“Secondly, Jason, himself a survivor of that frantic day underground, is also healing fast – in fact his wife is already frustrated having him at home! Good to have you back on deck, Jason – just pace yourself.”
Another ripple of applause followed before Daniel spotted a gap and continued. “OK. Carrie.” He drew in the air he needed to continue, “You will know that things were not good. Cyanide poisoning is often a one-way street. Not good at all. The man who broke into her home has been charged with attempted murder and Carrie being Carrie has belligerently clung onto life, confounding her medical carers. She’s a fighter as some of you know all too well. And only last night she reeled off a tirade of abuse worthy of a London Docker when Sergeant Roberts unwittingly spoke about her behind her back. Give her time and she will be back. When she returns support her like only good colleagues can. Thank you.”
A buzz of delight echoed around the private room.
“Finally. Have I said finally already? In breaking news, Jack has been offered the role of Liaison Officer at Interpol in Lyon. He has the backing of Assistant Commissioner Johnson and, despite me wanting to hang onto him, he has mine too. Jack will be with us for a few more weeks. It’s been a tough call for him to make, but the time is right. And a security assessment has suggested he goes as soon as possible. Jack, the floor is yours.”
Cade stood and leant against the sticky wooden bar top. Normally a fastidious man, he was too tired to care about his appearance.
“It’s been a long day, again. Thank you team, because we are after all an incredible little team. I arrived here from Nottingham, having caused havoc up there. All of that havoc caused over a female...”
He took a sip of his sixteen-year-old Lagavulin malt whiskey, savoured its smoky flavour and continued. “…who trusted me with her life. Having brought the circus to your town, I was truly inspired by your passion and professionalism, when I asked you to follow me on the adventure that was to become Operation Breaker you did, without question. And boy have we had some success.” He smiled a genuine smile.
“It’s not over yet, as we speak things are being put into place to finalise the op, here in the UK and across the water in Europe. But for now we need to prepare for the operation to come to an end.”
There were sounds that Cade took to be that of disappointment and dismay. The wheel was far from broken – why fix it?
“What I do know is that this group will not go underground forever, all the while they have a leader like Alex Stefanescu and his brother Stefan at the helm they will continue to be influential and profitable. To have followers, you must have a strong leader. As much as I despise the man, he is an effective leader. They can afford to recruit the best and as we know, money talks. And it talks in many languages too. We have learned of betrayal at so many levels.” He let the sentence drape over his audience.
“I am leaving soon, but I encourage you to continue with your fight and please know that you will always have a friend in me. One day I hope to return. I also hope to travel the world, like the boss here I’ve got my eye on New Zealand, it’s about as far away as you can get from here before heading home again and you can ski in the morning and surf in the afternoon…”
“Pretty tiring if you ask me!” It was Roberts, as always, providing levity.
“Plagiarist!”
“You can talk, you were quoting Shakespeare earlier!”
Roberts’ words had barely finished when Cade stopped. He was about to wrap up his unplanned farewell speech when he looked across the room and saw a female in a wheelchair being steered into a warmer part of the room. It got the loudest applause of the day. People flocked around her.
Once the team had all had their brief moment with a clearly drained O’Shea, Cade walked over to her and pulled up a chair. He held her hand.
“Don’t, Jack.” It was a gravelly purr. He thought about commenting on its sexiness but knew that not all police conversations had to be smutty – just ninety percent of them.
“Carrie. I was told that…”
“You have made your decision…and I support it.” She was struggling to speak. The chemicals had obviously damaged her throat. “You must go, I’ve been told why.” Her eyes narrowed, an indicator of pain. “Just promise that you’ll stay in touch.” It was glacial.
Cade could feel an island forming in his throat. Emotions were driving this reaction, not hazardous compounds. He swallowed audibly.
“Now hang on Carrie, if I had known, if the doctors had told me, then…” He stopped, he knew it was pointless.
She let go of his hand. “I need to head back to St. Thomas’ Jack – I’m hoping that the ward hasn’t noticed I’ve been kidnapped. You can stay at my place as long as you need to. I have no plans to come back soon. When you are ready to give your key to Jason.”
Had she seen him for what he was? A shallow man with his eye on the future, selfish and lacking compassion? Or was it a front, a safety net for her own impending lifestyle changes?
Roberts had tried to use her as a lever. He wanted Cade to stay. Cade wanted to as well. Johnson had been quite clear – ‘we decide on your future, Jack, not you.’
He needed to go. He had to go. At least that is what she told herself in her quietest moments – all the while knowing the exact opposite was the truth. Moreover, she wanted to be allowed to love him; just maybe not in this life.
She asked Williams to wheel her back out into the cold and left Cade standing next to the bar, alone with thoughts and an empty glass.
A voice asked if he wanted a refill.
“Why not? I’ve nothing else planned.”
He looked around the busy room and envied the normal conversations taking place, the banter, the thread of policing, along with the endless war stories where one staff member would tell the story of owning an elephant and another, stating with complete authority that he had a box big enough to put it in.
