As he walked in, there was a loud howl which caused the mother to come from deep sleep to wide awake as she sat up. Another howl saw her jumping straight out of the bed and walking over to the cot where her daughter lay, her face going red with the effort of making so much noise.
She scooped up Lilly and took her back to bed where she made soft noises and then offered her breast to the child, the tone of Lilly’s crying telling her that the tiny girl was hungry. She was soon rewarded by seeing her daughter happily feeding. Half an hour later Lilly had drifted off to sleep.
The Courier could see all this through the miniaturised cameras that were installed in every room of the house. The equipment was state-of-the-art and had been expertly customised to fit in with the decor of the house. You’d have needed to know what you were looking for to spot it.
A few moments later he watched the woman carefully place her daughter back in her cot and then quickly strip off her loose-fitting nightie as she went to take a shower. The camera in the bathroom offered a very clear shot of her soaping herself and he noted appreciatively that she was in very good shape, her baby-tummy slowly going down.
Not that he was remotely interested from a sexual point of view, as his own tastes in that area were highly complex and did not include young women. He imagined her furious reaction had she known she was under observation.
He had already come to the view that when the time came she would fight like a lioness, or at least she would if she were given the chance. He guessed that she would have no concerns for her own safety; only that of her daughter. If they underestimated her, they would have problems and that would never do.
Fifteen minutes later, Anne Hudson was sitting at the kitchen table eating toast and Marmite. She had a healthy appetite, helping herself to a third slice. Not that she had any worries about gaining weight. Later today, Lilly would be placed in a three-wheeled sport buggy and would be taken for an hour’s run.
Breakfast over, she began the daily chores and was loading a pile of baby clothes into the washing machine when the front doorbell disturbed her. It was a delivery man with a package. He watched her take it back to the kitchen, open it and then beam with pleasure as she saw what it was.
Moments later and the Courier could see it too as she unwittingly put the gold cuff-links and watch on display by holding them up in front of her face creating a perfect angle for one of the cameras in the kitchen. Research had already told him it was the husband’s birthday soon, so he was probably looking the present.
He turned away from the screens; at last he was starting to feel that familiar tingle that told him events were coming to a head and soon it would be time to replace planning and watching with action.
Even better, the client had today transferred the first part of the payment. It would cover all his costs, clear his debts and leave him with enough money to get back to the gaming tables. His passion was craps, a game that required minimal skills and maximum luck and freed him from his normal routines of paying attention to every detail, no matter how small or apparently insignificant.
He loved everything about it: the way the dice felt in his hand as he gently shook them, blowing on them for luck before launching them down the table and the muffled noise they made as they tumbled across the green baize of the gaming table.
Chapter 6
Julie Mayweather had a well-hidden sense of humour. She especially loved practical jokes, and had instantly spotted the potential for one now. She’d been standing in Hooley and Roper’s office for almost a minute. They were both so engrossed in their research they hadn’t noticed her.
She was there in her role as Head of the Special Investigations Unit but at this moment she had a plan to attract their attention. Resisting the urge to grin, she brought her hands together in a loud clap.
She hadn’t seen Hooley jump so much since that time he had been demonstrating the use of a taser and accidentally shot himself in the foot. Meanwhile, Roper had leapt to his feet and was looking around wildly.
Satisfied her work was done, she turned quickly and left, calling out: “Can you two make it to my office in half an hour?”
She had recently been appointed as one of two Deputy Commissioners at Scotland Yard, a well-earned promotion that pushed her into the highest echelons - meaning she had needed to review her role running the Special Investigations Unit.
There had been some talk of Brian Hooley being promoted behind her, but he’d fiercely resisted the idea, arguing they made a good team as it was. In the end, after a little arm-twisting, he had agreed to take up more slack if she remained to provide the strategic direction which dovetailed so well with his old-school know-how.
As she disappeared, Hooley couldn’t help but smile. He knew he’d been had but it was his own fault for not being aware of what was going on. The trouble with spending time with Roper was that his immersive techniques of researching cases proved highly contagious.
Roper, still looking startled, ran off, shouting that he was going for coffee. “Just got time for a drink before we go in. Do you want one?”
“No thanks. I’ve had about five pints of it so far today. I won’t be sleeping for the rest of the week if I have any more and it can’t be helping my blood pressure.”
Given that current health advice was for moderate caffeine consumption he imagined that Roper would agree with him, but not for the first time he was taken by surprise.
“That’s just nonsense. People go on about the harmful effects of caffeine but it all depends on how you, the individual, reacts to it. It’s only just after lunch now so one more won’t affect you at all.”
Hooley knew better than to be sucked into a conversation.
“That’s a very good point you make, and reassuring for someone like me who likes their coffee - but I still feel as though I am at my limit, so the answer’s still no. Thanks all the same.”
Twenty-five minutes later an agitated Roper reappeared. Things had not gone well.
“There was a huge queue and I thought I might have to come back before it was time to go.”
