Forgive No More

by Seb Kirby

  The search of the warehouse complex soon found a site that aroused suspicion. They found blood on the floor near a dividing wall in a warehouse that had been used for timber storage years ago. There had been no attempt to clear up the blood. Either they were amateurs or they were so confident they wouldn’t be caught they had no interest in covering their tracks.

  The forensic team discovered the blood to be human. It also contained a high level of salt, suggesting a man had been tortured there, his tears diluting the blood.

  Officer Franklin summed up for Hendricks. “This is consistent with someone having been interrogated here, sir. Could have been strung up by the feet and mutilated.”

  The team took swabs from Reid’s vehicle to identify his DNA. Analysis of the blood found in the warehouse showed a match. Hendricks knew it was Reid who’d been strung up and tortured. The amount of blood at the site further suggested that Reid had been killed. Hendricks announced a murder investigation in respect of DI Reid and was able to report to his superiors that the cost of the investigation so far had been justified.

  The chance of saving Reid’s reputation was ended when his DNA was discovered in the Peggy Westland apartment and on her body. Hendricks knew he should announce a murder investigation in respect of Peggy Westland but he decided to wait. He still had hopes of rescuing the reputation of the Force but had no idea how he might achieve this.

  Hendricks didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. He now had three deaths and, if you included Reid, as he felt he must even though the body had not been recovered, that made four. All taking place on his patch. The only common thread Hendricks could find between them was James and Julia Blake.

  He summoned the search team and told them they were now a criminal case enquiry team investigating the probable death of a fellow police officer and three others.

  Franklin set up a large cork board on which they pinned photographs of persons of interest – James and Julia Blake together with those of DI Reid, Peggy Westland, Richard Westland and Martin Craig.

  Hendricks spelt out the instructions. “The priority is to find James and Julia Blake. We know James Blake is in London. It’s imperative we locate him.”

  Chapter 6

  You don’t get a Congressional medal of honor if you’re an undercover FBI man. The award is secret but it means the same.

  Agent Nate Craven preened as the Secretary of State pinned the Intelligence Star to his chest. How strange, he thought, to be here in uniform. How seldom he wore it in the work he did now.

  The commendation read:

  For exceptional bravery in the line of duty.

  Craven saluted and took a pace back.

  Beside him Agent Debbie Miller stepped forward to receive her medal. She looked good in uniform.

  Things had moved on. Craven had been successful in placing enough evidence in the right place to implicate the jihadist group for the Town Lake bombing. Though he said so himself, he’d constructed a detailed and believable case that action should be taken in the Horn of Africa to eliminate this threat before it could grow. And the more attention focused on Africa, the more he felt sure his role in the events that led to the atrocity would never come to light.

  He would need to keep a close watch on Debbie Miller. She knew nothing of the drugs shipments out of Tijuana and, as far as he was aware, that’s the way this had stayed. What she’d seen and experienced was consistent with the fact that the jihadist group had help to launch the attack from men recruited within the United States. The evidence collected by Craven on the operative the Landos had sent to carry out the assassination of Elmore Ravitz pointed to a shadowy figure by the name of Wolfgang Heller who was familiar with the Far East and had most likely disappeared back there.

  Miller was not told what little Craven had discovered so far about Heller. All she knew was that the trap they’d set for the assassin sent by the Landos at the Warren Stephenson hotel in Austin had succeeded in drawing out Heller but they hadn’t been able to capitalize on this because of the attack on the Town Lake compound. It was logical, given the evidence Craven had produced, that she would associate the attack with Middle East terror and assume that the events in the hotel were unconnected with the jihadist outrage. At least this was the way Craven wanted Miller to see it. Everything she did and said suggested this was the case. Craven had her on watch to ensure this stayed that way.

  All but one of the remainder of Craven’s team, including all those who’d known about the drugs business, had died in the blast. His immediate future was secure. At least this was what he convinced himself of now the medal was pinned to his chest.

  There would be inconsistencies. It was true of every attempt at disinformation he’d ever been involved with. Debbie Miller was intelligent. If anyone was to discover those wrinkles in the fabric of the truth it would be her. He would watch and observe if she began making moves in that direction. But for now at least he was pleased she was content to bask with him in the recognition they were receiving.

  As they stood down to join their FBI colleagues in the hall and receive their congratulations, Craven took time to acknowledge her. “Well done, Debbie.”

  She whispered a reply. “I just wish it could have been without such loss of life.”

  Craven embraced her. “I know. I feel the same.”

  The celebrations lasted into the night.

  So this was what it was like to be a hero.

  Walking back to his vehicle alone as the party broke up, Craven found darker thoughts coming into play. The whole thing was like a stack of cards. Pull away one card and the house would fall down. There were those out there who had the knowledge to do it. Matteo Lando and his mother Alessa. James Blake and his brother Miles. El Romero and the Soto cartel in Tijuana. They all knew enough to take this all away. To ruin him.

