He returned to the main cabin to find that Vick was no longer there.
“She’s gone to bed,” Smart said when he saw Gray. “Timmy told her where to find some clothes and she turned in.”
“I could do with some myself,” Gray said, and Hughes told him to help himself from the closet in the master bedroom. After saying his goodnights, Gray went in search of some shorts and a T-shirt to wear in the morning, then found the cabin Timmy had assigned him.
He climbed into the bed naked and within moments the rhythmic bobbing of the boat began rocking him to sleep. What seemed like seconds later he felt the bed covers move and he sat bolt upright, fully awake. Lying next to him on the bed was Vick, wearing just a T-shirt which barely extended below her hips. She smiled at Gray and put an arm around his neck, pulling his head towards hers. The kiss was long, their tongues exploring deeply. The love-making that followed was gentle, unrushed, and afterwards Gray collapsed next to her, spent. Vick placed her head on his shoulder and ran her finger lazily across his chest. He made to say something but Vick placed a finger on his lips, relishing the silence.
Within a few minutes he heard the change in her breathing which signaled the transition to sleep, and he wasn’t long in following her.
Chapter 2
Sunday April 22nd 2012
Tom Gray woke to find himself alone in the bed, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he had dreamed the events of the previous evening. Those fears were allayed when Vick opened the cabin door, clearly fresh from the shower and again wearing nothing but a towel. She stooped and kissed him on the cheek.
“Good morning. Sleep well?” She asked.
“Like a log. What time is it?”
“Two o’clock. Timmy says we should be in port by eight this evening.”
Gray ran a hand up her leg but she swatted it away. “Later,” she said with a smile. “I’m starving.”
Vick slipped into a T-shirt and shorts and brushed her wet hair. Even without any make-up Gray thought she looked beautiful, her tanned skin perfectly complementing her blonde hair.
“Don’t be long,” she said as she left the cabin in search of food, and Gray realised just how hungry he was. After a quick shower he wandered on deck, where he found everyone sitting round a fully-laden table. He took a seat, said his good mornings and dived into a plate of sausages and eggs.
“So how is your friend going to get us to the UK?” Gray asked Hughes.
“I don’t know the details of the entire route, but I expect entry through the port will be in the back of a truck.”
“That’s not a guaranteed way in,” Sonny said, concerned. “I’ve seen the documentaries on the telly and there are lots of ways of detecting stowaways. They can detect minute concentrations of carbon dioxide in the back of the trucks, and that’s just for starters.”
“He has a very high success rate,” Hughes said. “I’m sure he’s got everything covered.”
Gray hoped his friend was right; otherwise the closest he would get to redemption would be Dover.
It was five hours later when they cruised up the narrow channel, passing a jungle-covered island on the left and industrial units on the right. As they pulled up to the dock Gray saw a black SUV with tinted windows parked up, and as the gangway was lowered one of the rear doors opened.
The melon-shaped passenger who climbed out weighed around two hundred and fifty pounds and was wearing smart trousers and a white shirt. By the time he climbed the gangway, circles of sweat had appeared around his armpits.
Hughes was waiting to welcome him aboard. “Arnold, thank you so much for coming.”
“Not at all,” Tang Ben Lee smiled. He’d adopted the name Arnold and told anyone who asked that it gave him what he liked to call “international appeal”. In actual fact, it was due to ignorant foreigners reading his name as they would in the West and addressing him as Mr. Lee, which was his given name. His contempt for westerners came despite having studied at Oxford University, which was where he’d acquired his accent.
Hughes led him to the stern where the others were sitting at the table, the onboard lights illuminating them as the sun began to sink below the horizon. He made the introductions before placing a glass of expensive cognac in front of Tang. The Remy Martin Louis XIII cost upwards of fifteen hundred dollars a bottle and was reserved for a select number of guests.
“I understand you want help with transporting some goods to England,” Tang said.
Hughes gestured to his four companions. “That’s right, Arnold.”
“These people?” Tang asked. “What’s wrong with Malaysian Airlines?”
“They lost their passports,” Hughes said with a smile, but Tang didn’t reciprocate.
“I’m not happy with this situation, Timmy,” Tang said. “I don’t usually meet the cargo, for obvious reasons.”
“Don’t worry, Arnold, I can vouch for them. I trust them enough to pay for their trip.”
Tang let his displeasure show on his face as he mulled it over. If he allowed these people to travel through his network there was a chance that they might expose his role should they ever get caught. But then again, they already knew about his involvement.
On the flip side, there was a lot of money to be made from this shipment, and Arnold Tang knew how to have his cake and eat it. An idea came into his head, one that would solve the problem, and he pulled out his phone before speaking quickly in Cantonese. The conversation lasted just a few seconds.
“The initial part of the journey will be by boat,” he told the group at the table, “which leaves in eighteen hours. It will be two weeks before you reach South Africa, so make sure you bring enough clothes and food for your journey. You’ll be fed on the ship but I can’t guarantee the quality of the cuisine. Once you reach Durban you will be taken by cargo plane to northern Africa and across Europe by truck. You should reach the UK in three weeks.”
