Gray Vengeance

by Alan McDermott

  That made sense, but Harvey made a mental note to give Tom Gray a heads-up anyway.

  ‘That doesn’t leave us much to go on, assuming he ever left the UK in the first place. How high is this on the priority list?’

  ‘Near the top,’ Ellis said. ‘You can imagine the political backlash if this makes the papers, so we need to be seen to be looking. I’ll need daily progress reports to pass upstairs.’

  Harvey wondered exactly how his team were supposed to fit in the extra work. Needle in a haystack didn’t come close, and unless they had a trail to follow, there wasn’t much they could do apart from alert Interpol and wait for Farrar to pop up somewhere.

  ‘Okay, I’ll put the word out and let you know if he appears on our radar.’

  Ellis resumed her seat and interlaced her fingers atop her desk, looking Harvey in the eye. ‘As I said, this is politically sensitive, so we can’t go broadcasting this to every agency in the world. If word leaks, the PM isn’t going to be happy with us. We have to do this in-house.’

  ‘So no Interpol and no extra-agency support. Do I get extra resources to work it up?’ Harvey asked, but he already knew the answer.

  ‘Not at this time. Once we have something to go on, we might be able to borrow a couple of people from Six, but that’s about it.’

  Harvey stood suddenly to leave, his frustration showing. ‘I’ll get things moving and have the first report ready for you in the morning.’

  Back in the main office, he returned to Farsi’s desk and delivered the bad news.

  ‘If he skipped the country, he won’t be anywhere friendly. Dig up a list of countries that we don’t have extradition treaties with, then get all flight departures to those destinations for the last six weeks. Once you have the passenger lists, screen each person against the passport database. Farrar was using a fake, so we’ll be looking for close matches on the photo, first-time use or anything else out of the ordinary. If that doesn’t give us anything, expand it to seaports and the Channel Tunnel.’

  With the orders relayed, Harvey went back to his office and locked the door, hoping to keep the world at bay lest it throw any more crap at him.

  SPRING

  Chapter 2

  11 March 2014

  Paul Roberts powered down the ancient Dell laptop and packed it into his dishevelled backpack. After ensuring all the office lights were off, he closed the door and locked it before descending the stairs to the street, passing the Chapter Nine logo plastered on the wall. The elements had taken their toll on his poster, its clenched fist with razor wire around the wrist barely distinguishable from the faded sepia background.

  At the bottom of the stairs he turned into the alley and exited onto the main road. A Chinese takeaway and a small grocery store were the only businesses still open at seven in the evening, and the area had a desolate, depressing feel to it. With his shoulders hunched against the early spring breeze, he set off for the ten-minute walk to the bedsit he called home.

  Twenty yards into his stroll, a black saloon pulled up beside him. The rear window glided down and Roberts found himself looking at a dark-haired man of medium complexion who looked to be in his mid-forties.

  ‘Paul Roberts? Can I have a word with you about this?’

  The man held out a leaflet, and Roberts immediately recognised it as one of his own.

  He eyed the man warily. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I work for someone who would like to fund your organisation.’ The man swung the door open, inviting Roberts inside, but he hesitated. The only people who had shown any interest in Chapter Nine—apart from its members—were the police, whom he loathed with a passion.

  The man reached into his jacket pocket, and Roberts tensed, expecting him to pull out a weapon, but all that appeared in the gloved hand was a thick, white envelope.

  ‘I can understand your reticence. Here’s a grand in cash. All I ask is that you take a short ride while I explain the proposition.’

  ‘What if I don’t like your offer?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Then I’ll drop you off at your place and you’ll be a thousand pounds richer.’

  Roberts considered the proposal. The money would be extremely helpful to his organisation, covering his latest printing costs at the very least, not to mention the arrears on the rent for the tiny office. Risk versus reward . . . . Always the calculus . . . . All he had planned for the evening was a trip to the laundrette, and as his clothes had been festering in a black bin liner for nearly three weeks, another half an hour wasn’t going to make much of a difference.

  He took the envelope, climbed into the car and closed the door, and the driver pulled away.

  ‘Are you the police?’

  The man chuckled. ‘No, not the police. Nor do I have any involvement with any government department, if that was going to be your next question.’

  ‘Have you got a name?’

  ‘You can call me Efram.’

  ‘And your surname?’

  ‘I think Efram’s distinctive enough.’

  ‘So how do you know my name?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions for a man who’s been paid a lot of money just to listen,’ Efram said.

  ‘Call me paranoid, but I trust no-one, least of all strangers.’

  Efram pulled a file from his briefcase and opened it. ‘Paul Roberts, born at Brighton’s Royal Sussex County Hospital on June the seventh, 1980. Left school and went to Sussex University in 1998, studied philosophy and sociology before dropping out in your second year with a poor attendance record. Moved to London shortly afterwards and had a succession of poorly paid jobs for a couple of years, then were approached to join the Direct Action Movement, or DAM. After a brief spell in their ranks, you left, seeing them as too liberal for your liking. You found the same problem with the Anarchist Federation, and so you formed Chapter Nine, along with a few other disillusioned members of DAM and AF. You currently have seventeen members and just over two hundred pounds in your bank account.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t government,’ Roberts interrupted. The conversation had taken a distinctly uncomfortable turn. ‘How could you know all this about me?’

