Aidan cursed under his breath before adding, ‘The impact would be like walking in front of a speeding Chieftain tank.’
‘It doesn’t bear contemplating,’ Rafi added. ‘And it would make it very expensive for the Government or the Bank of England to stop the financial system going into complete meltdown.’
‘And they would have to react very fast…’ added Aidan.
A quiet determination filled the office as they concentrated on the work at hand. Suddenly Emma stopped what she was doing and sat bolt upright. She was looking frustrated.
‘What’s up?’ asked Kate.
‘It’s just that I can’t place something; I’m looking at the cold store and packaging operations of the terrorists’ fishing business. Something is bothering me; I just can’t recall what it is that I’m trying to remember!’
Aidan looked up from his desk. ‘What makes you think that you are missing something?’
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I was reading something which mentioned fishing - and I can’t remember what it was!’
Aidan smiled and popped his head back down below his parapet of papers.
‘It’s a wonder you manage to get any work done, sitting there daydreaming,’ he muttered, just loud enough for Emma to hear him.
Emma got up and walked determinedly across to his desk. Aidan sensed that he’d gone too far with his banter. Emma, who was shorter than Aidan, looked straight at him and said, ‘Stand up, please.’
Aidan looked a little apprehensive; he stood up and Emma moved closer. Rafi had his fingers crossed that the team wasn’t going to come apart at the seams. Emma stood there, milking the anticipation and doubt in his mind. She leant forward, raised herself up on to her tiptoes and placed a fleeting kiss on his cheek.
‘What was that for?’ asked Aidan, astonished.
‘Oh, you’re just brilliant,’ Emma said looking at him. ‘It’s you and your sense of humour. It gets me thinking in strange ways.’
Aidan blushed slightly.
‘No, not that way - you mentioned the word work and that helped me remember what was niggling me.’
Everyone looked blankly at her as she made a beeline for a filing cabinet and rooted through the contents of a drawer.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Kate.
‘A briefing note on immigration; we got one a little while back setting out the priority employment sectors and how these might be exploited to gain fast track work permits and entry into the UK. It highlighted certain industry sectors. Found it! Yes! Fish packers are on that list and the terrorists have large fishing and fish processing activities. This would give them a legitimate and easy way of getting undesirables into the UK.’
‘It’s a long shot. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’ Kate phoned the switchboard and got the number for their contact at the Immigration Department.
‘Oh blast,’ said Kate, ‘They’ve got the answerphone on.’ She left a message asking for her call to be returned with utmost urgency.
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was a man from the Immigration Office. Kate explained what she needed.
‘Here are a couple of names and mobile phone numbers. If they are busy, please ring me back and I’ll see whether I can find you someone else who can assist you,’ he said helpfully.
‘Thank you,’ replied Kate. She hung up and dialled the first number - it was switched off. The second was answered with a quiet, ‘Hello, Steve Lee here.’
Kate explained her pressing need for information and the importance of confidentiality. ‘Can you help?’ she asked.
She was greeted with, ‘Oh shit! Oh shit not again, why now?’ Kate’s face turned very serious; she was about to read the riot act to the person on the other end of the phone when she heard him shout, ‘Lucy!’ and then louder, ‘Lucy, can you rescue me please? The little tyke has done another projectile poo!’ There was a brief silence. It seemed that Lucy had arrived in the nick of time and had taken charge of the situation. ‘Darling, let me have him; I‘ll finish off the nappy changing. You can sort out your work.’
Steve was most embarrassed and very apologetic. ‘It’s meant to be my day off. Oh hell, I need to put the phone down again; he got me all down the side of my trousers as well. Lucy is going to love it; I’ve just backed into the side of the sofa! Look,’ he said, ‘The sooner I get out of here, the better for everyone; give me a couple of minutes to change and, say, twenty minutes to get to the office. Ring me on this number in twenty-five minutes and I’ll be at my desk where I’ll be in a better position to help. I promise that this isn’t a brush off.’
‘It’d better not be!’ said Kate and hung up.
Aidan looked up at Emma, who by coincidence had been looking his way; their eyes met for a brief moment but both thought better of saying anything. A couple of smiles later they were heads down, focused on their paperwork.
Kate phoned Steve. ‘I’m looking at a couple of companies. I need to know whether they’ve employed any non-nationals via fast track visas, working as, say, fish packers or filleters over the past three or four years.’
‘Fire away,’ came the reply. ‘Let’s see what we can find. Can you give me the company name and its address?’
Kate spoke to Emma, who passed her the information Steve requested.
‘Thank you,’ replied Steve. I must apologise, the system is always slow bringing up information. I suspect it’s feeling a little overworked at the moment, though please don’t quote me on that. Ah yes, your fish processing company has seen a significant growth in their workforce over the past couple of years. They’ve put in six - no sorry - seven fast track visa applications for fish packers and filleters. Of these, we were able to process three on the nod as they were for EU citizens from Eastern Europe. The other four were non-EU nationals and their visa requests have been approved too. All in the past sixteen months! I see from a note on the file from my colleague Roger that they’re opening up a large new cold store and packaging facility later this year, hence their recent requests.’
