Rubicon

by Ian Patrick

  The train is making good progress with no delays. I look out the window at the M1. My attention is on plain cars with blue lights hammering up the motorway towards Luton. Nothing evident, which tells me they’re either already there or using the A1 to shadow the train. This isn’t what I expected. Have to think fast as we’ve just passed Hendon. I make a decision. I’ll outrun them closer to the venue. I have to work on the assumption I know the area better than them from previous deployments.

  I relax into my seat. The surveillance officer has moved position to the side of the carriage and can see me through the glass. I make it clear I’m not moving to give the appearance I’m unaware. Luton Airport Parkway will be covered by the rest of the team. Good job, I have no intention of getting off there. My heart’s beating faster as the adrenaline pumps. I love this part of the job, the thrill of evasion, even if it’s my own I’m fleeing from. If Winter had agreed to work with me I could have saved her all this hassle, but hey, she will learn.

  We pass St Albans; the next stop will be Luton Parkway. I get my bag from the overhead rack and place it on the floor. The surveillance officer has seen this movement. I get up and sling the large holdall over my shoulder and move to the standing area where the exit doors are. She moves her hand into her coat and her lips move. She’s wired and in contact with the outside team. In her pocket is the trigger to open the mic.

  The train is approaching Harpenden station. I seize the emergency handle and pull it. The train slows and the driver announces that there may be a problem and he’ll stop at Harpenden to assess. He doesn’t mention the emergency lever. I suspect he doesn’t wish to cause any unnecessary alarm. I’m in the carriage with the driver. The surveillance officer talks into her blouse. She glances in my direction. I give no indication as to an awareness of her. I wait for my moment.

  The train finally stops. The doors all remain shut. The driver is on the platform and he approaches my door. He activates the door opening from the outside and enters. He knows it’s my alarm pull that’s been pulled. I act quickly.

  “There’s a woman in the buffet car, standing to the side. Dark hair, with a bag on the floor beside her. She looks nervous and keeps talking into her lapel. There’s a wire going from her pocket to a round device in her hand. I’ve seen the wire I think she’s carrying explosives to blow up this train.”

  The driver looks at the surveillance officer and as he does so I jump down from the carriage and walk towards the footway. I see her in the carriage window. She’s moved and is tracking me. Her mouth is moving in speech. The driver is now shouting and passengers are panicking and moving away from her. I’m on the footway over the tracks, not looking back. I see the taxi rank and head for it. No one suspicious on the platform. Winter’s team aren’t here. I get to the first cab whilst behind me carnage ensues. Shouting, screaming and general disarray.

  “St Albans please.”

  The driver nods and we move off.

  As I look over, passengers are hurriedly disembarking and running in all directions. I smile, sit back and enjoy the journey. I’m aware I’ve caused alarm and distress but it’s all in the interests of the country, they just don’t know it. The cab drops me in St Albans and I find an Enterprise car hire. I use my UCO fake ID and pay cash for the car. After my near miss I decide to treat myself to one of the exotic cars on a one-way hire. Range Rover, V6, 3.0L. After all, I may be on the road for some time. I don’t know yet. What I do know is that I will arrive in comfort and without my car being tracked by Big H or DCI Winter.

  I need this back on my terms, not Stoner’s or Big H’s. I wait whilst the car is brought to the booking office. I check it with the representative and forego the vehicle introduction. I’ve driven a few of these on other jobs and I’m aware of the car’s capabilities. I don’t use the Bluetooth on the in-car phone. I call Stoner direct.

  “Fuck me, that was quick. You get the car?”

  “I’m in it. Now where do I go?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just tell me where you want me to go next.”

  “Why won’t you tell me where you are? What are you doing?”

  “It’s called self-preservation. Now I’m in the car so where do you want me to go?”

  “You know I’m gonna call my contact at the car hire and confirm you’ve picked up.”

  I pause.

  “You still there or has the cat got your tongue.”

