The Oxford Code

by Ray Christie

  “Clapham Common,” Laughed Mark, “What were you doing there? trying to find a boyfriend in the middle of it all, didn’t know you were like that!” With a chuckle from the rest of the team, Sam started to make some notes and drew a timeline on the double French doors with a washable marker. “Ok, what have we here?” Studying at his neat diagrams and handwriting he states. “These guys were not professional; I mean not tier-one professional to our standards.”

  Jack interjects, “Trevor is pointing the finger at the Russians as we know, the Albanians are in bed with the Russians at times and other times they are at each other’s throats.”

  Sam adds Trevor’s name to the list of people who has knowledge of the operation, “How much of what we were doing did Trevor know before you spilt your guts to him, Jack?”

  Knowing there was no malice in the question, rather an attempt to split hairs over and over again, rather a fair attempt to find any line of enquiry. “Who knows what that man could know, he spins many plates and knows more about all of us than we do.”

  “You trust him Jack?” with a direct question Sam pushes Jack to give his word.

  Jack considered this more now than he ever did in the past, “Put that question on pause Sam, something isn’t right.” Taking a few seconds to think Jack then turns to Mark and Gordon. “Talk us through from when you got to Cherbourg from Portsmouth, who knows that route? it’s impossible you would have been followed there without observing those two idiots, they arrived in the car to watch you at our storage, tell me about the car. Hire-car, stolen, local, what did you find strange about them?”

  Mark spoke quickly as this must have been in his mind since he first observed them. “The car was well used, I didn’t notice a bunch of keys hanging out, could have been stolen, was pretty grubby inside and the ashtray was full, there was empty piss bottles in the back, French plates, nothing strange about the men, just a couple of dumb gangster type blokes, untrained.” A shrug of his shoulders indicated he had nothing more to add.

  The others digested this information carefully, even when these events were discussed earlier the men took this time to finally figure out the mess together.

  Sam adds a couple of notes to the double doors and circles Cherbourg, pointing to the name of the port he looks at Gordon.

  “From Cherbourg to the storage unit it was a clean drive, no one in my view followed us, I presume it’s the same for Mark otherwise he would have seen them,” Gordon looks towards Mark who gives two thumbs up to Sam.

  “These men were waiting for you guys then, they did not follow you, they were waiting. That means they knew the location of our storage unit, they knew you were coming from Cherbourg, so whoever sent them had about four hours to organise someone, not considering the time you left for Southampton, if they knew about the storage unit, do they know about the others?” Sam had a worried look on his face when he finished with the last point, looking over quizzingly at Jack he adds, “How do you feel about answering the Trevor question now Jack?”

  Nodding his head and looking at his team Jack stands up and walks towards the window. Looking across at the windows on the Art Nouveau apartment’s opposite, along their rooftops, cars driving past their large building beneath them and people scurrying around living their lives. For the first time in many years, he has a feeling of vulnerability, one that has produced a lump in his throat. “He was like a father, a man that shaped me, educated me and taught me the dirty tricks of the agencies, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t understand the necessity of these black operations we have all been involved in.”

  “He wasn’t part of the operations though, we received no orders from him, mostly we sorted everything ourselves and worked anonymously, that’s what makes this more worrying,” Ben offered his suspicions of Trevor and he viewed anyone outside of this room could be a suspect in setting them up.

  Gordon rose and joined Jack looking out at the buildings opposite, “We know Trevor wasn’t the puppet master, but he is the guy that trains the puppet masters, he has been around while many career intelligence officers have come and went, he has walked the corridors of Whitehall and been in every political backroom discussions of intelligence failures and successes. He has dirt on everyone, that’s what I’m hearing.”

  Jack looks at Gordon and slowly nods his head, “My gut feeling is telling me he is behind this, my head says he is not.”

  “Go with your gut Jack, you got a knock in the head and couldn’t work out that house you kept going on about in Crimsworth Road,” Ben remembered Jack harping on about the house in which he fought with the occupant, and his subsequent story about running around London with the sophisticated firearm he stole.