‘Would you know where?’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not on the electronic notes. Roger, my assistant who deals with this company, is away on holiday. He’ll be back tomorrow morning though. By the way, what’s your email address?’ asked Steve.
There was a brief silence after Kate provided him with the information and then Steve came back on the line. ‘I’ve emailed you the details we have on each of these individuals. I’ve tried Roger’s mobile but it’s switched off, as is his voicemail. I’ll send him a text message and put a note on his desk letting him know to get in touch as soon as he’s back. Wait a minute! I am a berk -of course he’s not answering; he’s flying back from his holiday in the States. What’s your timescale?’
‘Yesterday would be ideal. As soon as possible, please. It’s really important,’ urged Kate. ‘Steve, if you or Roger can’t get through to me, here is my fax number. Please mark any faxes as Urgent.’
‘Will do,’ he said, I can’t promise that Roger will remember where the new cold store is located. He keeps a number of notebooks, but I’ve never been able to decipher what he puts into them. One of us will be in touch first thing tomorrow.’
‘Oh, by the way, while I’ve got you on the line,’ said Kate, ‘What other fast track ways into the UK are available?’
‘Off the record, news agency journalism is a good one,’ Steve replied. ‘Interestingly, representatives of overseas newspapers who are employed and paid in the UK don’t need a work permit. All they have to show is evidence that they’ve been engaged by a news organisation outside the UK, that the posting to the UK is a long-term assignment and they have sufficient funds to live here. We don’t always have the time to check that the foreign organisation is in business. The process is remarkably straightforward. Like fish processors and filleters, journalists aren’t seen as a priority area to scrutinise. The paperwork often gets only a cursory glance. And did you know that after four years they beco
me eligible to apply for residency?’
‘No I didn’t… Could you look up a few more companies and check if they’ve made any visa requests that look in any way out of the ordinary?’ asked Kate.
When they came to the venture capital business, AGVC, Steve said, ‘Yes! They have an individual who fits your description: an overseas journalist who joined them six months ago. He’s setting up a weekly newspaper on the venture capital sector. I’ll email his details to you.’
They found nothing more.
‘Thank you Steve. You’ve been really helpful,’ said Kate. ‘Best wishes to Lucy. Tell her from me that you’re a star for coming into the office on your day off.’
Kate printed out the details on the eight individuals and bounced the email on to Jeremy who, as luck would have it, returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Jeremy, could you help me track down the eight people I’ve just emailed you? They are employed by the terrorists’ businesses and have all taken advantage of the fast track visa application process. It seems that they’ve been here, acclimatising to the UK way of life, for between four and sixteen months. The likelihood is that they’re using false names.’
As an afterthought, Kate forwarded the email to Colonel Matlik in Tallinn, with a short covering note: These people have come up on our radar screen. Do any of them look familiar to you?
She then called across to Emma. ‘Have you made any progress with the trawlers?’
‘Yes; they’ve got a fleet of eight modern vessels. Four are registered at Peterhead, two at Grimsby and two in Tallinn. I’ve confirmation that three of the Peterhead trawlers are out in the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in the vicinity of Iceland, and they’re due back next week. The fourth, Northern Rose, is in port at Peterhead. The two Estonian trawlers in the Norwegian Sea are due back in Tallinn late Sunday or Monday. Unfortunately, Highland Belle and Rosemarie from Grimsby are still unaccounted for.’ Emma continued, ‘And I’ve been talking to the coastguard. The talk is that Northern Rose in Peterhead is due to sail tomorrow around lunchtime.’
‘Good work.’
‘And, they have a cold store and processing unit in Peterhead,’ added Emma, ‘From which they supply hotels and restaurants country-wide. I wonder why they don’t have a cold store in the South of England. It would make the distribution process simpler?’
‘The north side of London would be ideal,’ commented Kate. ‘Somewhere near Willesden, perhaps?’
‘Exactly!’ said Emma. ‘Anyway, I phoned their sales office in Peterhead, posing as the manager of a fish restaurant in South London. I enquired whether they operated around London. The reply was that their nearest depot was up North. They do deliveries to London, but there was a large minimum order. The person I spoke to believed there might be plans afoot to open a facility outside London, but she hadn’t been formally told as yet. She asked me to give her a ring in six months time.’
Kate frowned. ‘That ties in with the comment from Steve at Immigration about them looking to expand. So they could well have bought a property in the South of England.’
The phone rang. John picked it up. It was one of Jeremy’s MI5 colleagues. ‘Jeremy asked to be kept informed of the whereabouts of Basel Talal. Sorry for the delay; some information has just come through from the Belgian authorities. Your man, Talal, landed in Paris last Tuesday morning almost two hours before Jameel flew out from there to Marrakech. We don’t know if they met.’ The MI5 man hesitated. ‘As Basel had no onward flight we had assumed that he was staying in Paris. The boss, however, wanted us to be more thorough and we gained access to the French, Belgian and Dutch passenger manifests. It transpires that Basel hopped onto the TGV to Brussels, boarded a flight to Copenhagen and then flew on to Reykjavík. He must have antifreeze in his blood to go there at this time of year! We’ve sent an operative up to Reykjavík to investigate and another is keeping an eye on Jameel.’