  Good, then, that he now had a new team and would be able to take care of this.

  Chapter 7

  I took a room at The Rhondda, a no-questions-asked hotel off Great Russell Street, close to the British Museum. The accommodation was basic, the room so small that even in this busy part of London you’d call it mean. It was uncomfortable but there were no questions raised at the reception desk when I paid cash in advance and there was no request for identification. The young woman at reception offered a knowing smile when I told her my name was Henry Mitchell, confirming my suspicion that it was not unusual for guests to be here under false names for one reason or another.

  There wasn’t time to rest in the hotel room. I’d delayed too long in tracking down Adam Weston.

  I made my way over to Pimlico. Weston would not know that Miles had given me the address before I’d left the States. I knew I’d have to handle Weston with care since Miles had left me in no doubt just how scared of detention by the police or the FBI the young hacker was.

  I knocked on the door of his small second floor apartment. There was no reply. I knocked again the way Miles had told me.

  The door opened. Weston looked angry. “I told you not to come here.” Then he paused, realizing that I wasn’t my brother. “You’re not Miles. You look enough like him. Where the hell is Miles?”

  I placed my foot against the door to stop it being closed. “I’m his brother. We need to talk.”

  “OK, you’re not Miles and even if you were you wouldn’t be welcome. Please go away. I won’t be as polite next time.”

  “I need your help.”

  “So what’s it to me?”

  “I’m not asking for much. Just some information. You’ll have nothing to worry about from me after that.”

  “And why should I care?”

  I didn’t want to do this but it was clear he wasn’t going to respond unless I applied pressure. I decided that for him a good lie would have more impact than the truth. “I’ve just been talking with someone you don’t know yet. Inspector Hendricks at Euston police station. He’s very interested in the whereabouts of Miles Blake. He tells me the FBI has asked for help and
want to speak with Miles and anyone who’s been associating with him.”

  Weston’s resolve crumpled. “You’d better come in.”

  He showed me into an apartment that was filled with computer hardware with the barest space remaining for life’s essentials. Now I was beneath the veneer of the bravado he’d presented, he looked as frightened as Miles had said he would be.

  His voice had a pleading note. “Let’s keep the police and the FBI out of this, shall we? You’re Miles’ brother. I should have trusted you. I’m sorry I came on ugly like that. Tell me what you want?”

  “I need to know how much further you’ve got in the work you’re doing for Miles.”

  His hands were shaking. “They’re this close to being on to me. The situation is changing fast. Every time I hack their database it’s at a greater risk. And right now everything is nailed down tight.”

  “But you have been back in?”

  He nodded. “Call it an addiction. Call it the kind of challenge that gets right under the skin. Or just call it what someone like me does because he needs the money. Yes I’ve been back in there and I’ve been careful.”

  I was sure I knew much of what he could tell me but I wanted to hear it from him so I could discover if he had any new evidence.

  “So, you can update me.”

  “If you insist. But first you need to tell me why I’m not saying this to Miles himself. And why I should trust you.”

  I told him Miles was still in the States. “He made a great sacrifice for me. He let me travel here on his passport. He’s still there, on the run.”

  “You’ve lost contact?”

  I nodded. “Before we parted he said I should contact you and gave me this address.”

  “Still doesn’t tell me why I should trust you.”

  “I was hoping you’d see that by helping me you’d be helping Miles. And if that doesn’t make sense, there’s always the matter of Inspector Hendricks.”

  He raised a hand. “OK, you’ve made your point. I can show you what I archived before I decided enough was enough and this was the last time I would go back into their database.” He became furtive, as if reliving the tension and apprehension he experienced while hacking the most protected database in the world. Yet there was also a sense of relief that he could unburden himself of secrets he knew.

  He started to pull up internal FBI reports onto his screen. “The key is to understand that the Town Lake bombing was not down to East Africa terrorists. It was about something much nearer to home. I’ve found the real reason for the atrocity was known within the organization but that’s being covered up with the terrorist claims. Someone has been working hard to erase the real record. They’re good but they’ve left telltale signs.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the details of how the FBI first got involved with protecting Elmore Ravitz and his family. Ravitz’s political career was riding high and he was on track to become the next great white hope, so secretiveness and disinformation could be expected. But this goes beyond that. Ravitz overreached himself. He had a problem and I think he offended the wrong people. He thought he could use his influence with the FBI to get even and he was wrong. That’s why he and most of his family died at Town Lake.”

  “And the reason for someone to be working so hard to change the record?”

  “Is what it always is – greed and corruption. What else? You see, Ravitz made the mistake of contacting the wrong people in the FBI. It was a mistake that led to an agent called Jack Franks being assigned to the investigation to defend Ravitz. You look as if this isn’t news to you?”

