She’d rummaged around in her bag and produced a hardback book which she passed to him. He saw it was a spy novel by John Le Carre, titled Call for the Dead.
“It’s the first in the series and people who know say you should read that and get some ideas for what you need to do to avoid detection. I doubt you’ll need to go as far as dead drops in Green Park, but it will tell you about basic anti-surveillance techniques.”
He shrugged and didn’t bother to mention that he was a huge fan of Le Carre. Part of him couldn’t wait to walk down the street using shop windows to check if he was being followed, but a much bigger part felt sick at the obvious danger he was placing himself in.
“When you rent the accommodation and the space to build the laboratory, you must be careful to do it through third parties and ideally offshore companies, but be careful not to leave any traces that could be followed back to you.”
She stopped and took a cautious sip of her tea, suddenly looking tired.
“I don’t like having to spell this out to you, but you need to understand there is no going back to where you were. You have been selected and we are not waiting for you to make up your mind and tell us that you agree to do this.
“If anything goes wrong, you will be held to account and you and your family will pay the price. We have a long reach so there is nowhere you can go where you will be safe. If you start having second thoughts, just think about your children.”
He couldn’t stop the feelings of anger that bubbled up as he listened to these threats against his family. He was strong enough that he could have reached across and throttled this woman where she sat, but with all his physical strength he was powerless. She was just the messenger. He clenched and unclenched his fists to relieve the stress.
Vasilev paled and moved away from him as she sensed the sudden danger she was in.
“It gives me no pleasure to pass this on.” She wanted him to know that she was just following orders. “But I have also been told that this is the only task that will ever be asked of you.
“Complete this mission and you will never hear from us again, and your family will be quite safe to live their lives.”
His journey back to London had seemed to drag on but by the time he arrived home he was beginning to regain his equilibrium. He needed to think because whichever way he looked he had a problem that needed to be factored in.
It was all very well ordering him to stay away from fellow Russians but how else was he going to find the people he needed? He could hardly enter “smuggling gangs” into Google. He was going to have to find someone who could navigate their way around that world, while ensuring they kept their mouth firmly shut.
He sank back onto his antique leather settee; this space was styled after the London club to which he had tried and failed to gain membership. It still rankled that the British looked down their noses at this nouveaux-riche Russian. He supposed it was because most of them envied the resources he could draw upon. If he owned a large ancestral home, he could easily afford to maintain its upkeep without having to put up with paying visitors.
He forced himself to calm down. If he and his family were going to come out of this alive he needed to make some hard-headed decisions. The task was straightforward even if the means of achieving it were going to be complex.
The longer he thought, the more one solution remained in view. It was going to cost him a lot of money, but he could easily afford to be generous to the right person, and what price could you put on keeping your own family alive?
30
There are rarely any certainties in life, but Julie Mayweather knew she could be sure of one thing: if she told Brian Hooley something in confidence, then it would remain that way. Never once, during the near-thirty years they had worked together, had he ever let her down.
He was listening attentively now as she ran through her conversation with the Commissioner and his offer to ensure she took over the top job at Scotland Yard.
Just a decade ago, they might have been enjoying a single malt; now it was a cup of instant coffee from the canteen. Hooley wasn’t entirely convinced it was a change for the better, but he knew senior officers couldn’t really afford to have it known they were drinking in the office.
It was late, getting on for 8.30pm, and she had been talking quietly for the best part of ten minutes but now she was drawing to a close.
“I’m sure it won’t be as straightforward as Sir Thomas says, but with him and the Mayor behind me there has to be very strong possibility that this will go ahead.
“While I feel quite certain that I do want the job, I wanted to hear myself talking out loud about it and there was only ever one person who I was going to be doing that with. What do you think - anything sound a bit off to you?”
“Not a single thing. In my opinion, you should have got the job last time and it was only the old boys’ club that stopped you. But the world’s moved on now and I think we can all stand the ‘shock’ - he mimed quote marks around the word - over having a woman in charge.
“I’ve never mentioned this before but there was real disappointment around here when you lost out, so your team is going to be delighted if you do succeed.”
“I bet they’re all hoping you’ll get the top job if I’m moved on. You’re not without your own fan club, you know.”
Hooley was silent for a while as he gazed down at his hands that were crossed in his lap. She knew he was thinking deeply and was content to leave him to start talking once he had marshalled his thoughts fully.
“Funny you should mention that, but I’ve been thinking there should be a change for a while now. You and I have been running this team for a long time and I think it’s time for fresh minds to take over.
“The nature of crime is changing again - the web, terrorism and global conflict - and we need to bring in a new generation of leaders. I’m not talking about me taking over; I mean we should be finding replacements for the two of us.
“The timeframe of you becoming Commissioner allows us an opportunity to identify the right people and get them in place. By the time we are ready to stand aside they will be up to speed and sorting things out the way they want it.”
