Gray Redemption (Tom Gray #3)

by McDermott, Alan

  It wasn’t until a couple of days later that they had gotten together and discussed some of the less favourable scenarios, and it was then that they realised what they had signed up for. The knowledge they held was always going to be damaging, be it to the current government or future ones, and all that stood between complete secrecy and a national security fiasco was their individual integrity.

  In effect, they were relying on the government to trust six men who had only a few days earlier held the country to ransom.

  Following that epiphany they had promised each other that if one of them were to disappear or die under suspicious circumstances, the others would take their stories to every available media outlet. The death of Tristram Barker-Fink in Iraq had been a shock to them all, but there was no way they could blame that on anyone but the terrorists who took out the convoy he was travelling in. A few weeks after Tristram’s death, Paul Bennett’s followed, crashing his motorbike at high speed. Independent witnesses saw his tyre explode while he doing more than eighty miles per hour, with no other cars within fifty feet of him. The police report also cited mechanical failure as the reason for the crash, the tyre having blown out.

  Both of these losses were put down to misfortune, but since they got the call to go into hiding, they were beginning to have second thoughts.

  Levine went to sit next to Campbell. “It’s been a while since we heard from anyone,” he said quietly. “What if we’re the only ones left?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Campbell agreed, “but there’s no way of knowing. I also don’t like the idea of being in the same place for so long.”

  “Me neither. The longer we stay in the same place, the easier it will be to track us down.”

  Both men thought about their predicament, with their focus being on the other family members.

  “We could send the girls away and wait it out,” Campbell suggested, and Levine liked the idea, though he had concerns as to where they would be safe. Hotels and guest houses were out of the question, and there was no way to get them out of the country.

  “We could get them a tent and they could stay in a field close by,” Campbell offered, and Levine concurred.

  “I think that might be the best option. I also think that any threat will come at night, so the girls can stay here during the day and slip out when it gets dark.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Campbell said. “I’ll send the missus into town to buy a tent and they can start using it tonight.”

  While the men broke the news to their wives, Alana resumed her ritual of staring out of the window. For the first time, she noticed movement in the next caravan and saw that a family estate car was parked next to it. A young boy, no older than seven, was helping his parents unload bags and boxes and take them inside, but it was the sight of the girl that caught her attention. She was roughly the same age as Alana, and rather than helping her family she was leaning against the car, her attention focused solely on her mobile phone.

  * * *

  Andrew Harvey sipped his mineral water in the hotel bar and looked at the photo in his hand.

  He’d arrived in Durban after a six and a half hour drive and gone straight to the address of the first person on his list. Gerry Ainsworth, forty six years of age, served in Northern Ireland as an eighteen-year-old Green Jacket, left the Army five years later and had various jobs since, mostly in sales. Currently running his own business which purported to sell diving equipment.

  After grabbing a sandwich Harvey had parked himself in the bar while he waited for Ainsworth to return from a day of canvassing potential clients, and it was just after six in the evening when his target finally walked through the lobby.

  Harvey was disappointed to see that the man had gained at least forty pounds since his passport photograph had been taken, and he wheezed under the weight of the sample bags he was carrying. There was simply no way Ainsworth could be the hit man he was looking for.

  With one name eliminated he asked the receptionist to call him a taxi to take him to a local bar, and while he waited he called Owen to see how he was getting on with his suspects.

  “Nothing from the first one,” Owen told him. “I asked his hotel receptionist where he might be and she said he’d taken a taxi to the International Convention Centre. I checked that he’d signed in and watched him come out about an hour ago. Looks like he’s really here for the gardening exhibition.”

  Harvey agreed to meet up with Owen for dinner at the hotel of suspect number three and hung up. His taxi arrived a few minutes later and he told the driver to forget about the bar and just to take him to the Fairview hotel. When he arrived at his destination he found Owen waiting for him in the bar, with two cold beers sitting in front of him. He took a seat that gave him a good view of the entrance.

  “It’s not going to be easy to check the others out now that the weekend has arrived,” Owen noted.

  Harvey had been thinking the same. If their suspects were here to ply their trades, they would be unlikely to do so over the weekend, and Harvey explained that probably meant him and Owen spending the next two days shadowing each one in the hope of finding something out of the ordinary.

  “Are you ready to tell me who’s arriving on Monday?” Owen asked.

  It was a question which had come up during their drive from Johannesburg earlier that day, but Harvey had simply explained that some British subjects were arriving on the seventh and that persons unknown were waiting to intercept them. He hadn’t said who was on the ship for fear of opening a can of worms: if word spread that he was looking for Baines and Smart it could eventually reach the wrong ears, and the fewer people who knew he was about to crash a government-sanctioned party, the longer his career was likely to last.

  However, he had been so pre-occupied with keeping them from Farrar’s clutches that he hadn’t considered how he was going to get them back to the UK, and for that he knew he was going to need Owen’s help.

  “Does the name Tom Gray ring any bells?”