Cade wasn’t a part of any of the chatter, couldn’t join in comfortably, and already felt as if he had betrayed his team. He was alone with his own company and didn’t even like himself.
Further south, twenty hours behind the wheel to be exact and far away from his home in the City of London, Hewett had arrived.
A flashing blue dot on an electronic map, they had followed his journey, broken only by a stop in a remote part of northern Spain, where he was able to convince a solitary female attendant that he was desperate for fuel having been robbed at knifepoint. He looked dishevelled and had injuries. He was also good-looking and plausible. He promised to return and make good his debts. Johnathan Hewett was nothing if not a formidable actor.
The white Citroen climbed up and into the Sierra de Guadarrama Mountains. It was getting cold and the heater was struggling to provide comfort. As well-travelled as he was, Hewett was surprised to see so much snow in a region so close to the Mediterranean Sea. Forty minutes later, after twisting and turning through the foothills, he stopped the car.
He got out and breathed in the clinically cold mountain air, it was electrifyingly clean and offered some much-needed purity to his life. The view, even in the half-light of a fading day, was ethereal, spectacular and worth being alive for.
Cut into the edge of a nearby hill was the property known as La Najarra. He had made it.
In the kitchen of the rambling but luxuriously appointed home, sipping on an ancient brandy, Alexandru Stefanescu watched as Hewett arrived on his driveway and stretched out his tired back muscles before picking two items of luggage from the car.
The first was a black canvass bag, the second a more expensive-looking black case. Alex zoomed in on the smaller case and smiled.
“Now that is worth waiting for.” He chuckled, although it was more of a cackle, a bird-like noise and one which gave rise to his street name, the Jackdaw.
He greeted Hewett at the door, like long-lost friends, albeit they had never actually met. It was as if, to the onlooker, that Hewett had arrived at the home for Christmas, brin
ging cheer and gifts from afar.
A brandy was decanted into a crystal glass and offered to the traveller. He put his key onto the island worktop, clinked the glass against his host’s and took a long sip. It tasted incredible – as if someone unseen had torn a four hundred-year-old raisin apart and decanted the golden brown centre into his mouth.
It had been a long journey indeed.
“You must be tired. I have made up the guest wing for you. The housemaid had to leave unfortunately – she told me that she found the journey home too painful, so I dispensed with her services.”
He pointed to the corridor that led to a subtly lit room. It was surreal, to say the least.
“Please. You must rest.”
Hewett found him almost charming, certainly disarming.
“Do you not need to talk? To discuss what I have done, what I have been through? The things I know?”
“No. It is late. That can wait until tomorrow over a good breakfast. As I said on the phone long before you left London, we are associates now and you are part of the team. You are debt free, Johnnie. Debt free. Listen to that, think of it as you sink into the Charlotte Thomas sheets. They are superb, Merino wool and Egyptian cotton. Devine! I had them made for my most welcomes guests. You learn to appreciate the finer things in life when you have spent night after putrid night awake, lying in your own excrement in Pazardzhik Prison.” He drained the glass.
“Sleep well. Tomorrow is a new day. We must lock that case in my safe.” He picked it up and walked towards the centre of the house, closed a door behind him and put it onto the floor of the storeroom. He would leave it out of the safe for the night – a test for his visitor – a mark of their unified trust. At least he would once its contents had been removed and placed beneath the floor in a simple but discreet wooden canister.
He was debt free. The heavily accented words were still replaying in Hewett’s ears three hours later. He had a lot to think about, most of which was complex and finding himself a guest, and a rather well-cared for guest of one of Europe’s most wanted men was nothing if not unsettling. He was fully awake now. Waiting.
Alex was also awake, unusually he was alone. The last girl had disappointed him and paid the price with her life, her body a short drive away, decaying. He knew it wasn’t the thought of her demise that prevented his slumber. They were coming for him – he could feel it.
When the light in his bedroom went out suddenly he needed no further convincing. The timing was all-too convenient.
The front, rear and side doors all gave in to explosive entries in a coordinated and spectacular fashion. Four teams entered the building, as black as the night sky they had left, rappelling from a helicopter on the other side of the hills that surrounded the Spanish ranch house.
Weapons up and in the aim, night goggles guiding with their familiar haunting glow, the teams rapidly moved through the house, following hours of pre-planning, they knew the layout as well as its owner.
Without a shot fired, Alex Stefanescu was in custody, cable-tied and dragged out onto the front lawn. Hooded and now kneeling with the ever-present black leather Magnum boot of a Tactical Operator from the Spanish GEO – Grupo Especial de Operaciones – tucked firmly into the back of his knee.
He was going nowhere and could only listen as Hewett was brought out next, slammed to the floor and bound in the same way.
Alex knew they would come one day – he had mentioned it to his dear Nikolina. It was one of the last things he had said to her. He had put things in place, for her and their daughter, knowing, arrogantly that whatever sentence a court imparted would only last as long as it took to escape the subsequent incarceration.
