Ripping open the envelope she saw that it contained a sheet of paper with five numbers on. Olsen memorised them, and then burned the piece of paper. Over the next few days she would receive two more envelopes with the rest of the numbers.
The left-hand drawer of the office desk was locked and had been for almost ten years, but she needed to open it now to check the contents. Olsen kept the small key on her main keyring and now she opened the drawer. Inside were the pre-paid phones she had bought a decade ago.
Happy that all appeared well, Olsen relocked the drawer. Tonight, she would be taking three of the phones home to charge them up. Her apprentices were about to get another lucky break by being sent home early.
When she had the whole number, it would allow her to phone a similar pre-paid device being held by the Courier. The instructions were to wait twenty-four hours from the exact time of the third delivery, and then Olsen would get her instructions and be told about her payment.
She knew that the Courier could have achieved better security using an encrypted app, but she also knew that he liked to do things in a slightly old-fashioned way, and who was she to argue with methods that obviously worked?
*
An hour later, and almost four hundred miles away across the North Sea, another black-clad motorcyclist had arrived at Big Tommy’s modern five-bedroom house on the outskirts of Peterhead.
He was fast asleep, catching up after ten days of snatching a few hours here and there, but his wife was forewarned. She produced both their passports and the rider nodded once as he accepted her identity and handed over the envelope.
As she went into the kitchen to make a fresh cup of tea, nearly 600 miles away in London the Courier was going over his plans yet again. He had received text messages from the riders to say the packages had been delivered so he knew the network he needed was activated.
He tried not to have favourites, but he thought the two he was using for this job were probably the pick of his team. They were the first people he had thought of when this job had come to him, and he was confident they would not let him down.
There was also a third team getting ready to move. They had more specialised skills, since their job was to retrieve the stash of weaponised plutonium and ensure it was ready for transportation. If they left a trail of radiation behind them then the whole plan would crumble like a pack of cards. Now he had to wait for the location of the stash, although he had been given a general idea, in a rural spot in central France - so that he could make proper calculations of the necessary travelling time.
It had been agreed that, once the plutonium arrived in London, the bomb assembly should begin straight away. It would be a dirty bomb, meaning relatively less destruction to allow for more radiation. He certainly had no intention of being anywhere near the capital in just a few weeks from now.
The rest of the equipment, along with the technicians needed, was being brought in by Sokolov, with Yebedev having already arranged accommodation and a work space over to the west of London.
They wanted the prevailing winds to spread radiation over as wide a range as possible, and it was hoped that the money-making machine that was the City of London would get a massive and unwelcome dusting.
As the Courier understood it, detonation would depend on whether a ransom demand was met. He assumed that, faced with catastrophe, the government would pay up, but he had no way of knowing.
But there was one thing that was totally certain. There would be a massive manhunt for the people behind the plan and, while he had been giving a lot of attention to delivering his part of the bargain, he was starting to think about his own survival.
During his years of success, he had remained out of sight and below the radar. He doubted he would be able to do that much longer, but that’s why he sweated the details. He needed to vanish without a trace.
45
“We’re aiming to do the switch in ten days from now, so you will need to be in Stavanger on Monday week. I will have had the package delivered by then and I’m hoping to have it sitting around for as short a time as possible.”
Judging by the quality of the line, Big Tommy thought it sounded as though the Courier was out of the country. There was a slight delay, which meant they had tripped over each other speaking. They’d resolved that by leaving a long pause when they each finished.
“From what you are saying so far, I’m getting the impression that this is pretty portable.”
That pause; then, unusually for the Courier, a short laugh.
“If it’s you doing the lifting, it will be child’s play. I haven’t actually seen it yet, but I am told the package is the size of a large suitcase and weighs in at about fifty pounds - so quite a bit for ordinary mortals, nothing to you.”
“That’s good to know, and I will do it myself; the other lads are no slouches, but it wouldn’t do to drop it in the harbour.”
This time the silence at the end of the line carried on for quite a while.
“It would be a disaster if that happened.”
“No worries - that’s why I said I would carry it myself. By the way, you haven’t said what is in the package. I am assuming this is one of those need to know occasions.”
“It is for the best that I am not telling you, and very much in your interest that your name never becomes associated with it. I can assure you will be quite safe while it is in your possession. For the remainder of this operation this is the last time we shall speak. As we were talking I arranged the first payment to you and the second will come when the job is done.
“I am adding one new thing. I don’t anticipate any problems, but it would be foolish not to have a plan. In the event that things go out of control you will receive a single yellow emoji. If that happens you are to abort and make no attempt to contact me.
“You will still be paid, but I will have judged there were too many risks to see the job through. Now, quickly go through the plan for the last time and then we can both go about our business.”
