He staggered to the bathroom, careful to take the phone with him, and used the toilet. Splashed cold water over his face to little effect, and left the room to go and make himself a cup of tea. He wasn’t worried about the caffeine stopping him getting back to sleep; he wanted something to settle his nerves.
He padded down the stairs and into the huge kitchen, a temple to eye-wateringly expensive equipment, including a complicated oven that neither he nor his wife had ever turned on, leaving that sort of task to the domestic staff.
One of the maids had left a tray on the side with everything needed for making the tea; all he had to do was put a bag in a mug and fill it from the tap that delivered a constant supply of boiling water. It was the only bit of the kitchen that really interested him.
While the tea was brewing he placed his hands palm down on the white marble, enjoying the cool sensation. It was so pleasant he bent and rested his forehead against it. He was more or less back in control, but it was yet another bad night - and he had experienced many of those since getting dragged into the nuclear plot.
Perhaps his wife was right, and he did need to see the doctor. Right now, he would have welcomed being given a large dose of tranquillisers, or something to combat those dreams. Despite being quite mundane, in the sense that nothing happened, they were very vivid and contained an air of menace that stayed with him after he woke up.
He was using a tea spoon to squeeze the bag against the side of the mug when his phone started ringing again. He grabbed it, pressed the device to his ear and said “hello” in a voice that caught slightly so that it sounded like he had said “hell.”
The voice on the other end was calm and businesslike.
“My apologies for calling you, but an opportunity has arisen, and you need to meet someone in a few hours. I thought you would prefer to be fully awake, so I have been trying for the last thirty minutes.”
He recognised the voice as belonging to Arkady Sokolov; he was speaking English with the faintest accent. Sokolov added. “I’m sending a car to pick you up at 5.30am.”
The call ended. He glanced at the oven clock, he had a little over an hour, more than enough time to enjoy a cup of tea and then have a shower and shave. He wondered about having something to eat but realised it was far too early for food.
He was waiting in the hallway when the shiny black Mercedes S-Class pulled up outside the entrance of his London home. He walked down the steps and opened the rear door to clamber inside. Once the door was shut he was concealed by the impenetrable black vanity glass.
Sinking into the comfortable leather seat he looked at Sokolov who scowled.
“He wants to meet us at a service station on the M25, at Cobham.”
Yebedev recalled that Cobham was also home of the training facilities for Chelsea football team. The Russian owner could be often found there.
“That’s near Roman’s big project.”
“It’s just a coincidence. He likes the service station because when you leave there are two exits, so you can travel in either direction on the M25. It’s all said to be very convenient.” His expression suggested he didn’t think there was anything convenient about it.
“Who are we meeting?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that. If the man likes the sound of your project, he will introduce himself at that stage. If he doesn’t, then we need to find someone else.”
They’d already crossed the river into south London and were on the outskirts of Wandsworth where they would pick up the A3 road. Despite the early hour, traffic heading into London was already snarled up through the one-way system.
Going against the rush hour meant they made swift progress and it seemed like no time before they were turning into the service area, which was huge. They drove to the most deserted point they could and stopped next to a large white van, indistinguishable from the dozen or more he’d noticed on the drive over here.
Nothing happened for at least five minutes although Yebedev took his lead from his companion who sat in long-suffering silence. The side door of the van opened, indicating they should get in.
The vehicle had two seating benches along each side. As the two Russians climbed in, the door slammed behind them and a light came on for illumination.
Facing them was a man in a dark blue boiler suit, the kind of thing worn by workmen anywhere. But he could have been wearing a diamond encrusted suit of gold for all Yebedev would have cared.
He had been instantly drawn to the man’s eyes. They were the coldest he had ever seen, containing not a flicker of humanity. But there was unmistakable intelligence at play. This man radiated power and Yebedev had to force himself to break eye contact as he sat down on the bench, shuffling up so that his compatriot could also sit. All the time, the man never took his eyes off him.
“I want to hear your version of the task.”
It was an order, plain and simple, and he didn’t delay, repeating the story as he had just two days earlier in the Ritz. He was glad that he had held nothing back then because he was certain that he would have been caught out: and possibly met his doom in the back of this van.
When he finished the man glanced briefly at Sokolov and then spoke to Yebedev.
“I will help you. My fee will be five million pounds. Half now and half on completion. There will also be a bonus of five million payable immediately after we have finished.”
Yebedev didn’t hesitate; there was something about this man that suggested he wouldn’t negotiate.
“I accept. I will make the arrangements to pay you the first instalment the moment I get back home.”
The man suddenly leaned forward, taking him by surprise. He shrank back before he realised the man was holding out his hand, on his face the faintest hint of a smile.
He reached out and took the proffered hand, expecting his to be crushed, but in fact he was surprised at how gentle it was.
