by AFN CLARKE
There was utter silence in the room as my father paused, steadying himself.
“At first I thought this was something I could deal with, but there is something more sinister than just a scheme to extort money from me and the company. It stems from Mary's car accident years ago. As you may remember she was in acute pain as a result of her injuries. What I didn't know is that she became addicted to prescription pain medication. Over the years she has been receiving drugs from a London supplier, who I think is linked to Samuel De Costas, the man who is threatening to take over the Northern Ireland project.” He paused again and sighed heavily. “I went to the authorities immediately, of course, but the inquiries have gone nowhere. Tomorrow I fly to Belfast to find out for myself, and then on to San Francisco to meet Samuel de Costas. Something bigger than a drug deal is afoot, Thomas, and if I don't come back alive, you need to continue the investigation. I should have come to you in the first place, but what is done is done. You were in no shape to help. I hope now you have fully recovered and that you now can. I believe that money is being siphoned from the Gunn Group accounts into some offshore banks. The trail is complex, hidden beneath layers of blind companies, which is why you will need Professor Oldfield's help to unravel it all. I believe there are some Government officials who may well be involved in this, but you and your associates would know more about Government funds being used through fake companies to fund operations around the world, than I do. Samuel de Costas is the key. Find him. The next screen will give you everything I know about him, which is not much I'm afraid. Find out who is doing this Thomas. Find out and stop them. I have the greatest faith in you Thomas, I always have. Edwards has a letter for you. I love you son.”
That last bit must have been difficult for him to say, which really added to the gravity of the situation. It was the final testament of a man who knew he was going to die. I looked at Edwards who he handed me an envelope with a heavy wax seal over the back flap. I looked at it, opened it and read the contents then handed it back to him.
“Would you keep it for safety, until this is done?”
“Of course sir.”
My father's face faded from the screen, replaced by a dossier on Samuel De Costas. It was a complete run down of his life. A self made millionaire, he started his business career selling war surplus materials. Everything from thermal underwear to tanks and aeroplanes. Then branched out into many different fields from consumer electronics, to adult entertainment. There were accusations of fraud and tax evasion and more serious charges of murder on two counts but nothing was ever proved. It was after the acquittal on the murder charges, that his life seemed to change. For the past fifteen years he had been a model citizen, and recently re-emerged as a leader in the automotive industry, having funded a new super-car project using the latest engine, micro-computer and robotic fabrication technologies.
I wondered how the old man had got hold of all this information. It was interesting reading but nothing that gave any indication that Ascot was De Costas, or the link to Rathborne Micro-Electronics, except for the micro-computer that ran the engine and transmission system for the car.
"What do you make of it?" I said to Oldfield as we finished reading.
"I would say Mr De Costas is not the sort of fellow I would invite for dinner. However, there is nothing here that links him with anything that has gone on. To prove that this man is Des Ascot would be very difficult."
"What about bank accounts?"
"There are thousands of ways to obscure the exact source and destination of the money."
"I guess that's why my father wanted you involved. I get the information, you figure out the code. And we know two sources of money, the Gunn Group and the British Government and we know one destination, Rathborne Micro-Electronics.”
“I need to link to the computer,” Oldfield said quickly.
Edwards shook his head. “No direct phone line connection. Sir Ivan was very adamant. This has to remain secure.”
“I'm sure he would have given me a way in,” Oldfield said, pursing his lips and frowning. “Julie activate the AirLink app on your iPhone, I'll connect through that, and clone the hard drive.”
“Not such a good idea,” I said before Julie had a chance to take out the tether. “We don't know who might be trying to hack into your phone.”
“I put an encrypted scrambler on it remember?” Oldfield said smugly. “If anyone is trying to hack into my system I'll know immediately and so will they when their system goes down.”
Julie grinned and connected her phone to the computer. “It's done.”
“Good. It'll take a moment.”
“Would you both like a wee dram while we wait?” Edwards asked producing two bottles of The Macallan Fine and Rare 1948 from a cabinet beside the computer. “Sir Ivan always kept a few bottles down here.”
I smiled and accepted the glass from the old man. “The year of my father's birth.”
Julie myself and Edwards silently raised our glasses to what was the only real and meaningful tribute to my father's life, as Oldfield silently worked on the hard drive.
“I have it,” the Professor said. “And if there is a spare bottle I would surely be thankful.”
“Indeed there is, Sir Ivan was most insistent that one be kept for yourself, Professor.” Edwards held up a bottle for Oldfield to see.
“Can we go now,” Julie asked, shivering, “this place is a little creepy.”
Edwards shut down the computer and led us back the way we had come, but instead of returning to the bar, showed us a door.
“This leads to the alleyway beside the building. Good luck to you both. Here is my private telephone number. Sir Ivan was kind enough to set me up with a phone as well as the iPad mini. Very kind of him. Call me anytime.”
“Thank you Edwards,” Julie said leaning forward and kissing his cheek. He blushed slightly, then shuffled back to the bar, just another insignificant old man in a crowd. If only they knew.