  Efram chuckled. ‘A decent private detective could dig up this information within a couple of hours, especially one with a disregard for privacy laws, so don’t be shocked.’

  Efram glanced down at the file. ‘According to this, you have three convictions for criminal damage in the last two years. Tell me about them.’

  Roberts briefly explained how he’d attacked a car belonging to the head of a major bank, covering it in blue paint, and how he and some fellow members of Chapter Nine had sprayed their slogans all over the walls of the buildings in Egerton Crescent, Britain’s most expensive street. The final act had been to pelt the prime minister’s car with paint bombs as it left Downing Street.

  ‘I’m confused,’ Efram said. ‘You claim to be anarcho-syndicalists, and you state that through direct action, workers will be able to liberate themselves, yet all you’ve done is throw a little paint around. How exactly is that supposed to bring down the government?’

  Roberts’s face burned. True, his actions so far hadn’t exactly caused ripples through parliament, but what was such a small group supposed to do?

  ‘Our acts were designed to drum up support,’ he said. ‘As our numbers grow, our voice will be heard.’

  ‘Is that really the case,’ Efram asked, ‘or are you just a whinging pussy who’s using Chapter Nine as an excuse not to do a real day’s work?’

  The insult was too much for Roberts.

  ‘Stop the car,’ he said. ‘I’m not listening to this shit, no matter how much you’re paying.’

  Efram put a hand on his chest and pushed him back into his seat. His demeanour instantly changed, gone the genial soul who’d made the initial offer.

  ‘When I t
hink of smashing the state, I’m not interested in waving a placard about, or a little vandalism: I envisage a country with no effective government where the people rise up and take what’s theirs; where the rich become the poor; and where anarchy reigns. The workers determine their own conditions and answer to no-one.’ He stared into Roberts’s eyes as if peering into his soul. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘The same,’ Roberts said, ‘but there isn’t much I can do with less than two dozen men and no funds.’

  ‘You see the size of your group as a disadvantage, but that’s exactly why we sought you out. The only question is, how far are you willing to go to realise your dream?’

  ‘I’m ready for anything,’ Roberts insisted.

  ‘That’s the answer I was hoping for, but let me warn you: once you accept our offer, there’s no going back.’

  ‘Yeah, red pill, blue pill. I get it.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Efram said. ‘We can help to bring about your dream, or you can carry on as you are, making no difference whatsoever. Just be aware that this will be far beyond anything you’ve done so far. People will die, and I mean lots of them.’

  ‘That happens with all real revolutions,’ Roberts said. ‘The elite aren’t just going to hand over the reins and step aside: we’re going to have to take them down.’

  ‘I agree, but I’m also thinking of the common folk who will get caught up in the violence. Do you think you could live with that?’

  Roberts didn’t hesitate. ‘Eggs and omelettes.’

  ‘So the end justifies the means?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Efram closed the file and put it back in his briefcase. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said, as the car pulled up to the kerb. ‘If you decide to accept our offer, we’ll have to move fast, so have your passport handy.’

  ‘Where will I be going?’

  ‘If you’re in, you’ll find out when you get to the airport. In the meantime, find three others from your ranks that you’d like to take with you. No more, no less. And make sure they’re hard-core. I don’t want any tree-huggers.’

  ‘I know the three I’d choose,’ Roberts said, ‘if I agree to go along with this. It still stinks of entrapment.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Your little organisation isn’t even an irritation to the authorities. They know you exist, but you’re so far down the watch list that you’re invisible. Like I said, exactly what we need for our operation.’

  Feeling both a bruised ego and excitement at the possibility of real change, Roberts opened the door and climbed out.

  ‘Think about it,’ Efram called after him. ‘This will be your one and only chance to make a difference.’

  Roberts closed the door and the saloon pulled away, leaving him slightly confused, if not a little better off than he’d been for a long time. He stuffed the cash into his pocket and headed back to his bedsit for another night alone, only this time he would treat himself to a bottle of vodka while he reflected on the man’s offer.

  Chapter 3

  12 March 2014

  Despite the sun beating down on Tom Gray as he steered his daughter’s pushchair into the Minotaur Logistics car park, March had served up a bone-chilling day. He pressed the intercom and was grateful when the door buzzed open, allowing him entry into the warm reception area.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ the receptionist said, walking round to get a look at the warm bundle in the chair. ‘Melissa, you’re getting so big!’

  ‘That’s because she never stops eating.’ Gray smiled, lifting his daughter from the conveyance. He allowed Gill to fuss over her for a couple of minutes, then asked if Len was busy.

  Gill called through to the office to check, then nodded for Gray to go in.

  ‘You can leave Melissa with me if you like,’ she said, but Gray declined the offer.

  ‘Len wants to see her, too,’ he lied, carrying his daughter to the office door.