“You may call me the Courier. I have one rule: I make all the rules. Sokolov will be the point of contact and you must agree any additional fees with him.”
He reached into a bag on the bench next to him and pulled out an ordinary looking mobile.
“This can only be used once, and only if there is a life-or-death emergency. The number you need is pre-programmed.” He handed it to Yebedev. “Remember, this can never be used twice.”
There was a scraping noise behind him and suddenly the van was filled with daylight as the driver had opened the door. Without a word the two Russians clambered out and watched the van pull away.
Yebedev said: “I don’t know about you, but I could do with using the facilities before we head back into London.”
Chapter 43
Brian Hooley had been frowning at his screen for such a long time that even Roper noticed something was amiss.
“Have I said something wrong?” The question was genuine since he was aware that on occasions he could be direct to the point that even the DCI could become deeply irritated.
His comment seemed to snap the older man out of introspection and he stretched out his arms to try and ease a knot of tension that was building in his back, a problem that wasn’t helped by the way he often sat slumped awkwardly in front of his computer.
“Sorry, Jonathan. It’s nothing you’ve done - it’s just Bill Nuffield. I’ve sent him three messages now and he’s not getting back to me, not even to say he’s busy at the moment and will get in touch as soon as he can.
“I’ve been thinking it’s important we talk to him after our discussion about focusing the investigation between ourselves and his team. Things like that can get horribly difficult so I didn’t want it to go wrong because we hadn’t spoken to each other.”
He picked up a pen and tapped it on his desk, the rapid-fire movement seeming to mirror his frustration.
“I hate it when people do this. One minute they are all over you and offering to help, the next you can’t even get them to respond. I really hope that he’s not trying to pr
ove something here, like he’s in charge and holds all the aces. If he is playing that game, then he will come to regret it.”
Now it was Roper’s turn to frown.
“Do you think it might be because he’s got something which he can’t tell us about?”
Hooley thought he followed that, but decided to wait for more.
“He could be worried he will give himself away if he talks to us.”
“I don’t think he will be worried about us gleaning something from his behaviour. At the risk of sounding like you, his counter-training is probably better than our training. He’s not going to fall into that trap.
“For some reason he’s messing about. I suppose I have to give him the benefit of the doubt and respect his right to do what he needs, but he should at least remain in touch, even if it’s only at arm’s length. I’ve sent him yet another request - if I still hear nothing by the end of the day tomorrow I may have to get Julie Mayweather to lean on him.
“I hate going over people’s heads but if we don’t all play by the same rules then it will go wrong and given the stakes we’re playing for, I’m not prepared to take the risk for much longer. It works both ways because people will ask why I left it so long.”
Hooley knew that he was partly looking for a justification for his actions. Getting Mayweather involved would help the situation, but it would also open him to accusations that he’d gone running to his boss at the first sign of trouble.
Everything about this was making him cross. He hated it when things became bogged down and was cross with Nuffield because, as a long-serving officer, he should have been very aware of the potential for trouble. And not talking always led to trouble.
He decided to go for a walk and clear his head. It was a gloomy day, with a light drizzle that felt like it could easily become heavy rain. The weather matched his mood and he stamped off grumpily, not sure where he was heading but just wanting to walk.
After about five minutes it dawned on him that he had made a schoolboy error. He had pushed what was at stake to the back of his mind, but all this did was let the tension build up; that’s why he was getting cross at distractions.
Not exactly feeling better, but at least refocused, he turned on his heels and headed straight back to the office. Stopping at the cafe to pick up coffee, he hustled in and automatically checked his email.
Sitting at the top of a list that seemed to be mainly HR-style exhortations to work harder was one from Nuffield. For some reason he couldn’t decide whether that made him feel crosser or better, a reaction that brought a wry smile as he realised he was being contrary.
He opened the message “Brian, as you Brits might say, a million apologies for not getting in touch. I hope that what I have got for you will take your mind off my disappearing act. Can you guys make it here this afternoon?”
Hooley read it again and fired off a response. “We’ll be there at 2.30pm.”
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of finally having something new to get his teeth into, and turned to Roper to tell him that Nuffield had finally got in touch and was promising developments on the hunt.
◆◆◆
The Century House security team were back to type and seemed a little too keen on their work.
He gave himself a mental slap. He really was going to have to calm down. It felt like any little thing was tipping him over the edge and he needed to rein himself in before he became a liability.
His mood improved when he saw Nuffield. At least he hadn’t sent one of his minions. His authority saw them moved through, and they ended up in yet another room. The building was so large he could imagine people being lost forever.
As they pushed through the door Hooley saw a functional metal desk with drawers either side, a telephone, computer screen and keyboard. There was no printer, and the closest to a personal item was a ubiquitous framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth II. It was hanging lopsidedly, a bit like this case, he thought.