The door opened out onto the darkened alley, just as Edwards said, and although there was a full moon in the cloudless sky, dark shadows covered any number of hiding places an assassin may choose to hide. There was no point in trying to avoid detection, so I strode into the middle of the alley and waited for Julie as she dutifully closed the door behind her.
It was over before it really began.
I saw a fleeting shadow and the silhouette of a handgun followed by a soft 'plopping' noise. The shadow slid to the ground and Danny appeared by my side.
“Glad you're on time,” I said as Julie stood rooted to the spot. “Danny, Julie. Julie, Danny,” I said quickly. “Let's go.”
Back in the suite at the Overseas League, Julie sat shaking, comforted by a glass of The Macallan as Danny and I went over the evening's events.
“They're not mucking about,” he said seriously. “You recognised him, didn't you?”
“Joe Stannings. Didn't like the son-of-bitch back in Afghanistan. Never trusted the psycho.”
“Well that's what these clowns are like, Thomas. Fucking psychos all of them. You know that. Most of Section 4's like that. You can't train people to be assassins and expect them to be normal once their service is up. Killing's a disease. You and me, we did it because we had to. Fuckers like Stannings do it because they like it. He didn't give a fuck that you saved his life out there. That's why they're in the Increment. MI5 doesn't care so long as the job gets done. And you, my son, are top of the list of targets.”
“Then I must be doing something right. Do you have your man watching the helicopter?”
“I do.” He paused and looked at me earnestly. “You're getting too close to whatever's going on.”
“And I'm going to get closer.” I looked across at Julie who had recovered and was watching and listening.
“At least we have one ally. Thank you Danny,” she said gratefully.
“Anything for a beautiful girl,” Danny countered, his broad face splitting into a wide smile, eyes sparkling
with mischief.
“Thomas is lucky I met him first,” she teased.
“There's still time, love. When you've figured out he's just all mouth and money.”
“Thank you friends.” The banter broke the tension and we laughed and drank the ₤12,000 bottle of The Macallan Fine & Rare 1948. Before he left I asked Danny for one last favour. “Do you have any friends on the other side of the pond?”
“California?”
“Oregon.”
“A couple of former SEALS we worked with in Afghanistan. They owe me a favour. What do you want?”
“Easy clearance through customs and immigration in Portland, Oregon. Some hardware positioned at The Pines Country Club, near Crescent City California, two cars, two stand-ins, a change of clothes for Julie and myself, what's on this list and a place to stay near San Francisco that is not a hotel. I'll have the pilots reposition the jet to Los Angeles when we're ready to come home.” I handed him the list. He read it quickly.
“Bit elaborate isn't it?”
“Not for what I have in mind.” I quickly ran through the plan I had formed.
“Anybody else know about trip?”
“Nope, just you me and Julie. I'll file a flight plan for Chicago, we have a Gunn Group office there, then we'll re-route to Oregon, as if for a holiday.”
“It's done. I'll have somebody meet you in Portland. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow night from Norwich.”
“Which passport are you using?”
“American to enter the US and British to get back here.”
“You have the numbers on you?”
I took out my to passport and handed them to him. He quickly wrote down the numbers and handed them back to me.
Julie watched. “You carry your passports with you?”
“Always.” Danny and I replied in unison, and then laughed.
The flight back to the Hall in the morning was uneventful. After the initial fear of the take off from Battersea Heliport - she was still wary of my ‘rusty helicopter skills’ - Julie slept, the monotonous sound of the jet engine and rotor blades sending her into a land I could only fathom. She was an enigma to me. After all we had been through so far, she was still determined to stay the course and travel with me to San Francisco in search of the elusive Samuel De Costas.
Mary was sitting in the conservatory when we arrived, vacantly staring out across the grounds, and Julie and I now knew why. We weren't going to tell her that we knew, that would have been cruel. What did surprise me, though, was that Hamish McDougall was standing next to Mary. He turned and by the look on his face, was astonished to see Julie and I.
“Thomas. What a surprise.”
“Indeed. What brings you here Hamish, I thought you were tied up in some critical economic meeting at Checkers.”
“Postponed. I knew you were away, so I thought I'd check on Mary.”
“This is my home, Hamish, and I've a company to run. Can't stay away for too long.”
Mary turned to me, and I could see had been crying. Julie walked across and sat down beside her.
Hamish looked uncomfortable under my enquiring scrutiny, smiled quickly and clapped his hands together. “Well, I'll be off then. Meeting's tomorrow at Checkers and it's quite a drive.” He smiled again and walked past me out of the conservatory. It was strange behaviour and I had one of those 'not-so-good' feelings stirring in the pit of my stomach. I followed Hamish and caught up with him by the front door, just as his bodyguard opened it for him.
“What were you really doing here, Hamish?”
He turned slowly and looked at me his eyes cold. “Personal matter. Between Mary and myself. Not for discussion.”
“Anything that affects Mary is up for discussion, Hamish. This is our house and what happens here is my concern.”
