“I doubt it Neil. Now let it go will you, or do I need to ring your chief constable?” The detective chief inspector held his gaze until he held the higher ground.
The team grabbed car keys and divided up the manpower.
As they walked, Daniel spoke to Gregory.
“Don’t think I’m an arsehole who hides behind his rank Neil. There are some things you are better off not knowing.”
“Roger that sir.” Gregory was happy that in his eyes the DCI had apologised and allowed him to save face in front of his small team.
“Jack and I will remain as one unit, can one of your team escort us Neil?”
“Ken. You go with our guests will you?” He gestured to the remaining Kent officer. “You can come with us.”
With the teams created they moved off towards the main vehicle entry points at what was one of the largest passenger facilities in the world. Everywhere Cade looked he saw cars, motorcycles, coaches and heavy good vehicles. And trains. A lot of trains.
The white Renault van swept over the motorway, along the Ashford Road and after a few minutes turned right and onto the service road. The driver was following a set of clearly-defined instructions and they needed now, more than ever, to have the appearance of a team that not only belonged on site but also knew where they were heading. It was all about confidence. Actions would need to speak louder than words.
The same could be said for the sister van and its occupants which had headed straight to the Port of Dover, unwittingly timed to perfection, it missed the chaos caused by its sibling and slipped into the vehicle lane, among other similar vans, cars and coaches, awaiting clearance for the one hour crossing to Calais aboard the Pride of Dover. Bearing the emblems of the P&O Line it too would blend beautifully, a vehicular chameleon and just another non-descript van in a row of others, waiting patiently to board.
The third van also cruised along the M20 motorway and arrived into Cheriton, minutes away from the seaside town of Folkestone. It drove along the M20, taking the vehicle exit and three minutes later had stopped on the Vehicle Departure Road. It no longer bore the hallmarks of a French police vehicle – now it was a hired van from Avis, generic, a few battle scars here and there and as anonymous as could be.
In an hour, if all went to plan, all three vehicles would be on French soil, two would head south-east the other west, looping around the Benelux countries before also heading due south and for home.
For now their work was done. They had arrived, quietly, into a foreign country under the leadership of a man they had never met and importantly never would. They had defeated the basic surveillance systems that the British had considered state-of-the art and had set about systematically exploiting the lower-tier banking systems. In doing so, they had been able to work almost with carte blanche whilst the authorities had searched for bigger fish, hoping to land the biggest and most destructive. When all the time, the small bottom-feeding shoals had swept across one of the greatest financial cities on earth and emptied accounts, stolen data and finally, even unbeknown to them had stolen something even more valuable.
They would head home and celebrate, in small teams to avoid detection by the Romanian Police – a highly driven organisation that despised the reputational harm that Stefanescu and his seemingly unconnected team had done to both Britain and in turn Romania.
They would drink Tuica. They would dance, with women and among themselves. They would be treated as folk heroes. All Constantin Nicolescu wanted, all he needed was a cool bed, perhaps a glass of wine and a safe in which to store his share of the proceeds. That, and quiet, no sounds whatsoever, and no drugs. Chemicals must never pass his lips or flood into his veins ever again, of that he was certain.
His body was a chapter-filled book; injuries, disease and abuse had almost led to his demise. He knew he had one last opportunity to really live – and now he had the financial security that he had yearned for over the years. If he remained loyal to the Jackdaw, his future was bright.
Forget the Tuica! When he was safely home, he would find the dust-laden bottle of Rakia and either share it or drink it alone as he contemplated where his life would take him next. He had proven his worth to the boss and now, feeling worthy again he could finally regain some respect. Already closing the door on his past he broke free from his daydream and looked out and through the windscreen of his current shelter and prayed that they would all make it. Including the group of disparate men around him in his plans was a sign that his normal selfish nature – a by-product of drug addiction – was perhaps ending.
‘Close the door on your past. Lock away the demons,’ he whispered to himself.
“This way boss?” The driver pointed a finger towards the service tunnel.
“Yes, drive carefully but be confident. We need to appear to know where we are going. You have the card?”
The driver lowered the sun visor and removed the plastic access card from the vinyl pouch and placed it onto the seat between his legs.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good.” Constantin was enjoying the level of responsibility bestowed upon him. “When we get to the outer door run that card over the reader and wait.” He had memorised the instructions which were sent via a text message on a phone long since discarded.
“Once we are in the outer security area we wait. The lights will change to green and we move forward. Then we leave this vehicle in a parking bay and board the rapid transit system. We walk to it quickly, but do not run. We have a friend on board. Get on and sit down and do not speak. We don’t have to do anything. We will be safe. Does anybody not understand what I am saying?”
Silence.
The rapid system was designed to carry service personnel through the fifty kilometre long tunnel. It was a gangly love child, the fusion of a coach and car, it’s almost toy like appearance, tall and slim, allowed for two of the same vehicles to pass through the tunnel at once.
