91
Although mainly operating in daylight hours, pilots flying for the National Police Air Service that supports each of forty-three regional police forces across the United Kingdom are all trained to fly at night: as a result, NPAS had controllers on duty around the clock based in their headquarters in Dudley Hill, near Bradford. Following Saul Zeltinger’s telephone briefing to SO15’s duty commander, Alan Naisby, Naisby had contacted Dudley Hill controllers requesting immediate support in identifying, and following, a high priority target vehicle in the South Cambridgeshire area.
Two pilots were on standby that November evening, both based at Lippitts Hill, in Loughton in Essex. In order to reduce wind and night-time frost damage, their Eurocopter EC 145 aircraft were housed in hangers at the heliport, ready fuelled. This had the advantage of negating the need for de-icing or fuelling on start up; it had the disadvantage of requiring the hangar to be opened and both aircraft towed out onto the heliport apron before start up routines could be commenced. Since the heliport was otherwise shut down at four forty-five in the morning, it took at least fifteen minutes from the time that NPAS had authorised release of the two aircraft before the two pilots of call signs India 98 and 99 respectively were ready to commence engine start up. By the time they were airborne, it was nearly twenty minutes since Ben Lewis had first contacted Saul Zeltinger with details of the Range Rover’s registration.
Virenque drove. Panich was next to him in the front, with Borys and Olena, their hands retied tightly, this time only at the wrist, in the back. Virenque was able to control the central locking from the front – and to be sure, he had also switched on the child lock on both rear doors before they had set off: they could no longer be opened from inside the car. Panich and Virenque had debated their destination earlier; time and again, Panich had found himself being drawn back to the storeroom deep underground at Tottenham Court Road station. He found the location exciting. It gave them an opportunity to plan something really special.
“What route are you taking?” Panich asked as they were fast approaching the A505 to the south of Fowlmere. He’d been coughing again, and felt quite drained by the experience. The pain was also coming back in his chest: he’d felt it several times that night already.
“I thought we would find ourselves alternative transport,” Virenque answered.
“Why?” Panich asked, but the instant he said it he knew: this was a Nemikov vehicle and it would be flagged in the police database.
“Because I like to think we are professional,” Virenque said, turning right on the normally busy main road. They were five miles from the commuter town of Royston.
“There is a large station car park at Royston. We’ll be able to find ourselves a car there. It will prove a useful contingency, you’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, having parked the Range Rover in a dark corner, adjacent to an old Vauxhall Astra most likely belonging to a commuter who had not made it home the previous evening, Virenque had his contingency. Panich, despite his prosthesis, picked the driver’s door lock in seconds and Virenque, bundling Olena and Borys into the back, hot-wired the engine. There was just over a half a tank of petrol in the car.
Fifteen minutes later, just as they were approaching the junction with the motorway, two police helicopters could be seen coming into a hover to the north and south of their junction, their searchlights on, slowly and carefully watching the traffic in both directions. They had, on board, Virenque knew, sophisticated ANPR tracking cameras, able to pick up targeted number plates automatically. He turned south onto the motorway and briefly glanced at Panich.
“Having this contingency might have been a good idea after all, don’t you think?”
“God, they were on to us quickly.” They were passing the hovering helicopter to their left. He began coughing once more. “Good idea about the contingency,” he said eventually. “I don’t think we’d have escaped the police otherwise.”
“I agree. This whole place seems jinxed for some reason. Just for the record, I sincerely hope that I never have to drive on this particular piece of motorway ever again.”
92
As they approached the suburbs of London, there were an increasing number of police vehicles on the roads. It wasn’t normal for five-thirty in the morning. The commuter traffic was building: as they approached the Mill Hill roundabout at the bottom of the A1, there were three policemen in fluorescent jackets watching the traffic carefully.
“I’m not sure I like the look of all this,” Virenque was saying. “If they start looking inside the wrong vehicle, we’ll be in trouble.”
“How about a different idea?” Panich had been studying the map as Virenque had been driving. “When we get to Hendon Central, in about a couple of miles, let’s pull in. We can take the Underground into the centre of London. It’s Northern Line all the way: no need to change trains even. The tube will be deserted at this time of the morning. All round, it’ll probably make it easier to get to our destination as well. What do you think?”
“Smart idea,” Virenque sounded impressed. “The police will eventually tow this vehicle but it’ll take an age before they put two and two together. We’ll need to ensure that our guests don’t misbehave, though.”
“Don’t worry. You can take hold of Borys’s right hand, and give it a reassuring squeeze if he starts to make trouble. I will have Olena in mine,” he said, holding up his prosthesis. “I’ve been developing an agreeably strong grip, what with all the recent practice it’s been getting. I can’t wait to try it out on Lewis.”
“Do you know exactly where we are heading?”
“Oh yes. The team at Yasenevo haven’t completely forgotten us. I received a couple of highly informative text messages in the last hour. One even had a photograph. All thanks to our friend Volkov.”