“You abandoned your right to this house when you abandoned your family,” he said venomously, and turned to leave.
I grasped his arm and spun him around to face me. The bodyguard was across the space within seconds, but halted when I drew the Glock and pointed it at his head.
“This is my house. What goes on here is my concern. Who visits this house does so at my request. Tell me Hamish, did you know that a man I once knew, who was tied to the Increment or E Squadron or Section 4 or whatever you want to call it, tried to kill Julie and me last night?” I said looking straight at the bodyguard.
Hamish paled and the bodyguard stiffened noticeably. “Put that gun away,” Hamish whispered, fear in his eyes and voice.
“You did know, didn't you?” I whispered watching them both carefully. “Was that before or after the attack?”
“After. I learned afterwards. You don't know what game you're playing Thomas and it's going to hurt all of us. You, Julie, Mary and me. I tried to warn you in London as tactfully as I could, to let us handle this, but you just don't listen do you? Now let go of my arm.”
I let go and watched as he turned and walked quickly out of the door. I still had my gun pointed at the bodyguard, who turned and hurried after Hamish.
“I will find out what you're hiding Hamish,” I shouted, but he ignored me, got into his limousine and drove away.
NINE
Oregon USA - October 2012
Flying to the west coast of America is a long haul. Even with the comforts of luxury travel on the Gunn Group Gulfstream G550, it becomes monotonous. Filtered air and the constant sound of jet engines finally get to you, even though we could stretch out and sleep on full size beds. Not that I slept, there was just too much going through my mind, particularly Hamish McDougall. His behaviour was strange and he wasn't the man I thought I knew.
Just how much was he hiding?
The question kept hammering in my mind.
Just before we began our approach to Chicago O'Hare, I gave the pilots the new flight plan, redirecting us to Portland, Oregon. They didn't question the order, simply re-filed with ATC and reset the Flight Computer for the new High Airways route. Three hours later it was a relief to see the mountains and winding Columbia River as we descended into an unusual autumn heat wave with correspondingly high humidity that enveloped Portland International.
True to his word Danny had one of his contacts, a pretty woman in her early fifties, meet us at the Terminal and whisk us through Customs and Immigration as if it didn't exist. It helped that we were perceived as returning US citizens with our US passports. Outside, our contact handed over the keys to a purposefully high profile and expensive brand new Bentley New Continental GT Speed in Sequin Blue, befitting a wealthy couple that had just stepped from a Gulfstream G550. And, predictably, all eyes turned to stare as we stepped into the leather luxury and drove away from the terminal.
“I always wanted one of these,” Julie sighed happily as she snuggled into the soft leather seat. “It's just so comfortable.”
“Good because we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“Lovely. Almost feels like a vacation. And strange too. It's the first time I've been back to the States in seven years.”
“A long time.”
“Maybe. Europe has become my home, so I feel a bit like a tourist.”
“I know the feeling. Sometimes I feel I don't really have a home. Except the catamaran in Gozo.”
“Where are we going?”
“Danny and I talked it over while you were sleeping off the whisky,” I teased. Julie stuck her tongue out at me, and I was glad she was relaxed after the adventures of the last few weeks. “Interstate 5 south towards Eugene, before turning off at exit 228 toward Corvallis and then Newport, where we turn south on US 101 to Crescent City, just inside the California border. We're staying the night at a Private Country Club ten miles south of there. My family have been members for years. Then the fun begins.”
“Fun? What fun?”
“Wait and see, and enjoy this car while you can.”
“That sounds ominous.”
As we drove out of Portland, I kept my eye on the rear view to se
e if we had picked up a tail, but with the traffic on the Interstate, that would be difficult to spot, so I just enjoyed driving the Bentley until the GPS navigation system told me to turn off at exit 228 to the coastal town of Newport. I checked the rear view mirror and saw a grey sedan several hundred yards behind us turn off the Interstate as well and follow us. It didn't mean anything, but I kept an eye on the mirror.
Many years ago before I joined the Army, I sailed a thirty four foot sloop from Portland on a delivery to Ventura in California, and was blasted by a huge low pressure that built forty foot waves, which battered the little sloop and dismasted us one hundred miles out at sea, and fifty miles south of Newport. Luckily the engine held out and I managed to bring myself, my crew of two and the yacht safely into Newport Harbour.
That was well before the events that changed my life, and I felt a soft spot for the town and the people who lined the dock as we brought the yacht into port at six in the morning; people who had stayed awake for three days and nights listening to the Coastguard radio as we struggled through the freezing storm, fighting to reach the port. They brought us flasks of hot coffee, warm fresh bread, scrambled eggs and bacon, hot oatmeal, many bottles of bourbon and, incongruously, crates of ice-cold beer.
Julie listened as I rambled on about the adventure and the little city on Oregon's coast, as we drove slowly through and pulled into the parking lot of the incongruously named Mario's Seafood Grill.
“It doesn't look much, but this is the best seafood on the Oregon Coast,” I told Julie as we stepped out the car and walked to the door. “At least I hope it still is.”