  “I’m still here. After all I’ve done, you’d call to see if I picked up the car that I’m telling you I have? Poor, that, darling – very poor. I’ve a good mind to fuck this whole thing off. I’ve seen little money for all I’ve done and just taken shit from you and your mob. So you either trust me or this ends. Your choice.”

  I look out the car window, phone to my ear. She’s silent but hasn’t hung up yet. It’s like a lovers’ tiff but without the sex after.

  “You call me hard work? You’ve got a nerve after what I’ve done for you. You won’t be complaining after all this is done and you’re rolling in money. Get your arse up north, Nottingham. Stay overnight en route but be at Carlton Races car park at five a.m.”

  “That wasn’t too hard was it?”

  ‘That’s what she said.” She’s back to her old self.

  The line goes dead. I check my rearview mirror and move out. There’s a line of traffic behind me, an irate bus driver gesticulates, as I’d purposefully cut him off. It will be anti-surveillance from here on in. I do the first roundabout twice round and then head towards the M1 and all points north. The V6 engine guns into life and I settle back for the road trip and my next unknown destination. The leather seats are pleasantly embracing and the outside temperature gauge indicates the sunroof should be open.

  I’ve chosen the M1, as there are no ANPR cameras heading out of London. I trust no one, which I know is rich coming from a man like me. I get on at junction 10 after taking the back roads towards the airport. Enough time has passed that Winter’s team will be back at a McDonalds bitching and ordering meals on the commissioner. All she's had to fund for me is this car, my lifestyle and soon-to-be five-star accommodation at Langar Hall where I’ll fit in suitably, dine well and await tomorrow morning. In the interim I’ll shop in Nottingham for a suit and some other less formal clothing. Needs must when you’re away from your normal place of duty.

  This may appear like yet another villainous deed taking the taxpayers’ money on some clothes jolly but there’s a purpose. 1) I need clothes. 2) I will use the corporate covert card so this will flag up to my boss, who seemingly doesn’t give a shit that I’m no longer in the Metropolitan Police District but way north of it. 3) I need to pay cash for the hotel, as I don’t want her or him to know exactly where I am. There’s nothing worse than uninvited guests during dinner.

  More importantly, I need to show I’m still alive. I have my pension to consider and I value the widows and orphans contribution I make each month from my pay. It’s not much but it’s the thought that counts. I check my mirrors as I pass a traffic car parked up a roadside embankment observing the northbound drivers. I note the driver; she’s eating, so I relax. It reminds me to watch my speed and I set the cruise control accordingly.

  As I approach junction 21A I take the opportunity of using the services before I take the next junction. I’m in lane three and increase my speed, disengaging the cruise control. The traffic is busy and I need to start my countdown as the exit is coming up and timing across three lanes of traffic is crucial if it’s to appear smooth and not cause any undue alarm to the other road users. I see the three-bar traffic countdown sign and increase speed. A gap presents itself that will permit me to weave across all lanes, if I get the speed right.

  I check my nearside mirror and see a lorry closing in on the inside lane. As I dip the accelerator the V6 smoothly takes over and I’m in front of the lorry and on the slip road as it passes me, blocking any following car from entering the services. Nothing has followed. I enter the car park and pa
rk up nose out. I wait and watch. No other cars come in that surveillance would be using. Caravans and mobile camper vans aren’t their style. Once I’m happy I get out and grab some provisions. I need a clean phone and a map of Nottingham.

  The journey to Langar Hall was uneventful. Winter clearly has no idea where I am but I’m not convinced she doesn’t know more about this job. A drive gives you time to think even when you’re in escape and evade mode. It has bugged me how she knew I would be on that train travelling north and she clearly had strong intelligence to have a team behind me and not Ron or Hamer. I hold this thought as I swing the Range Rover into the tree-lined drive of this beautiful boutique hotel. If it’s good enough for Sir Paul Smith and Ed Miliband then it’s good enough for me. My shopping trip in Nottingham was spent in one of Sir Paul’s flagship stores so it’s befitting that I’ve also booked the main room he uses when staying here. I park up and grab my luggage. Another purchase from his range, as using the army holdall would not go down well at this establishment.