93
It is just after six in the morning when Lewis brings his bike to a halt on the quiet side street, just off West End Lane in Hampstead. He stands on the roadside with his helmet off, surveying the neighbourhood. There has been a heavy police presence everywhere on the roads coming into London. En route, he had passed two police helicopters. On the back streets of West Hampstead, it remains calm and dark, the damp and cold November night air lingering. It makes his breath condense as he exhales.
Houses on both sides of Ulysses Road are identical. They are Victorian terraces, the majority recently modernised. Each has large bay windows on both ground and upper floors. Most have a pocket-handkerchief sized piece of terracing in front, next to the fencing that separates the house from the pavement. The Zeltingers, like several other house owners, have a large box hedge alongside their fencing. As Lewis watches and listens, signs of life are beginning to appear along the street. Lights are being turned on; early risers are making tea; and people are letting their dogs out. Nothing looks out of place: no cars or bikes are parked with people sitting waiting, like him, watching and listening. As satisfied as he can be that he’s not walking into a trap set by Zeltinger, he approaches the front door. Rather than ring the bell and disturb the whole house, instead he turns on his phone and gives Zeltinger a quick call.
As ever, it takes just two rings before it is answered.
“I’m outside your front door, assuming that you still want to see me.”
Moments later, a sleepy Saul Zeltinger opens the door. He is dressed in his shirt and trousers. The two men shake hands in silent greeting and Zeltinger ushers Lewis inside, a finger on his lips indicating that others in the house are still asleep. They move into a room off the corridor and Zeltinger closes the door. It is the main living space, with sofas on two sides, a television in one corner, and toys strewn everywhere. It is evident that Zeltinger has been using this room to sleep in.
“Been banished from the family bed, have we, Saul?”
“Because of your various comings and goings all through the
night, I thought Hattie needed to sleep undisturbed. I seem to find myself sleeping down here quite a lot.”
“Any news on Olena and Borys? Has the car been found?”
“Not yet. The police have been scouring the roads around the north east of London for the past hour.”
“They probably changed vehicles.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what I would have done. The car is Nemikov’s. Or rather was. Even without the knowledge that someone might have seen it in odd circumstances in a house outside Newton, I would still reckon on it being on the police’s wanted list. Therefore, if I were Panich and didn’t want to risk being stopped, I would change vehicles.”
“How, exactly, would you do that at five in the morning?”
“That’s dead easy. Most probably, I’d go to a commuter station car park. There are always plenty of cars parked up in those places overnight: people away on business; people staying in hotels overnight after a boozy night on the town, that sort of thing. I’d pick a car, probably something old that could be hot-wired easily. In a place like that there’d be no end of cars to choose from.”
“Bloody hell, Ben. How do you think of all this stuff? Policemen aren’t trained to think like that. Our problem solving is much more linear.”
“Once you’ve been on the run a few times, trust me, you soon learn how to work things out.”
They talk for a while, Lewis describing in detail certain events of the last few hours. Suddenly, there is a sound like distant rolling thunder: footsteps, charging barefoot down the stairs.
“Six-thirty in the morning,” Zeltinger says, looking at his watch. “Time for our wake-up call. We are about to be interrupted.”
Moments later, the door is flung open, and two identical boys burst in.
“Daddy!” they shout, before realising there is someone else in the room. Instantly they go quiet, backing up close to the sofa where their father is sitting, feeling the reassurance of his arm around them both.
“Who are you?” one of them asks.
“Why have you been sleeping on the sofa, Daddy?” the other asks.
Zeltinger chuckles.
“Boys, this is Ben Lewis. Ben, meet Zach and Nate.”
“Hello, Zach. Hello, Nate. I’ve heard a lot about you from your Dad.”
The two youngsters wriggle closer to their father, still not convinced about the stranger in their house.
“Ben, here,” Zeltinger continues, “is one of the country’s top super heroes. Isn’t that right, Ben?”
Lewis smiles.
“I guess. When I’m not saving the world from all those bad guys, occasionally I like to hang around with your Dad. He’s a pretty good cop too, you know that?”
There are giggles from them both now. They are beginning to relax.
“No, he’s not. He’s useless,” one of them says and the two of them collapse in more giggles.
“Why don’t you two scallywags run upstairs and start getting dressed for school? Tell your mother that we’ve an unexpected guest for breakfast. I’ll be up in a moment. Go on, before I have to set this super hero on you.”
“He doesn’t frighten us,” one of them says, still giggling.
At which point, Lewis lets out a pretend lion’s roar, sending both boys racing out of the room shouting and yelling, stomping up the stairs at great speed.
“That seemed to do the trick!” Zeltinger says. “I must try that myself next time.”
Hattie Zeltinger greets Lewis warmly.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Ben. We had been expecting you here for supper last night until Saul mentioned that you’d been detained.”