Hooley silently filed that under “Roperisms”: moments when his partner used language so precisely it stopped making sense.
“At least you made it, so let’s go.”
They hadn’t sat down before the briefing was underway. “We’ve been paid the ultimate compliment of being asked for by Special Branch and the Counter Terrorism Command. It’s not often those two will both ask for assistance.”
She had a touch of the theatrical about her and paused for several beats before moving to the big reveal.
“Ever heard of Georgi Yebedev?”
Roper’s hand shot into the air. There was nothing fake about it; he was quite unable to hide his enthusiasm. This had earned him the nickname “Keeno”, as in “super keen.”
“He’s a former Russian citizen, now based in London. He’s worth in excess of £10 billion but no-one is quite sure of the total and there are questions about how he got it. What is known is that he was one of the group of Russian businessmen and Kremlin cronies who appeared in the early 1990s and grabbed a lot of the state assets following the collapse of the Soviet Union.
“He turned up in Britain more than 20 years ago and has since married the daughter of an English Earl. They have three sons, all of whom are currently at Gordonstoun School, where Prince Charles went. The eldest boy is said to be highly intelligent and will be going to Cambridge to study mathematics.
“There was an interesting development over the choice of school. It has a policy that every pupil must carry out basic communal tasks, like cleaning the lavatories. Mr. Yebedev demanded that he be allowed to send a cleaner to do the work. When that was turned down he asked his sons to try and bribe the other boys to do it.
“Somehow the matter became public, and it was later reported that the headteacher had left Mr. Yebedev in no doubt, that unless his boys did what everyone else had to do, he was welcome to take them elsewhere.”
The information was delivered at a clipped pace without hesitation. Mayweather never failed to be impressed at the variety of information Roper had at his finger-tips. Little wonder he was also known as “search engine”.
It seemed there was more.
“There was a big profile of him in the London Evening Standard a couple of months ago. It was raining that day so I got the bus and read it on the way home. It’s very interesting to read how many rich Russians are over here, especially in London.”
Hooley leaned across and tapped him on the arm. “It will be a sad day when that elephant-like brain of yours becomes as flaky as mine and you start forgetting things.”
“I very much doubt that will happen,” said Roper, his face showing he was not in the mood for light-hearted comments. “I have always looked after myself properly and done everything possible to enhance my neuro-function, something about which I’m afraid you have been very remiss.”
Hooley couldn’t help biting on the comment. “That’s a bit harsh. I’ve been doing the cross word every day, like you suggested, and taking those fish oils.” As he spoke he looked at his boss, but she was maintaining a determinedly straight face, a slightly raised eyebrow the only sign she was listening.
But as Roper went to say more, Mayweather intervened. She knew the DCI was one of the most phlegmatic men she had ever worked with, but even he had limits.
“Let’s keep to topic, shall we?” she said. “Your summary is spot on, Jonathan. He may have been born in Russia, but he is now part of the fabric here, known for his generosity and his love of all things English. He’s very much regarded as one of the good guys.”
“I take it something has happened to challenge that view?” said Hooley, leaning forward in his chair and pulling his emotions back under control.
“There might have been. The information being passed to us is from other intelligence agencies, so I have no way of telling how complete it is, but previous experience suggests we should assume that plenty of details have been left out. MI5 are in on this but if they know anything else they aren’t telling me. It comes from a joint US and Israeli intelligence operation that was monitoring some unusual cash flows through offshore banks.”
“I wonder if it’s something to do with that new software they’ve developed?”
“I’m sorry, Jonathan?” said Mayweather.
“A couple of weeks ago, on the dark web, there was chatter about some new code that could crack open bank security systems and track money movements back to their origins.”
Mayweather looked at Hooley, who shrugged. Not only was this news to him, it took him way out of his comfort zone as well.
“Is this something we should even be talking about?”
Roper looked puzzled. “So long as we keep it to ourselves I don’t see that it’s a problem, and it might be relevant to what you’re talking about. I do know that it is also being discussed at GCHQ.”
Mayweather tapped her index finger on her notepad. Hooley knew that meant she was thinking furiously.
“Let’s leave that to one side for now. Maybe you’re right about the software, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. Keep it at the back of your mind and we can discuss it later.”
She looked at him, hoping to see signs that he had accepted what she said, and settled for the fact he wasn’t arguing with her.
“What we are being asked to look into are some unusual transactions linked to money controlled by Yebedev. He keeps large sums offshore. But over the last year some of his money, and we are talking hundreds of millions of dollars, have been moved to accounts controlled by an Israeli-based entrepreneur who has long been suspected of money laundering.
“The Israeli, Aaron Sopher, spends quite a lot of time here in London but until now there has been nothing to link him to Yebedev. There’s more, but MI5 want to brief you. You’re expected over at Vauxhall this afternoon; you need to ask for a Bill Nuffield.
“I’ve been asked not to tell you the details so that you can approach the briefing with an open mind, but I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say this is probably the most significant threat we have ever faced. That’s why I need my two best people on it.”