Those thoughts vanished when he saw that the room dog-legged round to the right, opening up to reveal a large conference table with eight chairs around it. One of those was occupied by a man wearing what Hooley thought of as the standard issue “spook suit”, an inexpensive dark grey off-the-peg number. But what interested him was the pile of photographs he had in front of him: he could make out the top one, a picture of Georgi Yebedev walking down some steps.
Nuffield motioned his guests to get comfortable.
“We’ve had some progress with our surveillance teams. Before I show you the pictures let me talk you through what has been going on. I know you have Yebedev under observation in London, but we were pursuing another angle when we got this.”
He nodded at his assistant who pushed the top picture towards the two detectives.
“This was taken by us, early yesterday morning.” He nodded again, and a photo of a gleaming black Mercedes was slid across. “This car, which we were following, picked him up and took him to a rendezvous.
“That car was carrying a very well-connected Russian fixer called Arkady Sokolov. You can’t see from these pictures, but he was sitting in the back. He’s an interesting character, as nothing major comes out of Moscow without him having some sort of involvement.
“Fortunately, he’s a man of habit and always stays at the Ritz, so when he flew into London we put a team on him. They were following him when they caught Yebedev being picked up. There is more to show you.”
Another nod and three more pictures were slid across. The first showed the Mercedes alongside the van; someone who may have been Yebedev was climbing in with someone behind him.
A second picture, taken moments before the door was shut, showed the outline of a heavily-built man, but his features were unclear. The third photo showed the two clambering back out of the van.
Nuffield said. “These were taken at a service station on the M25 at Cobham. We believe the middle picture may show the man they met, but we can’t be sure and even with our lenses we couldn’t get a clearer shot - something to do with the dark interior, or so I’m told.”
He stopped talking and looked at the two detectives. They were engrossed in the pictures, but it was Roper who first voiced what was in their minds.
“Do you think this could be the man we are looking for?”
Hooley held up a finger to stop him saying more.
“We need to give Bill the background first.”
He carefully explained the meeting with his contact, and the suggestion that there was one “super smuggler” who was the person many turned to when the work was especially demanding.
“My man was a bit vague about it and quite honestly wasn’t that keen on talking at all, but he told us this man was once famous for delivering trafficked children inside suitcases and taking them to addresses all over London. He had a big reputation in those sorts of circles apparently.
“Obviously we don’t have any real details about him, or a description of what he looks like, but we were told that he made a point that he offered a personal delivery service for the wealthiest contacts. My contact reckons he was known as something like the Butler.”
He nodded at Roper, who started talking immediately.
“What we do know is that this man is said to be highly organised, which is certainly something suggested by this meeting. But I think there is something more important than that.
“He is a big player in the smuggling world and yet we never once became aware of him until we were told about him by Brian’s man. He is said to be clever and cautious. He sounds like the sort of man who summons people to come to him, not the other way around. Everything done on his terms or not at all. At least that’s the way I read it.”
“That’s a very interesting analysis,” said Nuffield. “It sounds highly plausible from the way you’re telling it. We’ll keep an open mind, but I think we need to start building our first scenario. This guy, the Butler or whatever - I just hope he’s not the Joker - is being lined up to bring in t
he bomb equipment.
“My only reservation is: why aren’t they bringing this stuff in using diplomatic cover? That would be the easiest.”
“Jonathan has a theory about that which has convinced me.” Hooley turned to Roper. “You’re back on stage.”
Fifteen minutes later and Nuffield was nodding respectfully.
“I think you may be right. And as you say, we watch the diplomatic side anyway, but the real action is going to be elsewhere. Actually, that all sounds like the kind of double bluff you Brits, and the Russians, are pretty good at.”
Chapter 44
There was nothing ironic about Tommy Dougherty’s nickname of “Big Tommy.” He was a giant of a man: six feet, seven inches tall and weighing in at twenty-three stones, or three hundred and twenty-two pounds in his socks.
A few brave souls even referred to him as “Mad Tommy”, although rarely to his face. He’d earned that one early on in his career as a prawn fisherman based in the Port of Peterhead in the north-east of Scotland.
Taking his trawler Jenny, named after his wife, out for only his third fishing trip as a skipper, he ignored a storm warning in pursuit of a big catch. He was one hundred miles out to sea when the weather turned, leaving him no place to go. He’d wrapped his giant hands around the wheel and howled his defiance against the fifty-foot waves that came smashing down on his seventy-foot boat.
Amazingly, he and his four-crew survived and the legend was born, although years later he confided he had been so terrified and so convinced they were about to die that all he could do was shout at the top of his voice.
He never ignored a storm warning again, something that seriously pleased his crew, and they had all survived for more than twenty years in one of the most dangerous industries in which you could work.
(Jonathan Roper Investigates Boxset Page 59