“You missed a great lasagne,” Zeltinger chipped in.
Despite the hour, Hattie doesn’t look as if she has just woken up. Her curly blonde hair is neat and combed: and her blue eyes sparkle.
“I’m sorry about that. It’s been quite a night, all things considered.”
“Mummy, Ben here is a super hero. Daddy told us. He’s been working to save the world and he’s really, really good, apparently.”
“Is that so, Nate? Ben, do you have anything you can say about that?”
Lewis looks at the two young boys, standing staring open-mouthed, waiting for him to speak.
“I never discuss my work, I’m afraid,” he says winking at both of them. “It’s all highly confidential.” He taps the side of his nose.
“That reminds me, Ben. I need to show you something,” Zeltinger says. Lewis follows as Zeltinger heads into another room at the back of the house, this one containing a desk piled high with papers: a computer desktop machine sits on one corner.
“This is my study,” Zeltinger explains. “Sort of. As you can see, it also serves as a general filing area for everything that we don’t want the boys messing with. They know not to come in here.” He moves the computer mouse, positions the cursor on a password login entry point and types in a long password.
On the screen are various photographs of Arkady Nemikov’s mangled Lamborghini.
“Wow!” exclaims Ben when he studies the photographs. “You’d never believe a car like that would crumple that much. Poor Nemikov. On the plus side, death would have been instantaneous.”
“I went to the crash scene myself, as soon as I heard what had happened,” Zeltinger explains. “They reckon he must have been travelling at least a hundred miles an hour.”
“In a car like that, I’m surprised he wasn’t doing more.”
“Well, the crash created a hell of a fire ball. Even the officer at the scene when I arrived was surprised by its intensity.”
“What time of night did it happen?”
“At, or close to, one forty-six in the morning, based on witness information from the man who called in the accident. Every call is logged, so there can be no doubt about the time, give or take a minute.”
“Do I hear a lingering doubt in your tone?”
“Not really. After I left the accident scene, I went on the police traffic information computer system. I pulled up the information that is automatically recorded by the Truvelo digital speed cameras when cars go past. Nemikov was driving well under the limit when he went through the Hook Underpass.”
“So? He rounds the bend, sees the speed restriction is no longer in force, and floors the accelerator. He’d have taken off like a rocket. Over a hundred in a second or two.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. However, the time recorded on the last speed camera he passes, less than a mile from where he crashed, was only one-forty one. A full three or four minutes earlier than when the accident was meant to have occurred a short distance just around the corner.”
Lewis laughs.
“You are showing your true half-Germanic side again, Saul! Stop looking for ghosts. There’ll be a simple explanation. A two-minute lull in traffic before the next car came along, maybe. Or, more likely, the clocks on the camera system are wrong,” Lewis says. “Even the one on my phone is inaccurate from time to time.” He takes his phone out and waves it symbolically. It is only then that he realises that he has forgotten to disconnect the device from the network after ringing Zeltinger earlier. He quickly remedies this and puts the phone back in his pocket.
“Do they know why the van was parked on the hard shoulder?”
“Not yet. We’re having difficulty tracing it. The front plates were missing, apparently, and the rear ones have been pulverised by the collision and then destroyed by the blaze. In time, we should be able to find the chassis number, but it’s early days yet.”
“What a way to go.”
“Tell you what: do you fancy breakfast? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“That sounds perfect. When I said I’d like to refresh and refuel,
a decent breakfast was exactly what I’d had in mind.”
94
They reached their destination in under twenty minutes. They sat in the rear carriage, all the way from Hendon Central, with only one other passenger for company until Euston station, when several more got on. Neither Olena nor Borys showed any attempt at escaping. Nor did they try to communicate with any other passengers. Two stops later, when the tube train pulled into Tottenham Court Road station, they were the only ones who got off.
Panich made the four of them wait on the platform until the train departed. He didn’t want anyone to watch where they were going. It was only a short walk along the platform until Panich found what he was looking for: exactly as had been described, a small linking passageway connecting the north and southbound platforms. The blue door was indeed set in the middle of a blue-painted brick wall. On the outside was a white card: ‘ON ENTERING, PLEASE MIND THE STEP’. The black electrical tape holding the card in place was beginning to peel away at the edges.
It took Panich exactly twenty-eight seconds to pick the lock. For a few seconds, he felt stupidly out of breath: the action of stooping down to wrestle with the tumblers actually making him momentarily light-headed. The pain in his chest was back once again. Shaking his head as he stood up, he pulled open the door: it swung outward into the small passageway. There was a light switch on the wall just inside. Once switched on, the pile of sandbags stacked from floor to ceiling immediately became visible.
When Virenque stepped inside, he understood instantly the potential the room gave: it was the ideal place to keep hostages.
When Panich stepped inside, he understood instantly the impact the explosives would have: he considered it perfect.
The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2) Page 24