  I’m greeted, checked in for dinner and shown to my room. I thank the ownerof the house and we chat about the room’s history as they drawthe curtains over the opulent bay window. I sit on the four-poster bed. Life can be a bitch sometimes.

  New Scotland Yard, conference room – 15th August 2020

  Detective Superintendent Hall pours the coffee.

  “Not every day we have a request for a meeting from the NCA. Please sit down.”

  “I haven’t called this meeting to shoot the breeze about policing in the twenty-first century, I’ve called it because you’re treading on my toes. I need to know all you know.”

  “And what makes you think I’m prepared to do that, DCI Winter? We’re in the same job but have different agendas.”

  “You’ll do it because one of your lot is operating like he’s a one-man crusader hell-bent on fucking up my long-term operation.”

  “I see. Well…I still can’t help you I’m afraid. It’s a matter of national security. I don’t need to say anymore on the subject.”

  “In that case I’m going from here to request an audience with the commissioner who no doubt is aware of this operation and may be of more help.”

  “You can request an audience with the fucking Queen, love. I don’t give a shit. You will get the same message from the commissioner as I’m giving you. Back off and continue with your side of the work and leave us to ours.”

  “I would love to but if you think causing a bomb scare in a suburban railway station is acceptable behaviour then we are not batting for the same team. I work professionally to get the job done, not like you lot who see the world as your oyster and the job’s cash as your own personal bank.”

  “So you admit to following DS Batford then? Why may I ask are you shadowing him when he has made it clear who is running this little syndicate about? As for cash, are you making a personal complaint of misappropriation of monies, which is a criminal offence and must be investigated?”

  “Yes and no. I had to tail him. We lost the cab this morning. I found out en route to you. It hasn’t been back to the address we housed it at. We also had new information that he was going to pick up a vehicle at Luton Airport. I thought he may be taken by Ron and his cab but he got on the train. The last thing I expected of him was to pull the emergency stop button and make a fake report of a suicide bomber. I don’t see what’s so funny, detective superintendent!”

  “I apologise but, if what you say is correct and I can neither confirm or deny it was him, then you have to admire the ingenuity to evade you, don’t you think?”

  “Confirm or deny? It was HIM! We had a direct visual identification; he even winked at the last foot officer before he pulled the switch! I had to explain to my bosses why a whole surveillance team were stood down in under an hour’s deployment. Why are you not helping me here? It was you who sent him to me not me who asked for him. What will you do about him?”

  “I recognise your concerns and understand the embarrassment that may have been caused by someone under my command. The truth is, he’s gone dark. Until we get new contact we don’t know the situation he’s in but he’s good and will surface. When he does I’ll let you know. I cannot do any more than that and have told you too much as it is. Fact is, we are in the same job and want the same result despite our differing remits.”

  “Gone dark! This is a fucking joke. Undercover officers don’t go dark! You said he had a cover officer and you would provide them. Where are they? I cannot believe I’m hearing this…this is just not right…something’s amiss here and I don’t just mean Batford. I’m so glad I left this shower of shit when I did.”

  “On that note, this meeting is over, DCI Winter. Do keep in touch and let me know if anything comes over the telephones. Oh – my mistake, you can’t, as you don’t have that facility, so your information as to the airport must be coming from someone else? Someone close? Be careful Winter. There’s more at stake here than your ego and pride. You can see yourself out.”

  The door slams. The perfume trace fades.

  “Ma’am. It’s Mike. Winter’s been over. She’s riled. There may be fallout coming our way from her. Thought you should know in advance.”

  “I expected it. She’s a woman on a mission. Any news from Batford?”

  “He’s left a trace for us by using his credit card in a Paul Smith store in Nottingham.”

  “What kind of trace are we talking about?”

  “One thousand and twenty pounds, ma’am.”

  “Jesus Christ! He’s going to drive a lorry not a limousine! Let me know when he calls in. It must be imminent if he’s north. It fits with the phone chatter. Guardino is excited; he’s still talking with Charlie Brown, everything’s in place and moving closer to the UK. Let Winter run. We need her working conventionally with just her team and no other technical support, good work.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Line goes dead. Conversations are done.