“We have concerns about crossing the border,” Gray said. “How do we get around their detection methods? I understand they can detect even the smallest concentration of carbon dioxide. Is that true?”
“The vehicle you will be travelling in is equipped with CO2 re-breathers that direct the exhaled gasses through a filter canister containing a carbon dioxide absorbent, in this case a form of soda lime. Even the most accurate probe placed next to the filter gives inconclusive results.”
That went some way towards allaying their fears, but the questions kept coming. “How do we fly from South Africa to North Africa without passports?” Sonny asked.
“You do not need to worry about the logistics,” Tang said. “I have people in place all along the route to ensure you reach your destination, and my delivery rate is unparalleled. All you need to do is follow instructions until you reach England. Once you get there, you are on your own.”
He turned to Hughes. “The fee will be one hundred and twenty thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money, Arnold. I thought perhaps…”
“It is one hundred and twenty thousand because you put me in this awkward position. Just be grateful I am willing to help you.”
Hughes considered the options and after a glance at Gray he agreed to pay the money. “Okay, I’ll transfer it once my friends reach their destination.”
Tang’s face lost what few signs of geniality remained. “I want the money within three days or your friends will never see England again.”
“Arnold, I am laying out a lot of money which my friend here is going to repay once he gets home. If you are confident enough to guarantee his arrival, what is the harm in waiting until delivery is complete?” Hughes sat back in his chair and took a sip from his beer. “On the other hand, if you can’t be sure he’ll get there, I will have to take my business elsewhere.”
Tang was beside himself with anger. No-one dictated terms to him, not even his own mother, because she knew what it meant for a Chinese person to lose face. Just a few moments earlier he had planned to have the four passengers thro
wn overboard once the money had been transferred, but now he would have to guarantee their safe passage lest this gweilo insult him further by going to a competitor. He took a few deep breaths to disperse the adrenalin coursing through his body before replying.
“Once they reach the UK they will call you to confirm their arrival. You will then transfer the money.”
“Deal,” Hughes smiled, offering his hand to shake on it, but Tang ignored the gesture.
“If the money isn’t in my account an hour after that phone call, you’d better pray that you’re already dead.”
While Hughes digested the threat, Tang rose from his seat and polished off his brandy. “The ship leaves at three tomorrow afternoon. It is the Huang Zhen on dock C6.”
With that, he took his large frame down the gangway and climbed back into his vehicle, which left immediately.
“Nice chap,” Len said, sardonically.
“I didn’t realise it was going to take so long to get home,” Vick said, not relishing a fortnight on board a ship. Having gone from sleeping in the jungle to the comparative luxury of Hughes’ boat, she was reluctant to endure any further hardship, but there was no way she was letting Tom Gray out of her sights.
“It’ll give us a chance to come up with a plan,” Gray said.
“So what do we take with us?” Vick asked. “I don’t want to sound stereotypical, but I’ve got literally nothing to wear.”
“I’ll send the skipper into KL first thing in the morning,” Hughes said. “Let me know what you need and he can pick it up.”
“KL?” Len asked.
“Kuala Lumpur,” Hughes explained. “It’s about thirty miles from here.”
Vick began scribbling a list while Sonny passed the beers around. “We might as well enjoy these while we can.”
* * *
Arnold Tang sat in the back of the SUV, his anger growing with every passing second. Having built up a small empire both at home and abroad, the last thing he needed was for it all to come crashing down, which is what would happen if anyone found out about any of his less than legitimate enterprises.
He pulled his back-up mobile phone from his pocket and inserted a SIM card with one hundred Ringgit of pre-paid credit. He then looked up a number on his main phone and dialled. When the connection was made he was very brief, speaking in his native language.
“A consignment of four will be delivered in three weeks. Once they arrive, give them a phone and make them call this number.” Tang read off Hughes’ mobile number and got the recipient to read it back.
“After they make the call, get rid of them.” He turned the phone off and removed the SIM card before opening the window and throwing it into the street. As for Hughes, he would wait until the money was transferred before deciding the man’s fate.
* * *
James Farrar was in the middle of preparing his Sunday roast when his mobile rang. He wiped his hands and checked the display, which told him it was Todd Hamilton, head of the team watching Carl Levine.
“What is it?” Farrar asked, although the weekend interruption suggested it wasn’t good news.
“They’ve gone,” Hamilton said.
“Who’s gone?”
“Levine and his family. We saw no sign of them this morning so we sent a couple of team members in with Watchtower brochures. There was no answer.”
Farrar was puzzled, and a feeling of dread beginning to build in the pit of his stomach. “Have a poke around, make sure they’re gone.”
“We’ve been all around the ground floor and checked through the windows. There’s no sign of any activity in the lower rooms and they never sleep this late.”
