“Maybe not, but with all your European connections you could lure him out, the sprat to catch the mackerel and all that.”
“Jason it’s been a few years since I worked in Europe, some of those connections will be long gone, and besides, unless it has escaped your attention I am no longer a police officer, for the Metropolitan Police or Interpol for that matter.”
“Fair point. But surely you still harbour a grudge against him for what he did to Carrie and how he killed Clive back in 2004? I know I do.”
“Perhaps, probably. But I have had to move on Jason, let sleeping dogs lie and all that. Right now I’m sat in the Emirates business class lounge and eventually heading to the Great Barrier Reef. I have a date with an old friend.”
Roberts was distracted for a short moment, ever the excitable puppy, he wanted to know more.
“Ooh, pray do tell all to your old Uncle Jason.”
“Should I trust you? Are you one of the six degrees of separation, Jason?”
“Jack. I thought we were lifelong buddies? Anyway, you told me it was seven degrees, just like I told you that the most powerful wave was actually the ninth, not the seventh.”
“You didn’t answer the question…buddy.”
“Yes. You can always trust me.”
“I know, it was rhetorical. Before I answer it, you must answer one for me. No, make that three.”
“Go on.”
“One. I know it was a while ago now, but do you think we ever got to the bottom of Operation Breaker? You know, who was who in that zoo and who we could trust?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind resurrecting it again, I’m bored Jack and I’ve got more staff now, some new really top-flight officers just looking for a project. Just say the word…”
“Thanks, agreed, there were too many loose ends. In the ten years I was away I never managed to figure out what was so important about the documents, what they meant, who had which copy and why – and above all who was set to gain from it. But I know they came for her in New Zealand and in turn that added me to their list of targets.”
He stopped, cleared his mind.
“Two. Why are you wearing an orange shirt to work?”
Roberts had no idea how Cade did it. Someone must have sent him a text.
“It’s tangerine.”
Cade paused to listen to an announcement. “Jason, it’s orange and I have to go, a fold-down bed and an endless supply of female international charm awaits me aboard an Emirates flight to Dubai and Sydney. Those crew are dripping in expensive perfume and agendas. I’m a single man with needs. Be good and let’s agree to stay in touch over these new developments. Ring me if you feel you need to. Oh, and ring JD – let him know, if he doesn’t already. He likes to keep his finger on the pulse. And send my regards to Carrie, would you?”
“Sure, anything else whilst I’m at it boss?” Roberts was joking but could sense there was an unasked question. “Was there anything else before you lower yourself into the lap of a deliciously hot flight attendant, Mr Cade?”
“Of course, the most important question!”
“Oh, I’m all ears Jack.”
“Can you play the piano now?”
“I can Jack, it’s very much black and white now. Listen, fella, look after yourself and stay out of trouble.” He was about to hang up when his own burning question resurfaced.
“Christ, Jack you almost got away with it, you cunning bastard.”
Cade was smiling as he stood to walk to the gate lounge and step onto the A380 super jumbo to Dubai.
“Jason, do hurry up man, I’m about to board flight 007 – how cool is that?”
“Oh yes, very. Come on Jack, stop trying to deflect, who are you meeting and where?”
“I wondered how long it would take that eager mind of yours! I’m heading to Sydney and then north to the exquisitely beautiful Whitsunday Islands where I’m meeting an old friend.”
“You said, although you didn’t explain why, but I doubt you’ll tell me, so I’ll settle for who?”
Cade decided on the blunt approach. “Elena Petrova. Catch up soon my friend and don’t forget to pick that jaw up off the deck…”
Before Roberts could respond Cade had cleared the line, switched to flight mode and walked along the air bridge, through the door of the Airbus and turned left.
“Welcome aboard Mr Cade may I get you a drink?”
The voice was soft but suggestive and Latin, possibly Spanish. Its owner was regulation slim, white teeth, tanned with a head of well-cut hair. Her badge said she spoke three languages.
“I’d like a twelve-year-old Aberfeldy, but I’m guessing that is pushing things a little?”
“Not at all. Ice? I’ll be back shortly.”
The flight attendant handed Cade his drink, smiled and tended to another passenger. She was as smouldering as the scotch and he struggled to take his eyes off her.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, I’m fine thank you Sofia. But thank you for asking.”
She spoke with her eyes. A subtle flick of the brow, three successive blinks. “My pleasure, have a lovely flight.” She knew.
It was far too soon. ‘Stop now, Jack – you need a break from chaos and pretty girls.’ He laughed at the notion, remembering where he was heading and who he was going to meet.
For all of his talk about encouraging sleeping dogs to lie, Cade couldn’t rest. Roberts was right. They needed to be ready.
Removing a small laptop from his carry-on luggage and accessing the free wi-fi on board, he began to type an email. It wasn’t without risk, accessing what for all intents and purposes was an open network. If his enemies were on board the same aircraft, then good luck to them.
The email was addressed to Jason Roberts, John Daniel and the woman who had assured him that he could contact her day or night if the need arose: Sassy Lane, the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs – the message’s prime target.
