The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  “I doubt it, more likely someone was hard-pressed to find a professional asset in time, one that they could trust if their intentions were to keep it off the books, this has Whitehall all over it. Those Albanians would have been executed by this French woman once their intel was received.”

  Gordon hands Jack the two phones and photographs gathered from the car, then he opens the photo gallery on his phone showing Jack the two dead men.

  “Good work, stick in your SIM cards now and let us connect for 24 hours then replace them again, send those images to the desk. I’ll ask Frank to identify these blokes with the agencies facial recognition software, he will have access using the backdoors he designed, Mark you organise the motorcycle couriers to take these phones back to London for Frank to analyse, send them to his country home.”

  Jack tapped a finger on Gordons Audi, “Move this into a back street, jump in my car and we will get to the safe house, the other two are staying away, I’ll get them to come now and set up surveillance on us before meeting up, maybe we will catch some more of these bloody hunters.”

  With that Jack sent a message to Ben and Sam cutting short their five-star night and directing them to get on the street and cover them.

  Jack along with Mark and Gordon went to the apartment employing some anti-surveillance moves along the way, not long after Ben and Sam had approached the exclusive apartment to set up and observe for any surveillance teams that may arrive during the night or early morning, while the other three stayed inside.

  Tomorrow when the dust settles Jack will gather their close-knit unit and assess the situation together. They would all have an equal say to plan their next move. Either run and take cover or a more preferred choice to go on an aggressive attack wiping out anyone that looks like a threat would be their only options. That is not what they want but Jack knows this is not a normal situation, death is closing in on them all.

  NINE

  London, England

  The muscular broad shoulders filled the well-worn leather Chesterfield chair. Wearing a tailored suit with a bowler hat placed on the marble-topped coffee table Kolmogorov Trediakovsky was clean-shaven and relaxed. Opposite him sat Trevor and close to the door Pavushenka stood poised as ever, waiting on his boss to come back from the men’s room.

  Trevor clipped the end from a Montecristo Gran Piramides Cuban cigar and proceeded to warm the end before lighting it. Kolmogorov was scribbling notes on the Financial Times newspaper when Mikhail finally entered the room. Walking over the painter's drop sheets, he went past the huge oil paintings which were hung on their oak-panelled walls and covered with plastic, he sat down and ran his thick fingers through his well-oiled hair. The wall lights all removed, and the chandeliers sent away for polishing. The venue looked more like a historical movie set being dismantled rather than a private room in a prestige’s Gentlemen’s club in the West End of London.

  “Sorry my good friends for the delay, too much coffee and not enough vodka, lets drink.”

  “Here-here” Replies Trevor lifting his glass of vodka. Not his favourite way to spend his lunch, drinking vodka with the secretive ‘committee’ members, regardless of this such deals must be made. Like the old spy group formed in 1778 by Major Benjamin Tallmadge, named the Culper ring, Trevor view’s himself as the British version of George Washington, the man who devised the Culper ring. Trevor never wanted to know the operators but as the end is imminent, he came out of the darkness like Francis Walsingham, the spymaster of the Tudor period, to deliver the final touches to his last masterpiece. Such meetings are hard to organise to Trevor, especially in London, Kolmogorov is an active officer of the Glavnoje Razvedyvatel'noje Upravlenije (GRU), who cannot be seen with Mikhail, the Russian crime boss who is the most powerful of all in Europe, an area he controls and answerable only to Moscow. He fears being photographed with Mikhail which would just be as bad as being photographed with an English intelligence officer, both would mean death by Russia for the GRU hardman.

  However, despite this, these face to face meetings can produce enough lucrative work and solve months of issues than a multitude of encrypted messages can ever do. For this reason, both Kolmogorov and Mikhail decided to meet up in London. Sidestepping their choice of venue which would be in safe locations such as Monaco or Zurich, the playground of the powerful and rich who can mingle without causing much of a stir. The last surviving member of a slowly shrinking club who could not meet up at short notice was René Descartes, ex-head of the DGSE. A man of high intelligence with extreme paranoia and for good reason, it was not his decision to kill Johnston, one of the committee operatives. Getting active operators who are inside MI6 is quite a challenge, however the last of the fortunes of which the committee wish to possess meant that highly skilled members who start to question the club’s intents and morals should be eliminated at the first opportunity. No better way than in the middle of an active operation. Many Russians, French and Albanians have already been wiped from their records.

  This ‘committee’ led by Trevor is a small group of high-ranking and extremely powerful individuals seeking to feather their nests with trimmings from black operations conducted by the silent professionals around the globe. Those trusted by the committee above, get the freedom of operations and the power from Oxford. With their innermost secrets, secrets which come with a price, they frequently deal with high achievers and puppet masters from other countries. Over the years those relationships came and went until finally, these individuals found similar thinkers like themselves. Using the taxpayers’ dollars and much from the war chest their lifestyle resembled that of Arab royalty or old colonial rulers. Determined to continue this lifestyle and secure their futures, meant they had to remain with their finger on the pulse. They also had to be brave and take action to ensure their positions were never in question, this meant relationships were there to be tested. Those who quivered were put down like stray dogs in a back alley, Johnston being the latest. Trevor knows there are many others that are destined for the same end.