“What about you? What are you going to be doing in all this?”
“Well, I do have something in mind, and I have been waiting for you to get offered the top job before I came out with anything.”
“Are you trying to tell me you knew this was going to happen?” Her expression was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. She’d long thought her deputy was one of the best-connected policemen in the Yard.
“I wouldn’t say I knew in a very precise way, but it wasn’t the hardest thing to speculate about. You’re just too good and you have one added bonus.”
He looked at her expectantly.
“Go on, tell me.”
“You don’t have any ghosts rattling around in your closet, and you might not believe how many of your contemporaries have reasons to be very nervous about anyone checking too deeply into their background.”
“Ha! I can confirm that I am clean as a whistle but as for my rivals, I suspect you’re being mischievous.”
The DCI laughed and held his hands up in mock apology.
“It’s certainly true that I had been thinking you might move on, and that’s why I’ve got one eye to the future; and, as I said, I do have an idea.”
She nodded to show he should go ahead.
“My big concern is making sure that Jonathan is OK, and I want to keep him close to me. He’s an awkward sod but at the same time one of the best people I know and there’s no way you and I could leave him here. He has too much history with some of the guys and he won’t last if we’re not there to watch his back.
“So that got me thinking. If you are the Commissioner you get the chance to do what you like, within reason, so why not set up a new, smaller team? I can be running things, for now, and it leaves Jonathan to provide the sort of input that only he can, and we hand-pi
ck some other talented mavericks to work alongside us.
“I’m betting that if we put the word out we will find all sorts of people hidden away and not getting to do the work they are capable of because they don’t get the recognition they deserve, or the opportunities to prove what they can do.
“If we had a few more with Roper’s skill at research and keeping up to date with the real world imagine the possibilities. I bet we could even start predicting crimes.” He paused. “OK, I may have got that last bit from a film, but you know what I mean.
“Just take one example. We really need a couple of computer bods. Roper’s not bad but even I know he’s not in the super league. Then we can shape the team to work hard and help to bring down some of the criminals who at the moment are getting away with murder because they can hide behind firewalls.”
He stopped talking and then burst out laughing.
“I’ve just thought of a name for us. We can call ourselves the Odd Jobs - or maybe, even better, the Odd Bods.”
31
Pressure does strange things to people. In Yebedev’s case, it made him forget that he had the answer to his problems right in front of him. It had taken hours of near panic before he remembered.
The man he needed had connections in a complex smuggling operation that saw a huge amount of stolen art and antiquities being shipped to Russians living in the UK. Yebedev had never used the service himself but he had an idea about how to make contact.
The trade was run by ruthless operators, since you don’t get to ship ancient treasures out of Middle-East war zones unless you know what you are doing, and the costs involved were astronomical.
The man he needed was former KGB agent Arkady Sokolov. If you needed to source something particular, then he was the man you turned to. He wasn’t cheap, but he was discreet.
Sokolov had styled himself as a ‘citizen of the world’, flitting between Russia, the USA and capital cities all over Western Europe. But he had also developed a passion for the so-called London season and could always be found at events like the Henley and Wimbledon.
Yebedev knew this for certain because he was himself a huge rowing fan and, for the last ten years, had been quietly spending large sums of money on it. Every year he sponsored a private box, entrance to which had become highly sought after once people discovered they could eat as much of the finest Beluga caviar as they could manage, only leaving room for the rare vintage champagnes. People did like to eat and drink on someone else’s tab.
To reach Sokolov, he was going to have to be subtle. Trying a direct approach would be a waste of time since the former agent only dealt with people he knew and whose backgrounds had been thoroughly checked.
There was a way to speed the process up. He was going to have to pay a large amount of money to a very discreet public relations company that was run by a former British government minister and aristocrat, Sir Valentine Topper, a baronet.
While Sir Valentine had impeccable connections and position within society, he had inherited severe financial problems caused by the ever-spiraling costs of maintaining a crumbling mansion and several thousand acres of the most worthless type of land, good only for sheep grazing. He had suffered the indignity of becoming the first Topper to actually need a job, although this was somewhat mitigated by his being selected as the candidate for MP for his very safe constituency.
It was while he was hosting a summer drinks session on the Terrace of the House of Commons, aimed at promoting Anglo-Russian relations, that Sir Valenine had first met Sokolov - and they had hit it off straight away. They made an unlikely pairing. Sokolov was a small, broad shouldered man who wore cheap off-the-peg suits, had thinning hair and used a translator, even though he had perfect English.
Sir Valentine, on the other hand, was the product of an excellent breeding process. He was tall, handsome like a film star, and had an imposing presence, peering down his slightly oversized nose when he spoke to anyone. His suits came from the best tailors on Jermyn Street and fitted him like a glove.