  “That is correct Ben,” Gordon examines Jacks head and points to his rear end and tells Jack, “You have been in the wars, you need to allow the swelling to go down on your head, go and lay down.”

  Mark offers an insight into the house on Crimsworth Road. “Jack that street was one of many that MI5 had targets under watch, we also used some rooms there provided by friendly homeowners. You are like a homing pigeon coming back to an area like a magnet, go and rest.”

  Jack stretches his back and can feel a ripping pain up his leg and through his right shoulder. “Ok, true enough, I need a bit more sleep, how about Ben and Sam, you guys were on the street last night, we were up watching and preparing the apartment all night also but still managed to get a few power naps.”

  ***

  In their haste to come up with a situation report, no one noticed the France telecom orange truck parked at the back which had dropped off a couple of workmen. Joséphine in her excitement to have two young handsome men in her apartment never considered checking their identities or who has booked their services. Uninterrupted the men entered the building carrying their drills, screwdrivers, rolls of fiber optic and ladders to begin their work.

  Jack and Ben organise their sleeping shifts while the others return to surveillance and the drafting of a plan on their next move. Mark gets around to opening the email account once their security is set up in the apartment to check if Frank has any information. Finding one draft he needs not to click on the message, the email subject line simply read, ‘Trevor is Red – Get out.’

  THIRTEEN

  London, England

  The local restaurant is owned and operated by a television celebrity chef; a man Trevor enjoys watching on the rare occasion he is not involved in some kind of murky business. Despite being not far from his own apartment this brasserie is one of his most favourites, keeping business and his personal life separate he takes only those closest to him to the most enjoyed places. Trevor guides his way to his favourite table, always selecting the quiet area at the rear of the restaurant where his loved guest would be sitting in a position to receive the bullets destined for him. Trevor thinks of all the small details.

  “The lamb tagine for the lady and for myself, I will have the chargrilled Cornish steak, Béarnaise sauce and a side of wilted spinach and kale please.”

  “Being healthy with the greens are we?” The immaculately dressed woman laughs as she flicks through the wine menu.

  “The greens help to decorate the table, you know me too well,” laughs Trevor.

  One would never think that Trevor has death planned, beneath his cool composure the lost souls haunt his body. Only a few more to collect and he will be done with it all. Anjeze Kokalari has for a long time been carrying out work for the largest bidders, now the Russians. She has ideas of great things to come, her romance with Trevor has blossomed somewhat, even more so these past few weeks. She views Trevor as not just a potential partner in life but a fantastic spy working for the Russians, working for the profits only the oligarchs can afford. The thought of working and cavorting around the cities of Europe with him excite her to the core. She thinks he feels the same way about her, she can read something in his face.

  “And perhaps more wine for the lady?” The waiter suggests. Trever never noticed how muc
h wine Anjeze knocked back since they sat here not even a few minutes ago.

  “Wow, yes my boy, thank you for pointing that out, pour the glass and we will have another bottle of Puligny-Montrachet please, also bring out some of the Saint-Marcellin cheese with the truffle honey and bread, I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Really!” Anjeze laughs loudly at Trevor’s large appetite.

  “I think you used up all your energy with me.” Smiling widely Anjeze regains her composure and straightens the silverware on their table.

  “I did, I certainly did use all my energy, twice in fact.” Trevor’s reply causes another burst of laughter from the slightly inebriated woman of mystery. A phone on the table buzzes loudly, an incoming call, Anjeze picks up her phone and switches it to silent without looking at the caller ID. Staring directly at Trevor she is challenging him to do the same, to provide her with the same undivided attention on their rare evening out.

  Trevor’s list of confidants is rapidly shrinking, at his own discretion. The only people that he would even want to talk to are under instructions not to contact him through normal means. As far as he is concerned the only people contacting him on his personal phone will be low importance. Unless it concerns hundreds of millions of Pounds, Euros and US Dollars he is not interested.

  He yearns for a time where he will have his freedom back. A place in time where he can switch off and not have to watch his back constantly, or worse, the fear of new governments. Clean governments with no one left to bribe or blackmail. Trevor slips out his two phones and activates the silence feature. As if some great act of devotion was created Anjeze leans forward and puts her hands into Trevor’s.

