Danger Close Page 3

  And at junction 10 of the M40, where it turned off, the trail went cold. The whale had flicked its tail and vanished.

  Emlyn was looking at me and grinning. ‘You’d better get out there to Oxfordshire, then, hadn’t you?’

  I returned to my flat at eight that night. Duckie, Calamity and Fuzz were watching TV and they’d come up with a game to pass the time. It involved throwing bottles at the television until the reality cop shows went away. Duckie was wearing an EDL hoodie, so she’d obviously been busy working on that angle. After Fuzz’s last bottle had taken out the DVD player, I spoke.

  ‘Ladies! This is not helping!’

  A plastic bottle bounced off my head.

  ‘Listen! We have a lead!’

  They quietened down a bit.

  ‘We have a lead. We think they took her out to the Midlands. First thing tomorrow I want you to get looking at maps. Maps of airfields.’

  ‘Airfields?’

  ‘Yes. US airfields. CIA airfields. Rendition airfields. We start with Oxfordshire.’

  Fuzz was our resident pilot. She looked glum.

  ‘There are over fifty airfields in Oxfordshire, used and unused, bhai.’

  ‘I just need some areas to look at, Fuzz. I’m driving out there tomorrow. Let’s start with airfields within twenty miles of Junction 10. When I find something of interest, I’ll text you.’

  My phone went. Emlyn.

  ‘Boyo. Got something for you. Thames Valley Police are trialling a fixed ANPR camera scheme on roads in their area. The ambulance was spotted by one of their units passing through the village of Deddington on the afternoon of 13th September. Heading north on the A4260 at a sedate thirty-two miles per hour.’

  ‘Em, you’re a star. I’m out there ASAP.’

  I looked up at the girls. ‘Airfields north of Deddington.’

  5

  24th September

  I was jogging down Wardour Street from the coffee bar towards the office. It was grey and raining, the kind of fine drizzle that only Britain can provide. Opposite our office door sat a Metropolitan Police Armed Response Vehicle. It wasn’t there to protect us. Fuck them. I checked my pistol was secure in the small of my back and tapped on the drivers’ window. After a while the window came down. I leant in and looked.

  ‘Morning, PCs CO863 and... ’ I craned my neck to read the passenger’s number…‘CO652, what are you here for this fine and rainy morning?’

  The driver stared at me like I was target number one. ‘We’re here because you lot don’t like us and we don’t like you. Fair one?’

  I laughed. ‘Fair enough. Have a good morning stagging on, we’ll all be gone soon.’

  They looked at each other, bemused. The passenger spoke. ‘Are you carrying a personal weapon, Mr Sabir?’

  I smiled back sweetly. ‘As a matter of fact I am.’

  I then recited. ‘“The Secretary of State has the statutory power to nominate Directors or Deputy directors to authorise the issue of firearms to firearms trained personnel.” Would you like to see my authorisation card? You’d love the signature. Or maybe my European Firearms Pass? I’ve got that here too.’

  The passenger replied. ‘My colleague Kevin has a permanent limp because your psycho bitch of a girlfriend thought it would be funny to shoot him. He’s also permanently traumatised, and can’t remember the firefight clearly. Which is the only thing standing between you and an immediate arrest. So please excuse me if I’m not in a joking mood. And don’t make me laugh at “firearms trained personnel”. You’re a terrorist, always have been.’

  ‘She is my fiancée, mate, and if you call her that again you’re more than welcome to come out here and we can settle it on the pavement.’

  ‘Happy to’, he replied and made to get out. I started walking round the car to meet him halfway but his colleague gripped him and then shook his head.

  He then looked at me. ‘There’ll be other times.’

  I waved. ‘Have a nice day guys.’

  I was sure they were talking back but I’d already walked across the street and hit the buzzer. Toots came to open the door herself and this time she had a SIG Sauer P226 pistol held against her leg. As I walked in she gave the cops a hard flat stare. They stared back. She slammed the street door shut. In her short tenure with us, Toots had really toughened up from the brilliant law student she had been, out in the ordinary world. I was proud of her.