“I will be close to the Norwegian coastline the Friday after next. I will report an ongoing mechanical problem and request I be allowed to dock for work to be carried out by Astrid Olsen. I will explain I know her from previous work.
“From Olsen I will pick up the package and return to Peterhead, aiming to arrive on the Tuesday morning. I won’t report in my catch and say I have already sold it to a private buyer. Once docked in Scotland, the package will be in the third load to be taken out of the hold.
“Two men dressed in working gear will approach and say they are there to collect the load for a Mr. Taylor. They will take the package and my role is done.”
*
The clock started ticking even faster than the Courier had expected, and it very nearly caused disaster. The details of where the plutonium was buried came in via Moscow on the same day he had spoken to Big Tommy and Olsen.
It turned out his team was only thirty miles from the location, in the grounds of an abandoned farm outside Limoges. It was an amazing coincidence that gave him slight pause for thought, as though things were lining up too smoothly; but he put the idea aside.
The pick-up team assured him they could reach the location, retrieve the package and be gone while it was still daylight. As it turned out they had overestimated their ability, and the Courier had allowed himself to become distracted and didn’t challenge them.
It took them far longer to find the package than they had anticipated, and it was fully dark by the time they pulled it from the ground, having had to dig out five big holes before they got what they were looking for.
They had just put all the equipment away when they saw headlights in the far distance. They started getting closer and it was soon obvious it was a vehicle approaching along the farm track. To their horror a police car pulled up and two officers got out.
The gendarmes had been alerted by a local man who was out foraging and had spied the pick-up team frantically digging away in the yard of the abandoned farm.
Armed with a vivid imagination, he had deduced it was bank robbers returning to pick up their loot and had phoned the police emergency number.
The duty inspector had almost let it go without taking action but then changed his mind and sent a patrol car. Now the two officers were challenging the four men standing in the yard to put their hands up. The pick-up team were frozen in the harsh glare of the spotlights on the police car.
Unfortunately for the officers, a fifth man was just out of sight, having gone to relieve himself before they set off on the long drive north. He had sneaked unobserved to the back of the van, where he now produced a Kalashnikov rifle.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and started firing. He was ex-Special Forces, so seconds later both young officers fell dead to the ground. There was no time for hanging around and the pick-up team piled into their van and set off.
Had the police reacted sharply they might have intercepted the van, but it was forty-five minutes before a back-up car was sent and another thirty minutes lost before the alarm was raised, which was more than enough time for the pick-up team to be safely on their way. Because of the darkness, there was more delay in identifying the tyre tracks that proved they were looking for a van.
In London the Courier had received the news apparently calmly, but his misgivings instantly returned as he learned of the narrow escape. However, cancelling the operation would now be hugely problematic, as they no longer had the option of returning the plutonium to its original hiding place.
For better or worse, the delivery was on its way to Stavanger and, depending on road conditions and how many breaks they took, it would be there sometime in the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours.
He thought hard. He had a safe-house in Belgium; he would get the team to rest up there for five days. Otherwise the package would be spending too long in one place in Stavanger. It meant more changes on the hoof, but he felt there was little choice.
The Courier even revisited the overall scheme and considered bringing in the plutonium via an English Channel crossing, but he stuck to his plans. There was too much security and technology that way; it increased the risks.
He briefly thought about informing Olsen of the changes he had made but decided against it. The way this was going he might have to make more changes and he didn’t want her thinking the plan was unravelling. That might worry her and risk her making a mistake.
Forcing himself into a positive state of mind, he reasoned that, although there had been a very narrow escape, the package was on its way and if there were no more problems it would be in London in twelve days’ time. After that it wasn’t his problem; once the delivery was confirmed he would be booking a flight to Mexico.
*
Three days after the murder of the two gendarmes, a French news agency received a call from a man who claimed to have alerted the police to what was going on at the farmhouse. He was put on to a reporter and, clearly excited at talking to a journalist, launched into a garbled account of what he had seen.
The reporter was only half-listening. Having to talk to “crazy people” came with the territory and she was inclined to lump this in with all the other examples she had heard over the years. She was about to butt in and wish him a polite but firm goodbye when he said something that jolted her out of her boredom.
“I’m terribly sorry, but could you repeat that last bit? There was a funny noise on the line and I only half heard you. I thought you said something about space suits.”
The excitement on the other end of the line hit fever pitch.
“That is what I said. Remember I was a long way away, and even with my binoculars I couldn’t see it clearly, but there seemed to be two men in spacesuits.”
The reporter could see the beginning of a plan. “Could I just double check all your details again - you know, your name and telephone number; and do you have a picture of yourself you could email over?”