  “Sorry about the renovations old chaps, these historical buildings are rare, they are living reminders of the past and must be preserved, much like our strong relationships, great history and great futures.” Trevor takes a sip of vodka eying his guests with great intrigue yet bearing his trademark friendly smile.

  Spreading the paper Kolmogorov remarked on new projects being outlined in Kazakhstan and how he would be open for investing if the right person could be moved into government. Another of the committee’s area of operations, the group works as a private, corrupt, and for-profit version of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Trevor was nodding in deep thought but concentrating more on his failed lighter, unable to produce a flame the only other person that regularly smoked and would always have a lighter was Pavushenka. Seeing this constant flicking of the lighter Pavushenka came over to Trevor to hand him his. Leaning over the marble coffee table with lighter in hand was the last self-controlled move Pavushenka made. A bullet penetrated his heart quickly followed by one more, then a final one in the forehead as the body buckled and dropped heavily on the plastic-covered floor.

  Mikhail froze, his chief of security now lay dead beside him, he could start to taste the blood in the air. “Shit, why now? why here?”

  Trevor glared over at Kolmogorov, who was now unscrewing his silencer and admiring his work, “I didn’t even get a chance to light my bloody cigar.”

  “Those things will end up killing you anyway Kolmogorov replied without looking over. “Why here, why now you ask Mikhail! I never trusted him, anyway, we are getting close to the end of this. Better now than later.” Kolmogorov laid the gun on his lap while placing the silencer on the coffee table. He took a drink of vodka and then opened his demands “Look, Johnston’s time had expired, we don’t need loose ends when we have a team of specialist operators roaming around, eventually they will work it all out, they will come for us, we thin out the herd, leave no trails back to us, this way…�
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  Trevor interjected, “I have it sorted, someone is taking care of those men, we are going with the Albanians using the French as the middlemen, we send enough of them and they will believe it is nothing more than a well-organised crime syndicate.” Trevor looked at both men as he explained further. “I have a good French team working on it, paid well, all those men will be wiped out in France, we know for a fact they are in Paris. The transmitter planted in the car that I lent to Jack, their team leader, led to RAF Northolt; he then boarded a private flight to Paris. That is their unofficial regroup area, the Albanians will kill them in Paris, and we go around all the storage sites and collect the treasures, easy.”

  The three men sat in silence contemplating their next move. Trevor filled all three glasses with more vodka then picked up the lighter from the ground and lit his cigar, placing the dead man’s lighter into his own breast pocket.

  “Listen, I know Jack, I worked with him for years, as much as I like the chap he is in our way, he is one of the main key holders, I’ve led him to René, in the event these French and Albanians can’t do a good job on them, I at least can draw Jack and his crew out of hiding.”

  Kolmogorov looked quizzingly at Trevor, “I also have a strong working relationship with René, do you think he would agree to meet up with this Jack and his men? I don’t think he would want to be in the country until this blows over.”

  “It isn’t going to blow over until a lot of men are buried in the ground, and why would Jack want to meet up with René? what do those guys need that he can provide?” Asked Mikhail, still looking at his dead comrade.

  “A safe passage, I will throw a lot of men at Jack and his team, the bodies will pile up, I will have them so much involved in death they will need assurance from those in the top tier governments that their actions will go unresolved.”

  Trevor speaks with confidence; his plan involves destruction and mayhem. He is pushing for a small-scale war that will be played out in Europe, the goal is for him to ‘walk out the back door’ with the funds required to retire handsomely and also to donate to the major political parties in half of Western Europe. With over 30 years of dirty information on powerful individuals in Europe and political party black files, he is guaranteed of an undisturbed retirement.

  “With all due respect Trevor, you still didn’t answer my question! Why do you think René would agree to meet up with an administrator of death, someone that is leading a team of wayward operators and risk upsetting the British government if he is caught speaking to them?” Kolmogorov understands Trevor, he senses the best way to cover tracks is to make copious amounts of horrible and destructive tracks over the top of them, embarrass the governments so badly they themselves turn to the intelligence agencies where the information can again be buried.

  A smirk grows on Trevor’s face, “René will never know, sometimes he’s like a cat on a hot tin roof, he will want another way, that I am sure off, however, the fact remains these guys are out of England, I aim to keep them away and René can contain the spillage of death.”

  Another sip of vodka before Trevor continues to his captive audience of two, “Listen, René doesn’t need to know they are in Paris, I know what intelligence they receive, most of it comes from us or the United States which we are privy to, he won’t know shit unless we tell him. When the time is right, I will set up a meeting with René, I will not be there of course, but Jack will go instead, that way we lure him somewhere we want.”

  “That takes care of Jack, we piss off René, but we can get only one of the team, that leaves the other four, what is your plan for them? They will run for the borders and become ghosts only to return when they know you set them up,” Mikhail was straining to work this out when Trevor raised his hand.