‘In summary, ma’am, I need your complete support. We all know that Stefanescu still holds too many aces, that his team are diverse and mobile, and now, with what I perceive to be a credible threat, he has means and motivation. I don’t know what that is yet, but he is out and on the run and if their operation is anything remotely like their last, it will be exponential and we need to be ahead of the game.’
He re-read what he had written so far,
‘In closing, I need the following people to form a team in London, with your total backing, financially and otherwise. I will return to London from Australia as soon as I am able to, however, the meeting I intend to hold may just return one ace to our pack. I need this to remain close hold ma’am, if necessary at TS level, but at the least between myself, Jason Roberts, John Daniel, the Op Breaker team, including additions as I see fit, and finally, respectfully, yourself. No one else should be party to this. It is about trust.’
He re-read the message three times, altered one word, added a red exclamation mark, as much encryption as his simple system would allow, and finally hit send.
He got comfortable, created patterns in the condensation on his glass, emptied it, slipped on some noise cancelling headphones and decided to sleep on the first leg.
He was gone before the wheels were up and the aircraft slipped out of British airspace and headed across the English Channel.
Chapter Three
It was five hours later, two-thirds of the way into the flight to Dubai that Cade woke. His headphones had done their job, shielding the incessant drone of the four massive engines that propelled the aircraft across Europe and toward the Middle East.
As he had many times before he found himself asking questions for which he simply had no answer.
He ran them through his mind. Many of them were subliminal – almost constantly gnawing at his subconscious. Ten years had lapsed since he first left his wife for a new and arguably more interesting life. He had no idea what Penny, his long-divorced first wife, was doing and frankly d
idn’t care. He wished her no harm. When they had first met things were fine and he had to hold onto those thoughts alone. He had heard on the familial grapevine – one that he had tried to also divorce from – that she was doing well, running a team of men in a new business somewhere in the east Midlands. He laughed at the notion of her sleeping her way to the top. Of course she did. It was what she did best.
When Cade had left the Metropolitan Police for the first time, as a serving officer, he had vowed never to return, but time, place and circumstance all aligned to draw him back into the heart of one of the most dynamic cities on earth and if he was completely honest, he missed it – missed the chase. The bell curve of chaos and success since he had first arrived was alarming; exciting, but alarming. But with the right people supporting him and a few notable bosses leading the way he knew that he had made the right call.
However, he hated leaving with so much unfinished business at hand. He was given a subtle ultimatum, as subtle as being told he had a week to live and that ‘sorry, the news should have been delivered seven days prior’.
He couldn’t recall who had said it, but the words resonated.
‘We feel that now is the time to leave London, Jack. For your sake and the sake of the organisation.’
His planets had become misaligned, Mercury and Venus at odds, and with his boss John Daniel offering wise counsel, he decided to make the professional leap of faith and head to Lyon, France where a liaison role at Interpol’s prestige headquarters was waiting. His desk literally had his name on it. All he had to do was pack and go.
What happened in France – and where it took him over the subsequent years was a series of events all on their own, each separate and yet linked through their own varying degrees of separation.
Heading away happened – he felt he had no choice. But he did so not under a cloud but with the words of one or two of his most senior confidantes ringing in his ears.
‘You can always come back. One day.’
That was early 2005. It took the best part of six months to mourn the old life. He stayed religiously in touch with Roberts and Daniel and watched from afar how some notable figures from Operation Breaker had sorted their differences and gained a foothold on the ladder to success.
People like Johnathan Hewett – the devil-made-good of the British Foreign Office, and ironically the man Cade had to thank for his role in France. Cade never knew whether to trust him; call it male intuition, but the government did, and that appeared to reach ministerial level. What was good for the goose and all that. Hewett operated in a different world, one which was trying to keep pace with the global developments that looked likely to impact upon Britain. Cade considered him an equal, but knew he would never reach the same heady heights.
Where did Hewett sit on the ladder, near the bottom rung, able to reach out to help a friend, or perched perilously near the top where one reach too far would bring him crashing to the ground?
He made it look far too easy and had edged his way to the top, gaining ground and adding friends that he could influence and in turn could impact on his career. Had he got away with it or was he genuinely good at his job?
Then there was Stefan Stefanescu. Now there was an altogether different case. More twists than a cough candy and a love him/hate him aftertaste. He had appeared on the Op Breaker radar as the ruthless co-leader of the Seventh Wave criminal syndicate, and importantly, the brother of Alex Stefanescu – the Jackdaw – arguably Europe’s most-wanted.
His degree of separation had become apparent when he had become the gamekeeper, having been a successful poacher for so long. He was now an ally, according to the British. So much of this was ‘need to know’ and Cade needed to know more than anyone else, for he held him accountable for so many deeds.
Blood was always thicker than water and when Cade had been lying on the coarse surface of a rural New Zealand road that fateful day, propping up his newly acquired girlfriend, stemming the flow of blood and praying for her salvation, he saw in her body language that Stefan was – by two degrees – responsible for her death.