  “Thank you, thank you for being here with me, in body and in spirit.”

  Trevor looks deep into her eyes, and nods approvingly, “The pleasure is all mine.” Now he wonders how on earth can he ask her about the Paris operation with all this cheesy romantic stuff going on. With a smile on his face, he admires the décor in the room and sits there impatiently yet with mild content.

  ***

  Muji receives word the surveillance cars have no longer taken up position in the street. His best men have all sent their message boys to him, updating their boss on this latest development. ‘She did it, the young Paris girl managed it’, he remarked to himself. Smiling to no one he thought of how she got the BRI off their backs, ‘likely used her charm.’ This thought made Muji more intrigued on the fine girl. Wishing he could meet her and thank her in person, more so to look at the girl in the flesh, to be in her presence and swap and breathe the same glorious air. All he has is the photograph delivered to him from his own bumbling scout when Muji was organising his own checks on her, ‘she’s beautiful’ he declares to himself. The photo was taken from Harrington Road book shop. ‘One day we will meet,’ he tells himself. After a few brief seconds, he snaps abruptly out of his trance, the high level professional European hitmen need to regroup and receive their contracts. He will now have a reason to contact Émilie again.

  Giving the runners strict instructions he makes them repeat exactly what he says, nothing is to be written down. Removing their phones, he tells them to head off, even mapping their course back to the apartments for all of them.

  Six different men will soon form his kill squad, then it will be time to arrange the meeting with the elegant Parisian and to receive his money.

  Muji turns to Skënder who is busy chatting to a group of new girls, recent arrivals from Romania and Hungry. The girls had been promised fame and fortune in the bright lights of London. “Get rid of the girls Skënder, we have work to do, the Xhakja clan are getting organised, we will have men’s fun just like our old days in Shkodër.”

  “Ok boss,” shouts an excited Skënder as he hurriedly manhandles the girls out of the selection room into the changing rooms. “Stay there until the bus arrives, don’t leave and keep the noise down.” Speaking in his distinctive, heavily accented, and harsh voice, caused by years of vodka and cigarettes, Skënder was in the middle of organising the fresh young ones to be dragged off to the strip clubs in Manchester and Liverpool. Their dreams of office work and studying are beginning to fade.

  When the room is quiet Muji gives Skënder his tasks. “Get some cash for the men, show them a taste of what’s to come, in the meantime organise a couple to head to Belgium, meet up with that old Iraqi and have the other two go on to Paris. They will set up a base there, ensure they don’t screw up.”

  “We already have connections there, why not just use them and stay here, the job is done and easy,” Skënder the lazy one always seeks the most logical and simple option.

  Flexing his shoulder and arm, trying to push some blood into the wound he received, Muji shakes his head. “That’s your downfall Skënder you don’t think, too much rot in Paris, we don’t know who to trust, we will set up new men with new firepower, no one knows we are coming, don’t tell anyone we are leaving London. Leave two men here as there might be something that I need them to clear up for me.”

  Lighting a cigarette Muji stokes off in his own head a list of tasks that need to be organised and a list of tracks that need to be covered.

  “Skënder, if anything happens to me, I mean if someone takes me out, I want you to find the Paris girl, find her and rip her body to bits.” Muji then went into a deep stare, thinking carefully about his words before repeating his orders. “Yes, she is going to make us rich and open up possibly new options in Western Europe but, again she is the only link which could hang us, promise me you will destroy her if something happens to me?”

  “No problem, that’s simple I’ll slice her apart like a pig, but it won’t get to that stage. Keep things smart as always boss,” Skënder replies.

  Trying to move the deep buttoned leather chesterfield sofa was too much too soon for his recovering arm. “Skënder, move this back before you go.”

  Easily the heavy sofa is dragged across the room exposing the safe built into the wall. Muji removes two stacks of cash and places them in a black holdall. “Ok, on your way, that’s fifty-grand, it will help to kick start the operation.”