‘Thanks,’ said John and hung up. ‘All of you, our man Basel has done a runner and - would you believe it… Gone to Iceland?’
Jeremy’s journey across town was straightforward and he arrived at the coffee bar with a couple of minutes to spare, wondering whether he had whetted Pete Lockyer’s appetite, or if he would be wasting his time.
Pete was on time. Jeremy watched him saunter into the café. He was of medium build, slightly paunchy with receding mousey-brown hair. His face told a story of too many late nights. Pete was smiling, which was presumably a good sign.
Pete spotted Jeremy, came over and sat down opposite him. Introductions out of the way, the coffees were ordered and they started chatting.
‘What have you got that makes it worth my while being here?’ asked Pete bluntly.
‘I am doing a bit of undercover work on a rather wealthy individual who has his fingers in some interesting pies and I’m not certain what’s in it for you yet.’ Jeremy watched Pete. He didn’t look overly pleased.
‘Have you ever met a real spook before? I thought not. Well at least this can be marked down as part of your professional training.’
Pete had been studying Jeremy, who was athletic in build and had one of those faces that was handsome but didn’t stand out. Pete realised he wanted to find out more.
‘Are you really MI5?’
‘Yep, have a look at this.’
Pete scrutinised Jeremy’s MI5 warrant card, looked up at his smiling face and considered things. He’d just put a good story to bed and had a second almost completed. He didn’t really need another one right now. But he did have a spare hour or so. What the hell! The spook was fascinating .
‘I might be able to help. It depends on what you’re after,’ said Pete carefully.
‘I could do with tracing a fast motor vessel. I’ve got two leads as to who the owner might be; both mix with the great and the not-so-good! Can’t tell you what it’s about as it’s highly sensitive, but you’ll be the first to know when the story breaks.’
‘That’s a bit thin,’ said Pete.
‘My sources tell me you’re a man up for a challenge,’ replied Jeremy.
‘How’s about we go back to my office and see if we can turn something up in the library?’
It was a short walk across to the shiny, glass-fronted building. Pete signed Jeremy in and they made for the library.
Jeremy gave Pete the details of Maryam, her husband and the sheikh, and showed him the photos that Emma had sent to his phone.
‘Where do we start looking?’
‘First let’s look under their names. Let me show you how the manual and electronic cataloguing and indexing work. I suggest you start over here and I start at the other end and we see how we do,’ said Pete.
Jeremy looked at the mass of catalogued photos. Bloody hell! If only MI5 had this type of information on people! He was fascinated by the tabloid approach to life. Some of the pictures made the mind boggle and the eyes water. They surely couldn’t publish many of them, but he supposed they made for good bargaining tools!
It soon became apparent that Maryam and her husband were landlubbers; they loved high society, opera and the Arts. There was nothing to do with them and boats.
Then Pete struck gold. A colleague had been working on a story about oil magnates and beautiful celebs. There were pictures of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women and there, amongst the pictures, was the sheikh with a movie star draped across the back of a sleek-looking monster of a powerboat.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Pete. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one of those. She looks like a Sunseeker Predator 75 if I’m not mistaken. Like shit off a shovel. I reckon her top speed would be something like forty-seven knots - over fifty miles per hour… Fast boats are a daydream of mine.’
Pete looked carefully through the similar pictures. ‘Damn it! None of the photos show the boat’s name. Don’t worry.’ He picked up the phone and chatted to a colleague, and within moments was talking to a specialist yacht broking agency. He spoke to them for a while and then hung up. ‘This is the boring b
it of the job - the waiting for someone to phone back with the info. And the coffee’s cold!’ commented Pete.
They didn’t have to wait long. The yacht broker advised Pete that a limited number of these boats were built each year. The manufacturer had given him the names of the boats constructed in the past five years. The broker reckoned that it wouldn’t take him long to track down whether any of them were owned by a rich Arab sheikh.
Jeremy smiled. It was great to see a professional at work! Pete didn’t give away who he was researching. He reckoned Pete could give a lesson or two to some of his younger colleagues. To pass the time, and not wishing to lose an opportunity, Jeremy pulled together a bit of information on Maryam and her husband.
Less than twenty minutes later Pete’s broker contact phoned back. He’d identified three such boats which were owned by Arab sheikhs.
‘The first one is owned by a Sheikh Tufayl.’
‘Voilà!’ said Jeremy.
‘Her name is Flying Goddess,’ continued Pete. ‘She is usually moored at either Monaco or Cannes and has a full-time captain.’
The information cost Pete €500. On the basis that it would help with a story, he would mark it down to expenses. Pete made a couple more calls and discovered that the boat wasn’t in Monaco or Cannes. His contact in Monaco reckoned that the boat left late last year for a refit somewhere or other, but not locally.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t tell you much at the moment, but odds-on this morning’s work will have been your most profitable yet.’
‘Exclusive as and when?’
‘Of course, but in the meantime our discussion remains just between the two of us,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.’
On the journey back, Jeremy phoned Emma.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘You’ve got the name, the make and the type of boat and even know that she’s being refitted.’
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 13