Within minutes of being introduced, Sokolov had done away with his translator as the two men spoke, ignoring the others around them until their aides reminded them that they both had duties that needed to be performed.
They had arranged to meet for lunch the next day. Sokolov said it would be his treat and insisted on the Ritz. It was to prove the start of a highly successful business relationship that gave the Russian access to all manner of contacts and, for Sir Valentine, it provided the funds to afford the lifestyle into which he had been born.
Of course, if reaching Sir Valentine was easy any fool could have done it. But, once again, Yebedev showed he had lost none of the networking skills that had first earned him attention in Russia and he had been able to use the services of a globally-known public relations company to make the introduction. The reference they provided won him the coveted meeting.
A few days later found Yebedev sitting across from Sir Valentine in the private dining room of a private members club in Belgravia. The Russian had chosen a three-thousand-pound bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon; he wanted Sir Valentine to know that money was not an issue. The enthusiastic way that the former cabinet minister savoured it suggested that he had judged things about right. Sir Valentine was a wealthy man, but that sort of money for a bottle of wine was too much even for someone like him.
The dining room was perfect. It was big enough for eight, so it did not feel like they were eating in a huge empty room but had the space to spread out. The waiting staff were incredibly efficient and, once they had cleared away the main course, the two were left with a second bottle of wine and a large pot of coffee.
Yebedev got straight to the point.
“I have a number of extremely valuable items in Russia that I would like brought to this country and I don’t want anyone to know about it. The objects vary in size and importance and I am willing to pay whatever the cost.
“If the initial shipments go well, I would like to discuss even more delicate items to bring here, but there would be no obligation to accept this until I give full disclosure on what is required and it is decided if this would be feasible.”
Sir Valentine blinked slowly as he listened. He had heard many such proposals over the years and now prided himself on his ability to detect if someone was genuine or not. He’d already had background done on this man and it was positive to the extreme.
He noted Yebedev’s body language was open and he showed none of the signs that Sokolov had taught him to watch out for. Accomplished liars are good at avoiding the telltale signs that can give you away. They won’t be caught glancing to the right, or blinking rapidly, but subtle things like wrinkles appearing around the eye or spots of colour briefly popping up on the cheek can catch out the best.
“I am sure there is nothing my colleagues can’t help you with. Before I go on, am I right in assuming all the items are in Russia itself?”
“Some are, some aren’t. Some are hidden away, others are hidden in plain sight.”
Sir Valentine thought this was a very Russian answer. He went on. “That shouldn’t be a problem, although each item will be discussed in detail and we never claim that we can move everything.
“If you wish me to take this conversation further then you will need to pay one million pounds sterling into a bank account for which I will give you the details. The money must be there in three working days, is non-refundable and does not count against further costs.
“In addition, once we have established the exact nature of items and provided the cost of moving them, the money must be paid in advance and we accept no liability for anything going wrong; all work is carried out at your risk.”
Yebedev made to reply but was silenced by Sir Valentine holding up his hand.
“There is one more thing. Once the total costs have been established there will be a two hundred per cent surcharge of all the costs involved, including the one-million-pound cost. This will be payable in advance.”
A very small part of the Russian wanted to tell this insufferable Englishman what he could do with his million-pound bonuses and payments in advance. A much bigger bit of him held out his hand and said: “It will be a pleasure to do business with you.”
32
One of the rules that Hooley tried to stick to was ‘never assume’. It was classic old-school stuff and a useful reminder to keep an open mind during any investigation, but it was beginning to dawn on him that he had just made a classic mistake with Roper. He had assumed his younger colleague would be enthusiastic about his plan.
The first part had gone well. He’d suggested they visit one of Roper’s favourite cafes. That part of the plan had gone well. It was French-run, offering table service and a collection of seriously good cakes and pastries. He had waited until mid-afternoon before suggesting they head there for a break and a chance to discuss his idea.
Luck seemed to be on his side; a table came clear as they walked in. It was at back of the cafe and offered a degree of privacy. Had they arrived during the normal lunch period customers would have been queuing out of the door, but at just after 3pm they were able to walk in and sit down.
Or at least Hooley had. Roper had stopped by the counter to carefully study the cake selection and finally joined him at the table to announce that the daily special - an elaborate work of glistening chocolate perfection - was the one to go for. Even sitting a few feet away, the DCI could see this was a special treat and instantly abandoned his latest diet.
They were served by a pretty young waitress with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a crisp white blouse and black trousers, with a French style white apron wrapped tightly around her middle. Hooley thought she seemed interested in Roper, but if he had noticed he was doing a very good job of disguising it and she tossed her head as she walked away having taken their order.
Before he could say anything, Roper jumped in.
The Long Reach: British Detective (Jonathan Roper Investigates Book 3) Page 11