  21

  I hate early mornings, especially mornings stuck in a hedgerow waiting for someone to arrive. I’ve had no further contact from Stoner and I’m taking it on face value my contact will appear as directed. There’s a low mist covering the car park but that provides me with good cover to observe whoever turns up. The binoculars I have are proving useless as the mist fogs up the glass.

  Dew is my enemy, soaking my trousers and jacket even though I’ve laid down some old cardboard to lie on that had been dumped along with a fridge. The odd rook cackles above me and circles the tarmac before landing and hopping around observing and cocking its head, listening. For what, I don’t know and don’t care. A yellow glare cuts the mist and the sound of a van or lorry engine breaks the silence. I duck down into the foliage and wait. The light sweeps the car park. It heads towards me as I’m in the farthest corner from the entrance. I know they aren’t here for the boot sale. I left the Range Rover at the City Airport long-term parking and cabbed it here. I’ve learnt to be more considerate of hired and purchased property. I also needed a decent wardrobe for my new clothes and figured the car would have to do.

  As it gets closer, the Iveco van’s lights cut and the driver, a white male wearing a hoodie and beanie hat, steps down and kills the engine. He’s not alone. The hands of a passenger throw a used McDonald’s coffee mug into the front window where it comes to rest against the screen. The driver’s on the phone, the car park is deserted. No other reason for them to be here other than to meet me. He terminates his call. I’m viewing all this from my hide. He’s close enough to see with binoculars but not too close to hear or see me. My phone vibrates in my pocket; it’s Stoner. I answer, she sounds drowsy.

  “Why aren’t you at the racecourse? I’ve been fucking woken up by your meet saying you ain’t there.”

  “I’m here. I can see them. Who are they and why’s there two of them?”

  “Big H insisted on two because you’re a pain in the arse and have a habit of kicking off. They will take you to your
transport, that’s all I know.”

  “I don’t like it. You could have told me where and get a cab. So what’s the real reason?”

  “That’s it. Like I’ve told you just meet them, you’ve not got long.”

  She’s hung up. My instinct tells me this isn’t good. I’ve no backup and no chance of getting any. If I back out now my career is screwed and my chances of early retirement diminished. I take a deep breath, grab the holdall and drag it beside me. As the driver turns in my direction I flash a torch at him and get up. He stands still. His hands are up shielding his eyes against the torchlight. I approach him slowly as his partner is also aware and looks cagey.

  “I’m here to meet you. I’ve just taken a call following your one.”

  His hands go down and I’m close enough to see his scarred left cheek, part of it hidden by stubble but I’d put money on a knife injury. He opens the large rear doors to the van.

  “You’d best get in then.”

  I look in and can see some boxes strapped each side and in the channel in the middle a piece of foam and a blanket. Scarface sees me looking. “It’s the best we could do. The front’s full. There’s no heating but I’ve put a blanket in. We’ve got a short trip, make yourself comfortable and make sure you have a piss before we leave.”

  I go to throw my bag in but an arm stops me. “Open it up and tip it out.” I do as I’m told. I’m too close to the end now to enter into frivolous negotiation. Scarface rummages through my clothing and puts back the transistor radio and calculator. He does the same with the binoculars. He nods at me to carry on getting in.

  I say nothing and get in the van and they shut the doors. I don’t want them hearing my voice anymore, unless it’s the last thing they hear. They can’t identify me visually as I have my hood up and a scarf around my lower face. It gets cold out in the dirt. I settle into my bed area as the engine starts up and we begin our road trip. I have to remain calm and ironically put my trust in Stoner that she’s looking after me. That part I’m struggling with, the uncertainty and loss of control. On all my previous jobs I’d called the shots, the meeting venues, how I’d fit in. All that has changed. The money isn’t there to provide cover officers and backup teams. My life feels expendable under this government’s plans of austerity and has for the past five years. I’d like to see the prime minister sat in this van with a pair of thugs on his way to a possible date with death or prison.