  Mikhail kept talking, “This isn’t a Jason Borne movie Trevor, these four guys will have their plans sorted and their shit together. Most likely they will all go their own private and discrete ways. One might spend his days on an island in the South Pacific, another might live in the mountains in Colorado, partying in Mexico, jungle life in Asia, name your hideaway! but, those blokes will come back for us, they will come, I know these type of guys, once the dust settles and our guard is down they will seek revenge, and also to take back their treasures.”

  Mikhail was getting impatient by this stage, he wanted to get moving shortly, minus his bodyguard. Trevor could see this, now is a perfect time, he can show Mikhail how he finishes his work. Trevor reaches into his pocket and dials a number; he takes a swig of vodka and by the time he rests his glass back on the table the door opens, four masked men enter the room carrying bags. Mikhail looks on with immense interest, he never wanted to be so exposed to outsiders, but these guys never looked in his direction. Highly professional they calmly lay out a selection of knives and bone saws, two men remove Pavushenkas clothes. The others tend to the blood splatter and bone fragments around the plastic. Mikhail realises Trevor and Kolmogorov had planned on a killing; the thought it could have been two bodies being disposed of quickly crossed his mind.

  The men worked quickly on the body, cutting it up into smaller pieces and carefully putting them into the correct bags. Trevor broke the sound of bones being sawed apart and vacuumed sealed bags being stacked up. “One of the best surgeons Mikhail, from a hospital in Hampstead Heath, the other is a forensic criminologist with a number of published articles, he routinely assists the coppers in Northern Ireland when dealing with terrorist killings. The other two are ex-Mossad leModiʿin uleTafkidim Meyuḥadim in the words we speak, they are Mossad. All of which make up this team of unique cleaners, their services are only for the select few that not only can afford it but those that have the right connections.”

  Mikhail nods in silent, he would love their number, their workmanship is second to none and he has been on the dirty end cleaning up bodies numerous times on his rise to the top. He pours more vodka and watches the men spray the area and wipe it down, placing their blue surgical huck towels in more bags, and spraying them and each other. He notices one of them, looks like a woman, must be an Israeli he thinks.

  Trevor breaks his thoughts, “These guys, as I said are expensive, but they are secretive, nonetheless being complicit in this and tampering with a dead body brings about high risk for everyone involved, I know that these guys will come after myself if something leaks about them. I do not want to be divided up into plastic bags heading off to be destroyed completely without a trace. I prefer to be one of the middlemen, but when experts are required you have to front up Mikhail.”

  “OK, looks good I’m very impressed with your British ways, but do you have the same experts in Paris?”

  Finally, Trevor gave him the answer he was after. “If this French team can’t dispose of them quickly, I will draw them out for the meeting with René, I’ll bring in the best operators to set the meet and lay in position, we will wipe them all out at the same time.”

  “Failing that!”, Mikhail interjected.

  “Failing that Mikhail, I will rain hell down on their closest friends to tell me where they are, people always give in to the pain, it is human nature and you know that more than anyone.”

  Inserting a finger into his ear Mikhail demonstrated their interrogation techniques carried out on Johnston, “Maybe others would crack, not Johnston though, he gave us nothing, we had screwdrivers driven into his head, Trevor.”

  Jumping in like a tuba in the string section Kolmogorov offered his assistance, “If they land in South America let me know, I have a lot of private military contractors from Wagner Group operating in those countries that would help out, they would be glad of the US dollar.”

  With a nod of his head, Trever shifts forward in his seat, “On that note, we conclude our meeting gentlemen, I have one final meeting I need to take care of then I myself will keep my head down until this blows over.” Raising his glass, the men all swallow down the last of their vodka and depart the room.

  Trevor knows they will leave appropriat
ely disguised via separate exits at different times snaking their way through London to their safe locations. Trevor departs the same way as he arrived, via the subterranean route, the telecommunications tunnel which links the building to another further down the street. Much like the tunnels connecting Whitehall Trevor was used to when he spent time in the Ministry of Defence crisis command centre known as Pindar.

  This unofficial military citadel was designed to protect the intelligence and defence staff from electromagnetic pulses whilst managing the country in the event of a nuclear attack. Situated under Whitehall and much deeper than the tube system, the command centre is connected by a network of secret tunnels which Trevor traversed when conducting intelligence matters for her Majesty’s secret service. Pedestrians walking via Whitehall from Downing Street to Trafalgar Square would be unaware of a small team of highly intelligent professionals busy scurrying around below.

  Trevor knows his way around the tunnels of London in the same way as he does the tube lines. Easing a heavy oak door inward before stepping out into a short alleyway from the main street. The damp air penetrates his lungs with the cold feeling he wants to escape from. Pulling his black scarf up over his mouth and his cap downwards over his eyebrows he walks towards a waiting car.

  A lone figure covers the binocular lenses with their protective caps and places them discreetly into his holdall. With a slow long deep breath, the observer has identified the elusive spymaster he has spent years trying to unearth. He retreats further back into the bedsit overlooking this none descript door used by the grey men. The thin corpse of a long-term lodger lays on a dirty bed. Forcibly injected with a high dose of heroin, a long time dead and has started to stink, soon the flies will overcome the building. This room has passed its use-by date.