  “Are you kidding?” Owen laughed. “I’m hardly likely to forget him.” He looked Harvey in the eye, his tone more serious. “You’re not going to tell me he’s on the ship, are you?”

  It was Harvey’s turn to offer a smile. “No, but he did have some help, remember?”

  “Yeah, a few of his Army buddies were involved, weren’t they?”

  “That’s right,” Harvey said, “and two of them are on their way here.”

  He gave Owen a rundown of events over the last two weeks, starting with the request for help in finding Levine and Campbell and all the way up to the discovery that James Farrar was looking for two of the men on the ship, too.

  “This Farrar, is he looking for the rest of Gray’s team?”

  “These are the rest of the team,” Harvey explained. “Two were killed in the attack last year, and two have died since.”

  Owen thought about this for a moment. “Sounds like this Farrar is looking to eliminate the whole team.”

  “That’s the conclusion we came to.”

  “Do you know why?” Owen asked.

  “That’s what I plan to ask Baines and Smart.”

  Owen tapped him on the arm and nodded towards the door. “How do you want to do this?”

  Harvey watched Alan Skinner enter the bar and order a Southern Comfort, then browse a menu as he waited for the barman to pour the drink.

  “You keep him occupied,” Harvey whispered as he stood, “and I’ll check his room.”

  He left the bar as Owen took a seat next to their target and struck up a conversation. Harvey knew Skinner’s room was on the second floor and he was glad to see that the hotel hadn’t upgraded to key cards. He had the lock open in seconds and slipped into the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. He found a diary and flicked through it, only to find appointments with various companies around the world. The suitcase, cupboards and drawers offered nothing to contradict the suggestion that Skinner was anything other than a travelling sal
esman, and he headed back downstairs a frustrated figure.

  As he walked past the entrance to the bar he paused and waited for Owen to notice him, and when he did so Harvey offered a quick shake of the head and disappeared towards the entrance. His companion followed a minute later.

  “It’s not our guy,” Owen said, pre-empting Harvey, who concurred.

  “Let’s call it a day and pick them up first thing,” Harvey suggested. “If we get to their hotels early enough we can catch them before they go out.”

  “You don’t sound convinced,” Owen said, detecting a note of dejection in Harvey’s voice.

  “I’m not. These are the best leads we have, but what if the one waiting for the ship to arrive isn’t using the same passport for the hotel as they did for the flight? What if they have more than one identity?”

  “That’s what I’d be inclined to do.”

  Harvey knew there was no point trying to investigate the other sixty-something people on his list. There simply wasn’t time, and besides, none of them had been flagged on the system as being of any interest.

  “Want me to drop you at your hotel?” Owen asked as they climbed into his BMW.

  “Later. First I want to take a look at Wenban Freight Management.”

  Chapter 8

  Saturday May 5th 2012

  Ben Palmer steered the rented Mercedes Sprinter van down the dusty trail towards the remote building, his back taking a pounding from the rough ride over potholes and ruts.

  Sean Littlefield’s place was a farm in name only. It had been years since any animal or crop had been within a few miles as Littlefield made his living from a completely different source. He was standing at the door when Palmer’s van pulled up to the house, a pair of tongs in his hand.

  “How’s you?” He smiled.

  “I’m good, Sean. Jeez, can’t you get yourself a place near a decent road?”

  Littlefield slapped him on the back and led him through the entrance. “This place is perfect, man. I can see people coming from miles around in any direction.”

  Having once been a prominent member of the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging under the leadership of Eugène Terre'Blanche was reason enough to be prudent when it came to unannounced visitors. His activities during the apartheid years — being suspected of attacks and murders against non-whites — was another.

  Inside, the house looked just like Palmer remembered it, except that the antique furniture had gathered an extra layer of dust.

  “Still no woman in your life?” He asked, but Littlefield waved him away. At close to sixty, he had long since abandoned the idea of sharing his remaining days with anyone but himself.

  The barbeque was already going and a couple of huge steaks were sizzling away nicely. Palmer took a seat and accepted a cold beer while Littlefield prepared a salad.

  “So what brings you here?” The host asked, and Palmer explained the need for a few sensitive items. Littlefield rubbed the stubble on his chin as he went through the list.

  “Sounds like you’re planning a party,” he smiled. “The gun is no problem, but I’ll need to visit a friend for the rest.”

  “Can you get them by tomorrow night?” Palmer asked, and Littlefield assured him he could.

  With business out of the way Palmer was able to relax. He polished off his beer and accepted another, and they spent the next two hours swapping stories of their exploits since they’d last met. More accurately, Palmer told the stories while his friend listened intently, his days of action far behind, though the desire still burned inside.

  “So what’s the latest job?” Littlefield asked as he tidied up the dinner plates.

  “More of the same, really. Just gotta get some information from a couple of ex-soldiers and their two friends, then dispose of them.”

  It didn’t sound all that exciting, but it was more action than the old man had seen in a few years.

  “Need a hand?” He asked. “I mean, it’s not going to be straightforward with four people to control.”