Chapter 7
Thames House is the imposing Grade-II-listed home of M15, the domestic intelligence service, and sits proudly on the North bank of the Thames, close to Lambeth Bridge and its sister organisation MI6, the foreign service, housed in a modern building on the opposite side of the river. Friends and rivals, they keep a beady an eye on each other.
Roper had insisted on walking there, setting a brisk pace it left the DCI breathing heavily. As he cooled off he pointed over to MI6.
“I watched that being blown up a couple of weeks ago.”
Roper came to a sudden halt, his expression leaving no doubt that he thought the DCI had lost it.
“Ever seen a James Bond movie?”
Roper continued to stare.
“I know you’re not a fan of popular culture, but millions of people have seen the scene in Skyfall where that building gets blown up.”
He was left talking to himself as Roper moved away. A few minutes later and he was watching Roper squirm from a vigorous pat-down. The younger man hated being touched at the best of times and having a complete stranger lay hands on him was clearly an ordeal as a deep frown appeared on his face.
Hooley thought the whole thing was overdone. Only a short while ago Roper had been given a top security clearance for his work at GCHQ, the British listening post just outside Cheltenham in Gloucestershire, but that clearly counted for nothing now he was back at the Met.
He was tempted to start an argument which would force this Bill Nuffield to come and collect them, but Roper was coping so he contented himself with staring at the guard in his best passive-aggressive manner.
Finally they were inside the building and shown to a waiting area. No one appeared and Hooley was just wondering if he should start making a fuss after all, when a young man, dressed rather like Roper in a skinny-fit black suit, arrived.
He brought them to a room equipped with a few dozen stacking chairs placed in neat rows. They were lined up in front of a large whiteboard. A lectern was facing them on the right-hand side. There were no windows.
A man standing at the lectern looked up. When he spoke, it emerged he was American. “Bill Nuffield. I’m on a sort of exchange programme from the NSA, attached to the Deputy Director General’s staff. I’m your point man on this.”
He was a tall, rangy man, in his forties, and Hooley’s eyes were drawn to a flattened, S-bend nose that had been broken more than once. He either enjoyed contact sports or got in a lot of fights. He had piercing blue eyes and a close cropped, military-style haircut.
Roper had been staring at him and said. “Lake Michigan.”
A brief smile appeared on Nuffield’s face. “And you must be Mr. Roper. I take it you’re identifying where I come from in the good ol’ US of A.”
He looked at Roper closely, seeming to check details against some internal list.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from the people here at M15. People say you were smart and different. I can tell that. A lot of Americans would have been pushed to know I come from the Lake Michigan area.”
Roper said nothing, adopting one of his more sphinx-like expressions. A lot of people assumed he did this because he was thinking deeply, but Hooley knew it was more likely that the younger man was unsure of himself.
The DCI pushed on. “I understand you are the man who is going to brief us on this Georgi Yebedev character and explain what it is that makes him a person of interest for Scotland Yard.”
Instead of replying Nuffield walked over to the corner of the room, where a small table contained a couple of insulated jugs and a selection of cups and saucers. He checked both of the containers and turned back to Roper and Hooley. “Tea or coffee? I’ve got sugar and milk, and not that awful long-life stuff.
“Most of the people who work in th
is building went to public school. They all love that stuff. I have a theory it must be something to do with going to those famous public schools of yours.”
Hooley suppressed a smile. He knew the man was making an effort to charm. He shared Nuffield’s opinion about the background of the many young men who occupied this building.
“I suspect that’s going to be two white coffees.” He looked at Roper who nodded in confirmation.
Drinks in hand, they settled into their seats as Nuffield went back to the lectern. He shrugged apologetically.
He tapped something on a laptop and the image of a man filled the screen. He looked young, maybe late thirties, although Hooley wouldn’t have been surprised if he was a decade older. He had the appearance of someone who worked out. His dark hair was cut short, with no signs of grey, and he had a round face and wide mouth that gave him a kindly appearance, enhanced by his faint smile.
“Aaron Sopher. And don’t be fooled by his welcoming expression. We, as in Homeland Security, only recently picked up on what an important player he is on the international scene. Money laundering, people trafficking, espionage, drugs… you name it. He’s got fingers in many, many pies.”
He looked at the two men. “I can see you both have questions already so let’s see if I can guess. The big one is: why don’t we just pick him up? The truth is that we should have, while we had the chance, but now he’s dropped out of sight.
“Let me take you back a little way. It was Mossad that first tipped us off about him, nine months ago. Up to then he had evaded our attention, which means he is either very, very good, or very, very lucky. The fear is that it’s both, and now he’s up to something which is raising his importance.
“Once we had him tagged we decided to put him under surveillance, and I mean a large-scale operation split between Tel Aviv, London, Washington and Los Angeles. We were hoping that we would start to pick up other operators and maybe get some sense of the true scale of what he was up to.
(Jonathan Roper Investigates Boxset Page 46