  My thoughts were back in Weymouth on the night when Franks had first called. I decided to keep them from Weston. “I know something of Franks but not what you’re saying about his connection to Ravitz.”

  He continued. “Once you grasp the fact that Franks was not meant to be involved, the rest falls into place. Someone was running a black op from within the organization and they needed to cover it up. Franks was on the wrong side and they got rid of him. The official reports state that Franks’ death was an accident and that’s the accepted view. But reading between the lines, the idea it was an accident is part of the same cover up.”

  “You have evidence?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing you could point to and say, that’s it and shows what I’m saying is the case. It’s more what you can deduce from the way the official record has been doctored to conceal the key aspects of Franks’ activity, the snippets of information remaining as loose ends when someone’s house cleaning has been good but not quite good enough. It’s a kind of truth that emerges by omission and association.”

  He was losing me. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, when you piece together the way the record has been modified, the story emerging is that Franks was in possession of information deadly to others within the organization. Part of that was good fortune. The rest was solid deduction. The combination was enough for someone to want to eliminate him.”

  “Can you tell who’s behind the cover up?”

  He shook his head. “Whoever’s been cleaning up has been skilled enough to stay concealed.”

  I knew who I wanted Weston to name. “Any mention of Craven? Agent Nate Craven?”

  “Nothing I’ve seen. Why do you ask?”

  I smiled. “Just someone I have an interest in.”

  He began closing down the computer systems, his signal he wanted me to leave. “Is that everything?”

  “There’s one more thing. I want you to help me rob a bank.”

  I expected him to be shocked but instead he showed a detached, professional interest. “Give me details.”

  “I want you to steal from my own account.”

  I explained to him how the money I had in my account in Weymouth was locked because it was certain it was being watched. If I used the online banking facility to transfer money to another account it would be tracked.

  He listened and, unlike in our earlier discussion, he remained calm and collected. He was comfortable in this, the low risk end of his business. Then he had questions. “Tell me why you need the money?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  “Tell me why you’re on the run? It’s not Town Lake, is it?”

  I shook my head. “I just need the money.”

  He paused and looked as if he was on the point of saying he didn’t believe me when he changed his mind. “It could be done. Ten per cent.”

  “Of what?”

  “Call it a finder’s fee. I take ten per cent of whatever I arrange for you to withdraw as cash.”

  The account held over fifty thousand, made up of the severance pay I’d received on leaving the radio station three years ago and what small amounts Julia and I had been able to save from our Weymouth jobs. Weston was heading for a good payday.

  I agreed. “OK. How do you propose to do it?”

  As he explained it to me, it was simple. He’d set up a barrier to shield the initial transfer from the account so it would be difficult, if not impossible to trace. The transfer would be into an international money transfer account. Requests to the transfer account for payment for various services would be made from a legitimate computer software business. The business was a front controlled by Weston. In order not to shock the system and create unwanted attention, the overall transaction would be divided into ten parts, each with a value of five thousand.

  I shook his hand. “OK, we have a deal. You keep ten per cent. I get the rest in cash.”

  “It’s going to take at least twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s OK.”

  I had another reason to stay in London – the forger Miles had used to secure the passport for Julia in the name of Elizabeth Meredith. I had his contact details, courtesy of Miles. I needed a passport in a new identity if I was to make the trip to Florence without being stopped. The time it took for the cash to appear would give enough time for the passport to be made.

  Weston
worked at his main screen for the next hour. Code flowed across the screen as he set up the protocols to hide the money as it left my Weymouth account. He stopped periodically to ask me details of log-ins and passwords for my account.

  I wanted to be sure. Won’t whoever’s watching the account see that the money has been withdrawn?”

  He wasn’t fazed. “Yes, but they won’t know where it’s going.”

  “Won’t they put a stop on the account?”

  “That’s why we take the money out of the account right away. By the time they call to stop it, the fifty thou will be gone. They’ll have left it open as a trap to try to get you to give away your current identity and location. Once the money’s gone, it’s gone. They’ll be reduced to trying to find out where you’ve sent it and we’ll have covered our tracks too well to let them get far with that.”

  After an hour, he sat back in his chair. “We’re done. It’s all in place.”

  I wanted to know how I was going to collect the money.

  He became defensive. “Not here. We don’t meet here again, you understand. It’s too risky.”

  “Then where?”

  He handed me a Post-It note on which he’d written an email address and a password. “This is secure. Access when you think is right but use a cafe with free WiFi. When the money is all here, I’ll send a mail to let you know the time and place we can meet.”

  “And that’s all I get to know right now?”

  “It’ll be somewhere public. I give you the cash in two deliveries. We meet twice and that’s it.”

  I had to trust him if I wanted the money and the chance to get to Florence. “OK. I’ll wait to hear.”