  The truth was, Gray felt uncomfortable leaving his daughter with anyone, even his secretary-cum-receptionist of more than five years. The fire that had killed his wife Vick had almost claimed the life of his daughter, and having discovered that it wasn’t an accident, he remained reluctant to let Melissa out of his sight. He’d been in Africa when the blaze took hold, and he still blamed himself for not having been home to save Vick.

  In the office, Gray found Len Smart sitting behind the desk that had been his own for many years. Though Smart held the title of managing director, it was purely a smokescreen. Minotaur remained Gray’s company, one that he’d built from the ground up after leaving the army years earlier.

  Having sold the company to fund his infamous escapade, Gray had subsequently bought it back, despite his solicitor Ryan Amos’s warnings that his customers wouldn’t want to be seen as bedfellows with someone the newspapers called a terrorist.

  Don’t expect the world to return to normal after you kidnap five criminals, parade them on the internet, and hold the entire country to ransom, Amos had scolded.

  Unfortunately, Amos had been right. The customers had been fine with the arrangement when no-one knew about it, but once a tenacious tabloid reporter had published a list of the blue-chip clients Gray was servicing, the clients had wanted nothing to do with Minotaur.

  Gray’s only option had been to resign his position to prevent the company from folding completely, though he still earned a monthly stipend for his consultancy work, which involved making all the important decisions while letting Smart act as his steel-plated mouthpiece.

  ‘Hey.’ Smart walked around the desk and greeted Melissa and Gray with a broad smile.

  Gray happily handed his daughter over, watching the big man make a fuss over her.

  Smart looked every inch the company director, with his balding pate and bushy moustache. Those who met him for the first time invariably saw him as a competent businessman with an affable disposition; few would have guessed that he’d served with distinction in the Special Air Service for a number of years, including in Iraq.

  Smart was one of Gray’s trusted employees and—more importantly—friends. They’d been through a lot together, both in the SAS and subsequently in civilian life. He’d saved Gray’s life more than once, and Tom couldn’t think of anyone better to represent his company.

  ‘At least you’re not skimping on her food,’ Smart smiled as he lifted Melissa up above his head, earning a giggle from the nine-month-old.

  ‘She eats more than you,’ Gray said. ‘I may need to ask for a raise.’

  ‘Now would be the time,’ Smart said. ‘I’m working on a new contract in northern Nigeria. A petrochemical company is heading into DSA territory, and they want a four-man protection detail.’

  ‘Da Sunan Annabi? They’ve been quiet for a few months now.’

  ‘I know, but the client wants to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Who have we got available?’

  Smart returned to his desk and opened the personnel files before rattling off a dozen names. ‘They’ve all got time on the continent, so acclimatisation shouldn’t be an issue.’

  ‘Well, you know the score,’ Gray said. ‘Choose a squad leader and three men, but make sure they’re near the top of the detail roster.’

  The list was ordered by the amount of time it had been since a contractor had been on assignment, and it was designed to ensure that roles were dealt out fairly. It meant those who had been waiting longest for a contract were at the top, and as the list was updated monthly and emailed to all staff, it eliminated any suggestion of favouritism. Of course, there were times when a certain skill was needed and the person at the top had to be skipped, but everyone understood that this could happen. It was details like this that meant Gray had a constant stream of top-class talent to choose from; no other private security firm offered such transparency to its operatives.

  ‘There is someone who has requested t
he squad lead position . . . .’

  Gray knew what was coming. ‘It’s Sonny, isn’t it?’

  Smart nodded. ‘I hate to even suggest it, but he’s been begging me for weeks.’

  Simon ‘Sonny’ Baines was another of Gray’s close friends. Sonny and Smart had long been inseparable on operations, but while Smart was happy in his new role of office manager, Sonny was itching to get back into the field. His current role of liaison officer didn’t exactly offer the excitement he craved.

  ‘I won’t risk his life again,’ Gray said. ‘Sonny may look and act like a twenty-something, but he’s about to hit forty. He’s been in enough scrapes to last a lifetime.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Smart said, ‘but he’s a kid at heart. Screening potential recruits isn’t his forte, and you know it.’

  ‘I know, but I almost got you guys killed in Malundi. I can’t go through that again.’

  Just mentioning the place again brought back thoughts of Vick, and Gray closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the image of her lying unconscious while flames leapt around her . . . .

  ‘Now, that wasn’t your fault, so get over it. Not even the Foreign Office knew what was going on. I’d have made the same decision.’

  Gray knew his friend was right, but it didn’t detract from the fact that if he’d pulled the men out a day earlier, he wouldn’t have gone in to get them, and his wife might still be alive.

  Melissa began fidgeting, and a noxious odour emanated from her jumpsuit.

  ‘Come on, you,’ Gray said. ‘Let’s get that nappy changed.’

  ‘Ah, Tom?’

  Gray looked to Smart. ‘What?’

  ‘What about Sonny?’

  ‘I’ve got something in mind that’ll keep him happy,’ Gray promised, then made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Chapter 4

  12 March 2014