Whilst no one had witnessed it, it was apparent that Stefan had been in the car that had deliberately caused her high-speed demise. He had walked up to its remains, held her wrist, feeling for a weakening pulse and had turned on his immaculate heels and left her to die.
He would later confess his horror at having to leave her – after all, he had said in a secretive ‘trial’, recognise it or not, she was technically his niece. He loved her. That fact has escaped many.
He argued and counter-argued that the initial crash was supposed to be a distraction, a chance to recover the documents that she was carrying and hopefully steer her back onto the right path, steer her away from the risks involved – to learn to trust him for the duration, as, he said, they had the same goal.
Her injuries were never meant to be.
He said, if anyone was prepared to listen, that if someone have been watching the incident, they would have seen him smile as he held her wrist, shed a tear, the pulse was weak, but she had a pulse and she had her mother’s tenacity and he knew with help on the way that she would survive. That was the cause of his ‘heartless smile’. He loved her. No matter what any court dare state.
Internal bleeding had nearly claimed her. She was pale, clammy and breathless before becoming unconscious. The inbound air ambulance – guided by the calm voice of an unknown British male – had found her in time.
He was right; she did have her mother’s genes. And it looked as though the New Zealand authorities were quickly weighing up the severity of the crash, as flying below the bright red and yellow chopper that day was a dark grey one, approaching fast with men in the doorway. Like Cade, Stefan knew he had to leave the scene – and leave he did, but he saw them approaching, looked back in the tinted mirror of the Rolls Royce Wraith, the leviathan luxury car that carried them to Auckland, and its airport and separate seats on unconnected flights, home.
There was Sassy Lane and Michael Blake from the British Foreign Office. Surely, of all people, they were to be placed into the trustworthy pile? But whilst he found Lane to be good to her word, Blake concerned Cade on many fronts – he just wished he was able to prove his doubts. Something about leopards and spots, but without a reason to double check his reservations, he would have to wait.
The outstanding members of the Seventh Wave caused him little concern, so many years later they were memories, albeit a few were still capable of raining on his parade. However, the majority of the capable ones were either dead or in custody.
The man the Romanians called Copil de umbra – real name Valentin Niculcea, had practically disappeared off the face of the earth. He’d cashed in his IOU from the British, packed his meagre belongings and fled from the place he had called home in the provincial village of St Helene, France.
Submerged beneath the pack ice, no one knew where he might surfaced, but surface he would and he had promised Cade that in the event of him requiring his future services he only had to put an article on the Metropolitan Police website with his name in it – announce he was wanted. It really was that simple. And besides, it would make him smile. And that was a rare event.
Constantin Nicolescu: A name to genuinely strike fear into Cade’s heart. He was the true wildcard. Not even Alex, his leader and ten year long source of income, trusted him. But then Alex trusted only one man.
Cade had feared that Nicolescu had surfaced in New Zealand, on that moderate left-hand bend. He couldn’t prove it, but if instinct were to be followed it meant Nicolescu was alive – that his mistress heroin hadn’t claimed him, and above all that whilst he was alive and anywhere near his loved ones, he was still a threat.
Cade’s old employer knew this and put things in place to alert staff, but this was a man who feared only one thing – the hatred of his fellow human being, and that made him a tangible threat. Full stop.
This left two names. John Daniel, now retired and happily living on the Pac
ific coast of New Zealand, running a restaurant and living the proverbial dream. Cade had come to both trust and respect his old boss – but there was one question he had never got an answer for. Given the Breaker team’s involvement in myriad crimes committed by the Seventh Wave, and the government insistence that the operation must come to an end, despite its growing success, did Daniel know more than he was prepared to divulge?
Was he still connected to the business-end of the Metropolitan Police? Did he know that Stefan Stefanescu was in-country in New Zealand and hunting for his own niece?
If he knew so much, could he have stopped the circus from coming to town? Or was he just the same as Cade, a pawn on a virtual chessboard?
Daniel had said once, during a frantic moment, that he knew where Cade was. He meant geographically.
He knew where Cade was. How?
He needed to ask him before too long, if indeed Daniel would ever answer such a set of questions. Had he been briefed higher up the chain? UK eyes only? Was it really that sensitive?
Was he part of the inner sanctum that knew the answers?
What stopped Cade from asking was a genuine friendship, and he valued that more than any answer. Yes, let sleeping dogs slumber. Let them be.
Elena Petrova was the last and always would be. She had arrived, not by chance into Cade’s life, carrying a burden and a document or two, none of which made any sense and she had fought her battle with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on that immaculate morning, in a fast car, on an isolated road in a far-flung country. And time would show that she had been the victor.
Where had she been in the time between, who had cared for her and where? How had they shielded the news of her survival from everyone? What was her role? Who was she?
As much as Cade had fallen for her. He had explored her from almost every angle, run his fingers through her glistening hair, lowered his lips onto hers, stared into her pristine eyes until they blurred and repeatedly felt her respond to him in a way no woman ever had. He was left with that one question though, and it haunted him. Not just the police officer in him, but the man.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 4