  Palmer smiled. “You pining for the old days, Sean?”

  “You know it.”

  The old man had a point, Palmer thought. He may not be able to out-sprint a fleeing fugitive as he used to during his days in the South African Police, but the years hadn’t robbed him of his mean streak. Palmer preferred to work alone, but he knew it would be handy to have someone on lookout, or a second gun should it come to that. Help with carrying four lifeless bodies wouldn’t go amiss, either.

  “I can’t promise you any fireworks, Sean, but you’re welcome to tag along.”

  * * *

  Abdul Mansour had done nothing but think in the two days since his meeting with Azhar Al-Asiri. This very evening his new position would be announced to the whole of the organisation, and coupled with the mission he had been given, he had seen the opportunity to elevate himself to greatness beyond his wildest expectations.

  Once, he would have been satisfied to have his loyalty and dedication recognised by his elders, but as his reputation grew, so did his aspirations. Becoming a general had been a magnificent honour, but it was just another step on his path to ultimate glory. His sights had then been set on the rank of regional commander, which also meant a place on the council, allowing him the chance to share in the highest level of decision making.

  However, one goal reached simply meant a new one to strive for, and following his promotion that meant only one thing.

  Azhar Al-Asiri, still in his early fifties, was not an old man by any means. He could carry on as their glorious leader for another thirty years if Allah wished it, but Abdul Mansour wasn’t prepared to wait that long. He’d asked to meet the scientist to gather more information, such as a suitable alternative method of delivery and any conditions which would lessen the effect of the virus. This meticulous attention to detail had pleased Al-Asiri and he’d readily agreed, unaware of Mansour’s true motive.

  As the building drew near it looked just like the grain wholesaler the sign above the entrance proclaimed it to be. Sacks of maize were piled up beside the main door, and local vendors were busy bartering for their stock for the coming week.

  Mansour was driven round the back of the large building — more a warehouse than a shop — and found the rear entrance open, a man waiting for him. Mansour climbed from the vehicle and when the driver made to follow him, he signalled that he would go in alone.

  Inside, all he could see was the silhouette of the man leading him down the narrow corridor. His guide suddenly stopped and fumbled against the wall, and Mansour heard a faint click as a chink of light appeared through a door off to his left.

  Mansour stepped through and found himself in an antechamber. Through toughened glass he could see people inside the laboratory wearing protective suits complete with breathing apparatus. One of them noticed his presence and entered an inner door into a chamber, where jets of what looked to Mansour like steam filled the small area for a few seconds. Extractors sucked the vapour from the air and moments later Professor Uddin emerged and removed his headgear.

  “Thank you for taking time to see me,” Mansour said after greeting him. “I appreciate that you are very busy.”

  Uddin assured him that is was no inconvenience, and Mansour noted how nervous the scientist was. Al-Asiri had told him that Uddin had been like a lamb in a lion’s den when they’d met at the hotel, and Mansour was glad to see the same reaction.

  “The Emir tells me you are doing some fine work here,” Mansour said as Uddin led him to a small office. “He is delighted with the progress you have made.”

  Uddin seemed to relax a little at the praise, but Mansour soon took the smile off his face. “However, he would prefer you to do more testing on the virus before we unleash it on the world. He is not completely satisfied with the figures you presented to him.”

  “We…er…”

  Mansour waved off any attempt at an excuse. “I spoke to the Emir and we agreed that this operation should only go ahead when we are co
mpletely confident of success. As that isn’t currently the case, we are going to postpone it while you conduct further tests.”

  Uddin looked worried, but Mansour allayed his fears. “The Emir is not angry with you, but he does think it prudent to wait. He had wanted to use an upcoming window of opportunity, but others will come along.”

  The professor let out a sigh, grateful that he hadn’t incurred Al-Asiri’s wrath.

  “Despite this, the window remains open, and the Emir wants to make full use of it. Tell me about the other variants you and your team have been working on.”

  Uddin explained that the vast majority of time had been spent on Al-Asiri’s pet project, but they did have another strain of the virus that was much more aggressive.

  “It is a natural variant of Reston Ebolavirus, which originated in the Philippines. Reston has been found in several indigenous animals, from crab-eating macaques to pigs, although as yet it hasn’t claimed any human lives. Our strain has been genetically modified to enhance the cytopathic effect — the breaking down of cellular tissue.”

  “Why not just use Ebola itself?” Mansour wondered aloud.

  “Governments from all over the world — governments with much better resources than we have here — have been trying to find a cure for Ebola Zaire since it was first discovered in 1976. They have tried and failed, and only recently the US military cut funding to two private companies searching for an effective antidote.

  “If they cannot find it, there is very little chance of us stumbling across the answer. Even with our own creation, we are not yet able to reverse the effects.”

  “What does it do to those exposed to it?” Mansour asked.

  “It causes irreparable damage to the liver and kidneys,” Uddin told him. “Failure takes place just forty-eight hours after infection, leading to major haemorrhaging and eventually death within the next twenty-four hours.”