  With that Skënder grabs the back and slides the sofa back into position before leaving to start the killing.

  ***

  Mikhail reads again the message from two men, ‘We are in position.’

  Johnston was the insider, the key man in the committee for information. Without Kolmogorov’s, the GRU officer, knowledge of the Russian treasure and their location around London the black ops could not take shape. As it was Johnston and his unit that robbed and shifted it his intel on the movement of the fortune completed the committees' plan.

  Unfortunately for Johnston, his only mistake was to trust the committee. He signed his own death warrant when Trevor rightly predicted he was not forthcoming with every storage location.

  The committees' plan was simple, Kolmogorov supplied the information about the Russian money and excesses, Trevor ensured those higher up the chain in Whitehall turned their eyes away and simultaneously kept the intelligence agencies attention focused on other tasks. While Johnston’s job was simply to be on the team so he could relay back the location of the newly stolen loot for later retrieval by the committee.

  The British government could never confirm they had a hand in play for the money. If the money were stolen no department or law enforcement agency would acknowledge the noise. The money did not exist, and the raiders would never be chased down for fear of government corruptness exposed at the highest levels. Mikhail and René Descartes were the cleaners and absorbers, Mikhail sent in his hitmen to clean up loose ends, whereas René was a key instrument at stopping Europol and his own intelligence agencies from getting involved.

  As René often remarked, ‘The Germans are forever asking questions, we need to get someone on board with us.’ Trevor, however, did not want the Germans assistance, slicing the pie into smaller pieces did not sit well with him, or the Russians. Furthermore, he did not trust their intelligen
ce sharing capabilities. If something went wrong, there would be too many bodies to clean up across many borders. The risks are too high. ‘The right politicians and agency directors maintain too much pride in their positions, also they are not creative with criminals, the Germans need to come up with honey before the bear gets interested,’ Trever would often remark.

  The intelligence René supplied Trevor about the Albanian and Russians setting up in France allowed a complete picture of their European links. Throwing the British intelligence agencies off track and keeping his masters in the Kremlin paid their commission allowed Trevor to take a larger slice of the pie. Without the backing of the Russians and their symbiotic relationship, he would be dead in a country ditch, at the hands of the Russians themselves, Albanians or even more so the British. A precarious tightrope that only someone of Trevor’s Calibre can master.

  Mikhail never trusted the French for one minute but enjoyed the perks that came with his French passport and new Identity. The new life afforded to him from his time served in various theatres of war within his French foreign legion family.

  Mikhail’s’ insurance policy was the last words extracted from Johnston before he died of his injuries. Financially he will be set up in life, using a mouse hovering over google maps Johnston indicated to the storage locations and hideouts of his own men. His working arm was the last limb broken before his smashed body was delivered to Hekuran.

  The death of Hekuran troubled Mikhail, somewhere in his own plan to outwit the committee a link had been fractured. Standing in the cold London street Mikhail moves to a secure place, away from the prying eyes of the English security cameras to send his reply.

  Walking through the St. Katharine Docks Marina towards the yacht he sharply ducks into the Dickens Inn, walks through the lounge and out the back door, he turns to walk back the way he came. Checking around him carefully he winds his way towards an old legionnaire, a courageous and daring man, one who risked his own life to save Mikhail in the deserts of Africa many years ago. Mikhail owes him, and he never forgets that men who lose blood for each other are as strong as a family. Unsure of his background, all that matters to Mikhail is the man saved his life and that he is a legionnaire, for a legionnaire means allegiance only to the legion. Stepping onto the luxury ninety-five-foot yacht he ascends the wide internal teak staircase leading him to the upper deck. The sounds of the Cello drift across the deck, married with the soft waves lapping against the side of the yacht helps in soothing and calming Mikhail on this now overcast and wet day. When the notes stop, he sees him, dark, bearded, his shirt opened exposing a powerful chest, standing full of muscle and the face of a movie star, Jean-Baptiste grins widely. Without a word they walk towards each other where he is greeted warmly by his old friend, “Ça fait longtemps, dis donc,” calls Mikhail as they share a hug.