The police used a smaller version of a Hyundai hatchback to move through as quickly as they could, again, anything larger would prevent seamless traffic conditions. At stages along the tunnel, there were places where a wider vehicle could just about pull over and move out of the way. The vehicle system was brilliant in concept but nothing compared to the overall design of the tunnel itself, some thirty-nine kilometres of which was beneath the water, easily making it the longest undersea tunnel in the world.
The complex had two main train tunnels; the south, carrying trains from France to the United Kingdom, the north from the United Kingdom across to mainland Europe.
In the middle of the two larger tunnels was the Service Tunnel. Along which, at every three hundred and seventy-five metres was a cross passage, guarded by remote control hydraulic doors, linking the two main tunnels and used for maintenance, navigation and in the event of an emergency a way of moving passengers quickly and safely from one side to the other.
There were other smaller tunnels too, but they were rarely visited, let alone used.
Fire was the ultimate fear for any tunnel builder and operator. And the Euro Tunnel organisation feared it as much as any of their peers. In 1996 they had fought such a fire, and it wouldn’t be the last, however their systems were state-of-the art. Any trace of a fire would be responded to immediately; subsequent chaos caused by evacuations was a consequence – as long as no one was injured the tunnel team knew how to prioritise, even if it took hours to repatriate people with their cars or even other loved ones.
What saved significant damage and casualties was a fire-fighting system that incorporated pressure. Every two hundred and fifty metres a large duct carried air and extracted the deadly gases emitted from a fire, forcing them up and out of the tunnel. For this reason, each tunnel was kept under constant pressure.
The van pulled up on the large concrete pad, surrounded by train tracks, overhead power lines and a sense of almost constant movement. At any other time, Constantin would have taken time to marvel at its simplicity and admire its quite incredible inf
rastructure. He put his hand into his backpack and felt one of two reassuring cold alloy cylinders against his clammy fingertips. When the time was ready. But not before.
“OK, let’s go. Come on. Like I told you. Smile if you have to but don’t engage in conversation. Leave that to me.”
The small group left the van keys still in the ignition and walked the short distance to the rapid transit vehicle.
Constantin boarded first. There were others on the vehicle already, so nothing was said, but his discreet nod was enough to gain a reciprocal movement. He sat down and prayed the other younger men would just follow his basic instructions. They did. They were on the way.
Each held onto their hand luggage as if it contained the answer to a brighter future. It did. And in most cases they were prepared to fight for it. In their new leader’s case to the death. He had travelled too far, physically and emotionally to give in now. It was only money, only wealth, only obscene and gratuitous greed and he loved it and would cling to it like an infant clings to its mother's hip.
The door closed, and they moved forwards. He stared out of the window, sub-consciously biting his nails, protecting himself from speaking, as he dined on the edges of his fingers and spat out the hardened skin he thought of no one.
It was getting darker by the second. It always did at this time of the year and it was colder outside now, winter was fast approaching. He knew with luck on his side he would be home within a day, to a colder place, where few would probably remember him. His mind wandered once more, thinking about the last few years, the last months and then the preceding forty-eight hours. And then he began to shake quietly. What had he done? He could only recall about a third of the chaos that had surrounded him and that alone was enough to make him heave.
He licked his lips. The top one was cool now and damp, yet he was hot, he needed air. It was all coming back in a wave that he fought to control. He swallowed a mixture of saliva and bile.
‘Not now. Please. Haunt me another time. Just not now.’
He pressed his hand against the cold glass and then held his palm against his cheek to try to cool himself down. As he did so he stared out of the vehicle across the wide expanse of concrete and closed his eyes.
Cade, Daniel and their new team mate pulled onto the same piece of road and made towards the service tunnel. Like his Romanian quarry Cade wished he could explore the place, take in the remarkable feat of engineering and perhaps even go abroad, driving a nice car across the continent. He thought of the girl, Nikolina Petrov and her courageous nature, her exquisite beauty.
He pictured them driving through France in a sports car, a bright red Aston Martin Vantage – via Poplar-lined highways they were wending their way through small villages, larger towns, awash with history, the palpable scent of heavenly, just-cooked pastries and fresh coffee. Further south, to the Mediterranean, savouring every minute before arriving into a quiet coastal village where they could finally be alone.
He too closed his eyes and thought of the days that had led to this. He could smell the sea now, wild, windswept – the familiarity of ozone fought for primacy as he tried to close out the world around him. And better still, he could taste her flawless lips and breathe in the fragrant scent of her hair. He just needed to keep his eyes closed to maintain the reverie. Just a few more moments.
Both vehicles were waiting now, parallel and with others, containing a mixture of tunnel staff, border agency officers and a privileged visiting travel writer who was there to report on the continuing success of the tunnel.
She would later write in a provincial newspaper:
‘The operation never ceases, not for them the curfew of an international airport. This place could run constantly if it chose to. Ants shuffling from one place to the next; a colony of cars, coaches, trains, people, property, and all underground. Under the English Channel, deep beneath the chalk. The Victorian engineers that first considered the idea would be astounded!’
Cade was almost asleep. The trials and tribulations almost overwhelming him. He could hear Daniel chatting, and occasionally nodded and hoped it was at the right time, in the right place. When this was all over he would sleep for a year and a day.