Half an hour later she was looking at a very clear photo of her star witness. To her relief he looked, with an open and honest face, like the sort of man who could be trusted even if he was saying something outlandish.
She approached her editor. He’d recently been muttering about the need to generate more “clickbait” news stories. She had just the thing for him.
One of the first people to see the story was the Courier. He valued information, so had set up a search alert for “Limoges” and “murder”. When his laptop alerted him he had something, he read the story and then picked up the phone.
46
Thanks to the wonder that is the Internet, the story had morphed from a relatively sedate, if eye catching, “Witness claims to have seen spacemen at scene of shooting” to the rather more arresting “Aliens slay cops”.
Unsurprisingly, the latter was the version that was being aired on social media and inevitably being picked up by newspapers all over the world. It was rapidly turning into a global “silly season” story and an account mocking the claim appeared in the print edition of the London Evening Standard.
Which is where it was spotted by Roper. He was so gripped by the headline he stared at it for almost five minutes, becoming so still that Hooley couldn’t help noticing and wondering what had sent his colleague into a trance-like state.
He suddenly snapped back to life, his hands reaching for his keyboard as his eyes opened to stare at his computer screen. He spent a short while staring intently at the information he’d called up and finally spoke. What he said sent a jolt up Hooley’s spine.
“I think the bomb is on its way to London - or it may even have arrived.”
“What?” The DCI shouted, as the shock brought him to his feet. There was a world of difference between examining something as a possibility to being told it was now a reality.
Roper held up his copy of the Standard. “This story here is the clue. They’re treating it as “fake news”, but looking at other versions online you can see it started out in a more considered way. I’ve found what looks like the original version and that quotes an eyewitness saying he saw men in spacesuits digging in the ground in an isolated spot in France.
“That’s become translated to him talking about space aliens - but what if he actually saw men in radiation suits? From my research I already know that it is highly likely the KGB hid stuff all over Europe. What if this was where they buried some plutonium and then forgot about it, at least in an official sense?
“This could be exactly the kind of thing that a rogue team might be capable of doing. They could have come into possession of the details and removed any trace from the records. This stuff could have been there since the start of the 1960s, just waiting for the right time, or opportunity, to be retrieved.
“I’ve been running these new details through my Rainbow Spectrum and it comes up as being highly likely. We can dismiss the idea that it is space aliens, but they would have been cautious about retrieving the plutonium.
“The chances are that it would be well contained and not giving off any radiation, but why take any chances until you were sure? That’s exactly what I would have done, and from a distance those protective suits do look a bit like spacesuits, so an ordinary member of the public could have been confused.
“There is one thing we have to check, and that is with the French. My Rainbow Spectrum gives me a less than five per cent chance that this might have been something the French were doing - a small figure, but we would need to double-check it.
“I don’t get the sense that it will turn out to be the French - I mean why would they kill their own police officers? - but there is the slightest chance that something did go badly wrong, so it has to be considered. Will you be able to do that?”
Hooley was still standing up, clenching his fists so hard his nails were digging into his palms.
“When did all this happen?”
“Five days ago.”
Hooley sat down as the implication hit him.
“So that’s why you’re saying this could have arrived
days ago. I need to speak to Julie Mayweather, and Bill Nuffield, and we need to start thinking about picking up those two Russians, Sokolov and Yebedev.”
Roper started urgently tapping at his keyboard.
“Thinking about all this has made me forget that surveillance report that came in early this morning. Our team say there was no sighting of Yebedev last night. They said they can’t be totally sure without checking, but they don’t think he’s at home.
“He’s stayed away before - one night he just caught a private jet to the South of France for dinner - so they weren’t too bothered. We need to find out if he’s surfaced. It’s midday now so that should be plenty of time for him to get back from a night away.”
Hooley put the call in and a few minutes later he received a call on his mobile. He went ashen as he listened and the put the phone down.
“No sign of him and no sign of his wife. The children are away at school, so we’ll have to check there, but is it just me or is all this confirming what you think?”
Roper was looking as serious as he’d ever seen him. “There’s no way Yebedev is going to stay in London if there might be a nuclear explosion. He’d want to be well away from the danger area.”
For the next hour the news was bad. Yebedev and his family had disappeared yesterday morning, the children being taken out of school with the claim that a grandmother was dying.
Meanwhile Sokolov had suddenly left the Ritz, cancelling the remainder of his stay, something he had never done before, and the duty manager reported that he had seemed “unusually” anxious to leave.
“I’ve thought of another reason why this might be bad news,” said Roper. “It looks like they both suddenly received a warning after this spaceman story first appeared from an agency in France. That means someone was looking out for news and immediately tipped off our pair that the police would come looking for them.”
The Long Reach_British Detective Page 17
