The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  TEN

  London, England

  The sound of high heels on the pavement causes a group of construction workers having their lunch to swivel around to take a look. The striking woman walks past with great speed and flair, her hair is hanging loose with one hand on her purse and the other holding a blackberry tight to her ear covering her face. Unable to catch a glimpse of her face they all stare at her impeccable body until she turns the corner. The conversation with the workers returns to the premier league matches and choice of drugs each will knockback afterwards.

  Émilie, however, has no intention of watching sport, her attention is deep in the middle of something much more sinister. “What the hell is happening Muji? what have you found out? I’ve been waiting all morning for your report.”

  “Relax woman, remember who you are talking to, and remember our past, have I ever let you down? no!” responds Muji with an air of arrogance. He has no time for intelligence agencies, his gang is only afforded the luxury of operating in France if he keeps the information coming and is ‘useful’ from time to time.

  “Didn’t I say how sensitive this operation was, no less than any before yes, but if this one is not contained in-house it will be much more difficult to contain” she delivers in her heavily accented phone voice.

  Muji could listen to her all day, more than that he longs to be in her presence, he can only imagine what she looks like. “Come to my villa in Fayence sometime, let us go over these men, tell me more about them, I would have sent my best men if the price was right, you know the quality of work is depended on the quality of the payment, yes?”

  Frustrated that he is trying to squeeze cash out of the French war chest and also undermine her intelligence Émilie gives him a cold blast of reality “The government will seize your stupid villa Muji, don’t you understand the position you are in! you could be picked up any day and thrown in the lockup with countless other Albanians, Kosovans, Russians and whoever else we decide has run their course, why are you special? I need you to leave London and sort this shit out.”

  Muji considers his next words very carefully, if Émilie was in front of him she would likely have her neck sliced open at this point. “I understand you are upset my lady, I have a number of highly trained men, those guys I sent were under my strict orders not to kill, only locate and track them to a point where I could send in the other hitmen. Those hitmen are busy doing other things for other people for larger sums, if I was to take them off one job the rewards should be greater, I too am running a business, one that serves you well, please remember that.”

  “Doesn’t work like that Muji, you know you are well paid, you think you are the only gang we can turn the screws on, there are many like you, the only reason you got the job was a favour I was returning to you from London, if I go down through the asset list there are many other men I could use.”

  Muji inhales deeply on his cigarette before responding. “If you want us to end our relationship, then do so, it will be sad for me. If you want us to unleash hell on these guys equip us with some good weapons and give us a green light.”

  “What do you mean a green light?” Émilie barks.

  “Your security needs to take over operations my dear lady, get the BRI off our backs, we have constant surveillance on a number of our men, have your agency take over from them. No matter if we are in London, Paris or Antwerp your French spies are down our throats, get rid of them. After this I will give you a few houses to watch in both London, Paris, Toulouse and Nice, there will be scumbag gangsters that can satisfy your bosses. Tick off some terrorists, drug smugglers and armed robbers, go ahead with them, that is enough work for a couple of months surveillance and a healthy bust. You know my guys have been laying low, we know your bosses are getting pressure to come up with results.”

  “That’s politics Muji, I can’t walk in and change operations within the Brigade de Recherche et d'Intervention so easily, that takes planning, takes time and many meetings at ministerial levels, you should know that.”

  “Your bosses love terrorists yes? terrorism is better than drugs and prostitutes for your politics yes? I will point you in the direction of a few bad boys, I will flood you with intel, you take the BRI off us, that is all I want. If you do that, then some of my best men can become operational again, including myself, I’ll sort this out you got my word.”

  “Might work, but you owe me big time Muji, this shit has blown up, these guys are professional operators, they have contacts everywhere, I’m working to find out from where they get their intel from, if in London then expect a call, and I will want you there on that.”

  “Big Ben, Soho, the old dart, fish and chips and warm beer, I’m long over it”, Muji anticipated that he will have to get his hands dirty again at some point after the recent death of Hekuran. He straightens the muscles in his back and cracks his neck, excitement begins to flood his body. The ex-French foreign legion commando from the 2e Régiment étranger de parachutistes will have no difficulties with what may lay ahead. “I’ll take out the entire Royal family if that makes you happy and me rich, after which we part company, don’t come knocking my door anymore lady unless it’s to party.”

  “Don’t get confused Muji, send me what you have on these terrorists.” With that, she ends the call and turns onto Harrington Road, nestled in the French expatriates' area in London of which Émilie feels most relaxed. Nonetheless, she continues her anti-surveillance moves as she quickly crosses the street and walks back towards one of the oldest French-language bookshops in London.