The rapid system vehicle started and as it did so Cade came to, blinking his eyes back into focus. Across from him, leaning against the vehicle glass a male stared back. He had also woken with a start, his heart now pumping just that little bit harder.
They looked at each other for five, maybe ten seconds. No one was counting, then would look away as humans often do, unless there is a chemistry to bind the senses.
Cade lost the battle and looked away first. He had seen enough ghosts, and the male looked like one, ashen, drained skin and sunken eyes – poor toothless bugger, he was probably as tired as the man who stared back at him in an equal trance, on his way back to France at the end of a shift, no doubt. At least he was on his way home. With Cade’s dream broken, he now found himself back at O’Shea’s bedside. Shit. How could he forget her? How could he banish her so quickly from his thoughts – replacing her with a half-baked, broad daylight fantasy?
“John. Any news from home?” He meant the team. “How’s Jason? And Carrie?”
It felt like months, not just days before that Roberts had been brutally assaulted by the very men they were pursuing. Worst still, it could have been years since he had walked into O’Shea’s flat and detected an odour that rapidly had him crawling across her floor, hunting through narrowed eyes, clinging to life. It wasn’t many months, but hours ago. And he had already forgotten her, but she would never relinquish her hold on him.
She had failed to gain consciousness and as far as her brutally honest Canadian doctor had stated, she may never do so. ‘You should prepare yourselves, gentlemen. Notify her family.’ The words were crashing back over him – a wave; massive, powerful, fifth, sixth, seventh, it mattered not.
He shook his head.
“You alright, Inspector?” It was Daniel.
“Yep. Same old horrors. Any thoughts on how we try to coordinate this better?”
He was deliberately trying to distract himself from the chaotic scenes he had left behind. “We’ve got staff all over the bloody region looking for ghosts, John. Kent are backing us up admirably. Any news from London?”
“Nothing. Most of the team has resumed. A couple of staff are trying to gather evidence still, nevertheless the pressure will be back on. Breaker will soon come to an end, Jack. We both know this.”
He did. Operation Breaker was not dissimilar to most police operations – anywhere in the world. They started with a hiss and a roar, if they had the backing of a senior manager all the better, but like a child’s favoured toy, once a new distraction appeared on the scene it would be discarded, back in its box, behind a closed cupboard door. Forgotten, a politicised puppet with its strings cut.
Breaker had identified a growing group of males who were undoubtedly working for a brighter, better equipped leader, who in turn was reporting up the food chain to someone with greater influence. He smiled, in one respect it was no different to the scalar principles employed by law enforcement teams. When it was good, it was great. When it was bad, it was diabolical. Whatever the region, whatever the team, shit rolled downhill.
Where Breaker had won initially was in its backing. Bodies appearing in a city, some marked with a familiar tattoo, were enough to pique the attention of even the most battle-hardened commander. Throw in a few gas attacks on banks, a growing cash mountain and a banking system unwilling to disclose it had a problem, and you had a developing issue that needed addressing before the media turned it into a frenzied, one-sided journalistic free for all.
Throw in the blatant armed robbery of a diamond dealer, chaotic scenes on the streets of London and a few compelling bystanders with a tale to tell and you now had the manager by the short and curlies. Start shooting at police staff and you had the same manager by the balls. Adding a sixth degree of chaos, in the form of a Foreign Office
member who had become feral, was enough to squeeze the aforementioned testes until the veins bulged and rapidly became purple. The manager was gasping now, nauseous and contemplating life in the body of a eunuch.
“But we haven’t got anyone in custody, Jack. And we both know that sooner or later the sponsor we have at the Yard is going to pull the pin. Knifepoint robberies. That’s where the political money is, that’s where the media want to direct our resources. The public doesn’t care much for bank issues. Banks? They can afford it. It’s a victimless crime. Some might even say they deserve to be fleeced for all their obscene profiteering.” Daniel stopped. He was depressing himself and everyone around him.
The Kent officer stretched his arms out so he could look at his watch. Surely it was time to go home? The overtime would be nice, but by the time the taxman had taken his cut it would hardly be worth it. He grimaced, actually, he decided, the taxman was probably a woman and if she was anything like his estranged and second wife she’d take him for every penny.
Cade did the same with his own watch, but overtly.
“I’m tired, JD. Shall we call it a day? As I said I am sick of chasing ghosts by day, let alone night.”
“And miss the chance to see inside the greatest engineering accomplishment since the Titanic?”
He had a point. But that great engineering achievement had sunk.
Their driver started the small patrol car, and they moved forward, tucking in behind the Mercedes rapid transit vehicle. The service tunnel doors opened in front of them, silvered, hydraulic arms sliding apart, pistons easing the large white doors back and into a locked position. The first vehicle edged up to the red stop line and waited.
It entered the airlock, and the doors closed behind it. Constantin and the other occupants felt their ears equalise as they dropped down into the tunnel and waited for the second fire door to open. They were now in the service tunnel and en route to France. He could almost hear the accents changing. They were ‘this’ close.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 49
