the engine sounded good and he pushed the choke back in. He found the light switch and turned the headlamps on, compared to a modern car the light was dim but sufficient. A slight drizzle had started and he tried the wipers. They worked after a fashion but smeared the window so he tried a few squirts of water to clear them. He was ready.
He put the car into first gear and moved off slowly, bouncing down the windy unmade track that led to the gate. Once on the main road he turned left. There were signs pointing to West Hougham in the opposite directions and he figured that must be the location of the farmhouse he’d just left. He saw a sign saying B2011 and then got onto the A20. He pressed on heading past Ashford and didn’t stop until he got to just outside Canterbury.
It was still early and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Grigori pulled into a lay-by to stretch his legs and relieve himself. He carried on past Canterbury and got onto the A2. He was doing well and the little car was working like a charm. Now at last he saw signs to the M2 and London. He smiled to himself everything was going to plan. He came off at junction 5. A police car came up behind him, blue lights flashing and shot past him, siren blaring and disappeared from sight. Grigori kept on observing all the speed limits and at The Ridgeway he joined the A249. After a while he was on the M20 and heading to London.
In Moscow Yuri CheyNokov was going crazy. Unable to contact Grigori, he’d kept President Putin out of the loop but he didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep that up. It was not a conversation he looked forward to. Where was that fucking Monk?
A second meeting of Cobra had been convened. The same people that had been present before were there again. As before, Jake Scott had been asked to provide an update. There was not much to add. Several intercepts by GCHQ revealed that the Russians were as worried as they were. The UK was on the highest level of alert but no one wanted to come clean with the public for fear of the panic that would cause.
Khan had been alerted. If Sautiev, as he knew Grigori, made contact he was to contact Jake immediately. The park bench in Finsbury was also under surveillance with officers manning the hide in shifts.
The U.S. too was on high alert and messages between the PM and the White House were flowing backwards and forwards at an alarming rate.
Yuri CheyNokov sat at his desk racking his brains. He knew Grigori. Knew what he was capable of and the zeal with which he approached his assignments. That, after all, was why he used him. He tried to think what he might do, what he might try. The final details of the plan had been left to him. It was better as he would be able to adapt to the circumstances and be more flexible and effective. It the end the plan consisted of creating mayhem and panic in the civilian population.
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Then Yuri CheyNokov had a thought. He needed to know if there was any high profile function due to take place in London over the coming days. He placed a call to the relevant department and almost immediately came the answer that yes, it had been in the pipeline for weeks. Various events to mark and commemorate the bicentenary of the abolition of slavery were being co-ordinated by the UK government, supported by an advisory group made up of academics, religious leaders, community groups and representatives from museums and other cultural bodies. ‘Is there one event in particular that stands out from all the others?’ he asked. There was a pause and then came the reply he’d feared. A national service of commemoration organized by ‘Set All Free’, a group set up by Churches Together in England; the service was due to be attended by the Queen and Tony Blair.
‘Where?’ he asked; his voice getting louder ‘I’m sorry Comrade Director,’ came the reply, ‘I should have said. The event is due to take place next Sunday at midday in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.’
Yuri CheyNokov sat down and stared at the receiver wondering if he should call President Putin or wait a little longer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lunch had been a success. Now the real business would begin. It would be tough and there would be consequences. It would probably cost them money but they’d all been there before. Esteban threw his napkin on his plate, pushed his chair back noisily and stood up. His colleagues turned to face him.
‘Well I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal and are feeling refreshed,’ he said, ‘because we have some tough decisions to make. Please bring your drinks with you and let’s move back to the living room, we’ll be more comfortable there.’ The other men stood up as Blanco was leaving the dining room, they picked up their glasses and followed him along the corridor.
Mary Dear - Redux Page 26