  Entering the shop, she notices a man who has stopped abruptly and begins peering into a shop window, turning a blind eye Émilie closes the door behind her then scans for the man in the reflection of the shop windows on the opposite side of the street. Once the road clears of the red double-decker buses and courier vans she finally locates and observes the man. Suitably dressed for this borough, mid-forties, Caucasian, calmly standing in the shop doorway speaking into his phone. Need to be quick, she surmises a new surveillance operator will be activated as that man has now been compromised. Passing by the few customers in the bookshop towards the historical section she picks up a novel she has had in her hand many times before. A dusty copy of Madame Bovary by French writer Gustave Flaubert, written in 1856, a note has just been placed here moments before. When a contact has a suspicion of using electronic messages or frequent changes of telecommunication identities the fail-safe dead drop comes in handy. Reading over the note she memorises the coded information and discreetly makes a small tear on page thirteen, five lines down, this warns her contact that she has been followed and to use another location. This drop location will no longer be used. She places the book carefully behind the other novels. Taking a sip from her water bottle she adds the note to her mouth, swallowing as she wanders through the shop towards the back. She then walks into the staff only section and out the fire door into the walled garden and storage common area at the back. Faced with a high wall of a bank on Old Brompton road or the back of a steak house she crosses the yard and climbs onto the other property. She can hear the bookshop staff entering the yard and calling after her, with no time to lose and full of anger at being followed she bangs on the fire door of the restaurant. Being lunchtime, no one has time to be outside smoking and Émilie is trapped. Caught in a trap like this is a nightmare situation, she quickly assesses if a surveillance team is after her or a hitman, either can result in the end of her career or life. Banging again on the door it suddenly opens, a man wearing the white uniform of a chef emerges with a scorn look on his face. One which quickly turns to shock, thinking it was a staff member who got locked outside when they should be serving, he is suddenly confronted with a fist into his throat. Doubling over and gasping for his breath he is manhandled out of the way and thrown into the back yard. Émilie quickly steps inside and closes the door behind her. She is confronted with someone in smart dress as she walks through the kitchen with all kitchenhands watching her quizzingl
y. Émilie speaks forcefully in a London accent, “Food safety inspections and enforcement please, can someone bring the audit file out front please.”

  “Excuse me, I am the manager, how did you get in?” stammers the utterly confused lady. Émilie has now walked through the kitchen and into the restaurant

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” opening the door onto Old Brompton Road she quickly makes her way onto Onslow Square where she hails a cab. “Knightsbridge, French Embassy please driver.” Once settled in the back of the black taxi she peers out the back window to find a street empty of any followers. She pulls out her phone and sends a message. ‘René, can we meet soon? Émilie.

  ***

  Muji stands up and walks across the room, followed by his security staff he makes for the door. Exiting the newly refurbished jazz club in Soho where he launders his money, he makes his way to Tottenham Court Road Station. The recent construction brought trucks and materials from all over England and Europe, his gang used some of the drivers to transport firearms and drugs. The people smuggling business was kept separate using other companies. Muji understands he may need to get some guys into Paris quickly along with some firepower and he knows just the truck driver.

  His security staff are well known in this part of London, when they approach the gates of the construction site the gate operator, a refugee from Iraq simply waves them all through then sits down to read the daily edition of the Arab-language newspaper, Azzaman. Muji follows Skënder, the six-foot-six and one hundred and thirty kilos of raw muscle head of security, through the worksite until they reach the canteen.

  Here the mostly foreign workers wait, pray, eat, or discuss life in Western Europe until their trucks are due for unloading. It has been a long time since Muji led an operation, feeling his team are losing their professional edge he is required to play a leading role once again. He cannot afford to lose his French operations and his numerous apartments and business ventures. London is too crowded, and his frequent trips back and forth are becoming a hindrance. This one last deal with the corrupt officers from DGSE should be his last, his final last one. Skënder opens the door and stoops down under the door jam and enters the canteen, staring at each man with powerful intimidating eyes then steps aside and beckons Muji in.

  Muji recognizes the truck driver described to him by his associates from the bald head and a large tattoo of an eagle on the side of his powerful neck.

  “As-Salam-u-Alaikum Arber, the Kosovan, Arber the missing, the lost soul,” Muji drags a chair from across the room and sits beside Arber, close enough to speak in whispers.

  Skënder looks towards the other workmen with a menacing glare, “Lunchtime is over, back to work boys, only you can stay here,” pointing to an older man wearing a well-worn Iraqi Sidara. With that, the frightened men exit the room leaving their hot coffee and cigarettes burning.

  Arber eyes this well dressed but the unwelcomed guest who has invaded his personal space, his own past cannot leave him no matter how many miles he drives or countries he visits. For this man to know his name and come to him directly was not good news. He has been in this situation before and it resulted in losing a member of his family and a long time in a Kosovan prison. He will not accept this again.

  Refusing to return the greeting he simply smiles and reaches across the table for his pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. Nodding Muji’s attention towards the ashtray Arber quickly removes a short Indonesian karambit knife he keeps under his waistband and makes a slash towards Muji’s carotid artery. Muji was almost caught by the curved blade, his quick reflexes saved him from the first slash. With the table and chairs bumped across the room, Muji pivots to the side using his whole-body knowing Arber will come at him again with another slash from the left. Muji stomps on Arber’s extended right knee trying to dislocate it and buy him some reaction time. The third slash came towards vital organs in his right upper quadrant, Muji had intentionally positioned his arms high offering Arber this opportunity. Once the knife was thrust with full attention Muji changed his stance and simultaneously delivered a blow to Arber’s jaw. Breaking it immediately. Without hesitation, he moves and stuns with the speed of a rabid dog adding another strike to Arber this time finding the side of his neck. Feeling paralysed and in a world of hurt Arber tries to make distance until he can, at least, feel the presence of his opponent. Too late, the final blow was the last he would feel. The ashtray came down on the back of Arber’s skull with such force it knocked him out before he hit the floor.