Farrar put him on hold and wondered what the hell could have had spooked Levine and caused him to up sticks during the night. He checked the call log with GCHQ and was told that, as requested, they had been looking for contacts from the Philippines. There had been no calls or emails originating from that country. As they reiterated the criteria he had specified, the thought struck him that he hadn’t updated the monitoring information following Gray’s disappearance. All he had been expecting over the last year was for Gray to contact his old friends from his new home in Manila, but now that he was on the run he could be anywhere in the region.
“Alter the search to check for any and all calls, regardless of origin.”
It was a few moments later when he got the bad news. “There was a call on Friday the twentieth to Levine from Singapore.”
As the number was read out Farrar was already moving to the living room. He sat down at his laptop and entered his password before loading the file belonging to Timmy Hughes. The number he’d just been given matched the one on record.
Damn!
He asked about all calls to Jeff Campbell and his Sunday got a whole lot worse.
Farrar ended the call and took Hamilton off hold. “What about Campbell? Have you been in touch with the other team?”
“Not yet,” was the reply, and it wasn’t the one Farrar wanted to hear. He hit the End button and found Matt Baker’s number.
“What’s the situation with Campbell and his family?” Farrar asked once the call was answered.
“All quiet here,” Baker said nonchalantly.
Farrar was furious at the man’s casual attitude to the situation, despite Baker not being aware of all the facts.
“Where exactly are you now?” he asked, as calmly as he could.
“I’m parked at the end of their street. I can see the house from here.”
“I want you to go to the house and make sure they are still inside,” Farrar said.
The phone went quiet for a while before Baker’s voice said: “Just did a walk-past and I can’t see any movement in the house.”
“I didn’t ask for a fucking walk-past! I want to know, in the next two minutes, if there is anyone in that house!”
Baker began spluttering but Farrar cut him off. “I don’t care how you do it: just find out if they are home. Knock and ask for a cup of sugar, try to sell them double-glazing, just let me know if they’re still there!”
At times he regretted having made Baker a team leader. The man was young and keen, never shirking his duty, and he executed the end game skilfully. It was just a shame that he often focused all of his efforts on the kill at the expense of the operational fundamentals.
Baker was back on the line ninety seconds later. “There’s no answer,” he said.
“Did you try the windows?”
“I looked through but couldn’t see anyone. No sound from the TV or radio, either.”
Farrar couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just a few days earlier he’d been looking to wrap up the operation by the end of the month, and now he had five fugitives and no idea where to start looking.
He told Baker to remain where he was and report in if the family came back, but he wasn’t holding out much hope. A year ago Levine and Campbell had managed to evade the authorities despite a nationwide search, and Farrar had just six men under his immediate control. It was nowhere near enough, and his options were limited. There was one person who could help, but it was a phone call he didn’t want to make.
He paced the room, trying to come up with an alternative, but there was nobody else who had the infrastructure he needed. Reluctantly he picked up the phone and dialled her number.
* * *
Veronica Ellis concluded the meeting and sent the staff on their way. She was sitting at the head of the conference table contemplating the notes she’d taken when her cell phone rang and she looked at the caller ID.
It was the last person she’d expected a call from.
“Hello James. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Their break-up two years earlier hadn’t been the most amicable. The relationship had been deteriorating for some time, both blaming each other for focusing more on work than each other. However, the clincher for Ellis was finding Farrar in bed with one of his interns.
“I need access to one of your
resources,” Farrar said.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said sarcastically. “Thanks for asking.”
“Veronica, this is a professional call on an urgent matter. I need help in finding two individuals and their families.”
Same old James Farrar, Ellis thought. What she ever saw in the man, God only knew. Still, it made her response all the more satisfying.
“Impossible. We are stretched as it is, and we have more work coming in every day. Why else do you think I’m in the office on a Sunday?”
“Veronica, either you find someone to help in my search or I get the Home Secretary to order you to assign someone. It makes no difference to me, but I’d prefer this to be handled in the spirit of co-operation.”
Ellis was not normally one to succumb to threats, but she knew that Farrar had access to the minister and would use that influence if necessary. Having taken over from John Hammond as Assistant Director General of MI5 following the Tom Gray fiasco, she was well aware that the service was still under the microscope. The last thing she needed was more scrutiny from the upper echelon.
“I can give you one man, that’s it.”
“That’s all I’m asking for,” Farrar said, his voice more pleasant having gotten his way.
“Send me the details and I’ll get someone to work it up. What’s the rush, anyway? Is it something we should know about?”
“It’s nothing to concern you or your department. I just need information as to their whereabouts. We know they were in London in the last twenty-four hours.”
Ellis knew she wasn’t going to get anything more from him so she ended the call without a goodbye and dialled Andrew Harvey’s internal number.
“My office,” she said when the call was answered, and set off to meet him.
Harvey had been the section lead when Hammond had handed in his resignation, taking full responsibility for the service’s failure to end the Gray saga in a manner which put the government in a good light. She had stepped into the hole that had been left at the top of the organisation on what was supposed to be an interim basis, but her ambitions reached beyond being a stop-gap.
Gray Redemption (Tom Gray #3) Page 2