Hewett’s arrival had accelerated the arrival of the authorities. Alex was matter of fact about it. He couldn’t live every day looking over his shoulder. Que sera, he thought to himself as he strained to see through the woven hood that deprived him of his key sense.
They were taken by armoured vehicle to Madrid and placed into custody awaiting a joint British, Spanish and Romanian team to intervene and start to unravel the last few months, trying to add sense to the cat’s cradle of criminal chaos.
“I will only be here for a short time. You need to trust me on this one thing.” Alex had said these words to the senior investigator as they led him away to his cell, which he remarked to the guards was like the Hilton compared to his last concrete tomb.
“I could grow to like it here. Such welcoming facilities.” He laughed his signature laugh as the guard overly slammed the solid metal door and watched through the toughened glass porthole.
Hewett immediately demanded an audience with the British Consulate who sent a representative from nearby Malaga, and in turn responded to Hewett’s further calls for assistance from the Foreign Office. Hewett had provided a simple statement, which he asked the Consular Officer to deliver back to London. It read:
“If my life were ten times dearer than it is and if I could by any means, redress the wrongs of that persecuted land by sacrifice of my life, I would willingly and gladly do so.”
The words meant nothing to the staff member, but everything to the female who read them in London.
It was five hours later when the custody staff escorted him to a private room containing a fixed table and grey plastic chairs, a toilet and a phone.
He picked up the worn device and spoke.
“Thank you for calling ma’am.”
The voice that responded was attractive; clipped, polished and professional. Her words were delivered in a hushed but confident tone.
“My pleasure. You have led us all on a merry dance, Johnathan. But I at least appreciate what you have done. There are more twists in this bloody story than a Florida theme park. Sadly, not everyone will get to know of your involvement, but please allow me to pass on my thanks and that of the boss. I rather enjoyed your use of the historical quote to confirm it was you. If I am not mistaken they were the words of the last man to be publicly hanged in London?”
Hewett caught a glimpse of himself in the polished steel benchtop. He hadn’t shaved for days and the prison suit was hardly Saville Row, but he allowed himself a flick of the eyebrows and a smile.
“Indeed, they were. I was concerned I might be the next?”
The voice continued. “Doing what you did was not without risk. But we will reward you handsomely. And don’t worry about Michael Blake, we’ll smooth the waters there too. We are sending staff from London down to you as we speak. They will recover you and the package.”
Debt free and out of trouble. Johnnie Bloody Hewett. Back in the saddle – if indeed he had ever left it. The only thing he had to do now to gain complete legendary status was figure out how the bloody hell he was going to locate the other half of what everyone was conveniently calling the package. And shave. He needed to shave.
Alex Stefanescu appeared before a local judge who remanded him in custody until his trial.
He thanked the judge for his professionalism. He meant it. He prided himself in rewarding a job well done, as by sending him to where he did and not another prison, it allowed his cellular network to be rekindled in a matter of hours. It was worth the money.
‘Pass on the message – Jackdaw is alive and well.’
When he was produced from prison into the Audiencia Nacional – the High Court in Madrid – he initially feigned illness, then in a moment of arrogance tried to talk over the judge.
The judge allegedly found him to be ‘an irritating man of shallow morals and a conceited view of life and the rules that surrounded it.’ He convicted him without remorse. He told him not to appeal or appear before him ever again, and more to the point told him to expect at least fifteen years in a Spanish prison for his role in high value car crime, fraudulent activities and violence against the person. He also outlined that he knew of many other cases that could have been brought against him and that he would be wise to consider himself fortunate that the witnesses were either unwilling to testify – or no lo
nger able to.
“Furthermore, the defendant should expect that at the end of his sentence to be relocated to Romania, where the local authorities were waiting to try him on several counts of organised crime, drug trafficking and murder.”
“Thank you, sir. Most kind. I look forward to my appeal and your… future passing.”
As threats went it was veiled, but the authorities took it seriously enough to provide a discreet security provision for the next six months.
The Jackdaw was convicted and received a ten-year sentence without parole and was sent to the notorious Valdemoro Prison. The judge expressed his distaste at only being able to hand down a ten-year sentence, sighting the pressure he was under to reduce prison populations in his homeland. Ten years and one day later his planned release would see him being handed over and into the custody of the Romanian authorities.
It had been the first time that his legal team had failed to release him within a month. And yet he appeared to be able to accept his fate – as if he knew that his planets would soon align – with the aid of a new team of Armani-suited legal experts who had advised him to remain placid, to adhere to all the instructions and be patient. Appeals took a while, as long as they only appealed his sentence and not his conviction they were confident of a victory – of sorts.
‘Remember the words of his Honour Judge Varela? Do not appeal his judgement.’
The Jackdaw was many things; unpleasant yet loving, malevolent, arrogant but far from rash and foolhardy. He knew that the old judge was unlikely to live for ten years – he could almost guarantee it. If, or rather when that happened, he would insist that his team appealed the sentence, based upon the doubts that would be sown around the judge’s mental capacity at the time.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 56