  “He looks dead boss,” utters Skënder, who at this stage has withdrawn his firearm and has it pointed at Arber.

  Muji stood over the bulking body of the ex-Kosovan soldier planning what to do next, in a worksite in the middle of London he would have to take this body out of here.

  “He’s breathing, lock the door”, with that Muji retrieves the karambit leans over and with one motion cuts a slice through the dying man’s neck.

  Skënder orders his offsider to go outside and fetch a forklift while removing fingerprints from the external door handle, he then makes a call on his phone.

  Muji moves towards the old Iraqi, “What is your name and where are you driving too my friend?”

  A look of sorrow came over the man, he has an idea of what was required by him. “My name is Rashad Al-Kaysi, this evening I go to Belgium Sir, then back first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well, if I told you there would be an extra passenger or two, plus some bags would you be upset or would you kindly assist and be rewarded?” Muji has settled himself and is back in business mode.

  “Look at me sir, I’m old, I have a family, I don’t want trouble and I need my job, it is all I have.” The old man has steely hard eyes, yet watery and with a quivering voice, Muji knows this man would hold his nerve and his word.

  Muji reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve some cash, only then does he notice the blood. Quickly he assesses the damage and turns to the body on the floor. He takes the knife once more and carves out the man’s eyeball in anger. Jamming the knife into the now-dead mans’ back he returns his gaze to the old Iraqi.

  “I apologise for my actions, my associate preferred to attack me than work with me. I do not understand some people. I have in this envelope some cash for which I sought to pay for services. This, my friend, can be yours, give me your route details and crossing times, help me and you will be rewarded. I was caught at short notice; I promise you I will not bother you again.” With that Muji removes his jacket and places a kitchen towel on the wound he suffered on his arm. Stemming the flow of blood, he turns and asks Skënder to organise some people to remove this body. “I’m on that boss, they are coming in a van and will be here in minutes, the site supervisor is on the payroll, no one will get in our out without our say so, he has left his work car outside for you, the boys will bleach this place and then remove everything.”

  “Good work, Ok Rashad Al-Kaysi, don’t leave here until my men show up. They will tell you what to do, I hope our brief business arrangement goes better than him on the floor, maʿ al-salāmah!”

  With that said Muji places an envelope of cash into Rashad’s hands and exits the building.

  With a heavy sigh of regret and fear Rashad finds a thick wad of one hundred-pound notes in the envelope “Allah Ma’aak.”

  ELEVEN

  Somerset, England

  Arthur and Frank could not be more different in every way except for their allegiance to their country. Since the operation led by Jack began a few days the two men were fixated on their keyboards and electronic equipment trying to piece together the failures. Operating on a day to day basis Arthur works out of Thames house north of the River Thames in Millbank. On the other hand, Frank an Old Etonian operates from number seventy Whitehall, adjacent to Downing Street and a stone’s throw from the River Thames. Working for the Joint Intelligence Organisation Frank has access to MI5 and SIS intelligence, this information is integral to the unit’s survival. Both men’s work takes t
hem to other locations throughout London, may it be Vauxhall or one of many nondescript offices held on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. When something goes drastically wrong, which it has done before, they remove their electronic equipment and regather at a safe location. Their task is to do a deep analysis of the problem at hand and how to navigate it.

  “There must be a leak of information, not many people knew about this option of draining the resources of the corrupt and powerful foreign powers on British soil. Our courts could not handle anything like this, someone must be attempting to either get their hands on the money or keep it in England, what do you think young Arthur?”

  Arthur was perched on the edge of an antique George III mahogany serpentine desk, looking out across the woodland. Unsure if he was even listening to him, so Frank went back to scribbling notes, drawing diagrams, looking at images on his desk and breaking out of old patterns of thinking to encourage ideas.

  “There he is, wow, you were right,” shouts Arthur with a surprised voice.

  Dropping his pen Frank looks over to Arthur with a wide hopeful expression on his face, “Go on my boy, what do you have?”

  “You were correct, he’s magnificent, what a beast,” Arthur looked to be in deep admiration as he was staring out the vast windows of Frank’s stately home. A marvellous home designed on Montacute House in South Somerset. A classic example of English architecture. The late Elizabethan stately home has been in Frank’s family since the early seventeen hundred’s, it has been his lifelong dream to restore and preserve this country home along with the estate it sits on.

  Frank sighs calmly as he realises the beast Arthur is talking about is the elusive red deer that roams the grounds, whom he calls him Big Robert.