  In reception, and lounging on the staircase, were some guys I recognised. They were a mix of the SAS’s Revolutionary Warfare Wing and MI6’s E Squadron. The squadron drew its members from the best of the UK’s Special Forces for deniable ops. One I knew well - Gary Swallow. He raised a hand.

  ‘Morning Riz. Helping us keep the woodentops at bay?’

  I raised my tea in return. ‘Yeah, took ages to fight them off. They’ve got guns and everything.’

  He laughed and patted the Minimi light machine gun on the carpet beside him. ‘They may be acting hard outside for their boss and the viewing public, but they know there’s no way they’re coming in here.’

  I knew this situation would be a wrench for some of the SF guys, as some of them had friends in Specialist Firearms Command. But, as always, they would go all the way to hell if ordered. Toots tapped my arm and pointed upwards. ‘Top floor sunshine.’

  ‘OK. Shit just got real.’

  Everyone laughed, including Gary.‘Yeah. Shit just got real.’

  I nodded at the E Squadron lads. ‘Well done on Lord Khalil, boys. That must have chafed.’

  Another laugh and one replied ‘I have NO idea what you’re talking about.’

  The lift pinged and I walked across the corridor and into the Colonel’s office. He was staring down out of the window at the armed response vehicle. Without turning, he spoke. ‘Riz. Give me that cup of tea.’

  Now what? I handed it to him. He pulled the window up and lobbed it out. I went to look as it arced down and impacted on the ARV car’s windscreen with an almighty splat.

  ‘My predecessor was sent to Beijing to avoid this kind of rubbish. I am NOT going to Beijing!’

  He was talking about the Brigadier. Top bloke, bit of a hooligan. Men had died. So they’d packed him off to the other side of the world.

  OK, so we’d established El Jefe was in a mood…

  ‘Boss. We’ve narrowed down the footprint for the rendition airbases, I’m going out there soonest.’

  He turned. ‘Then that is where you find where she’s been taken. When your lot confirm it, I have a Herc and team of RWW at Brize ready to go, and you’ll be leaving with them. You and they will be taking Packet Foxtrot, and good luck.’

  Packet Foxtrot. RAF Brize Norton. This was getting serious. It took authorisation from the highest levels to release the work for a Packet Foxtrot, as that kit was usually only used by MI6 agents abroad. Someone must have been calling in favours from C or the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘Does that include the full ID and a Dagger system boss?’

  He nodded. ‘It does. We’re going to get Bang-Bang back, no matter what.’

  In the street below us the ARV had hit the blues and twos, and driven straight into the car parked in front of it as they’d attempted to manoeuvre onto the street, wipers going at top speed. The Colonel laughed. ‘Fucking walts.’

  Then he pressed zero on his phone for Toots. ‘Toots my dear, get up here would you?’

  She arrived within the minute, armed with a clipboard and a folder. The Colonel was back to the window.

  ‘Open a project file for me Toots. Call it TANGENT.’

  He turned to face us both. ‘All this butting heads with the Met is going to be counterproductive long-term. We need to be smooth and sneaky, and to that end, we need bent cops. OUR Bent cops. Toots- and Riz, when you get back- I want you to find me some old-school, camel-coat wearing, alcoholic, racist, bent Met bastards.’

  We grinned. Old school was back! The Colonel suddenly grabbed me in a friendly headlock. ‘I love this boy, Too
ts! When I had a problem with mad Islamic lunatics, what did he do? He found a gang of even madder Islamic lunatics and sicced them on them! Genius!’

  Toots did a little ‘ahem’ cough and raised her clipboard.

  The Colonel straightened up and released me from the headlock. ‘Ah. I’d forgotten. You’re one of them too.’

  Toots nodded and clicked her pen, indicating that would be the end of the matter.

  He continued. ‘OK. When I was in FRU we’d have twenty grand in a holdall in the car boot, and we’d get out there and buy us some touts. It worked.’

  Toots opened the folder on the clipboard. She’d obviously been busy. ‘We like the look of this guy. Lennie George. Fastest-rising black senior officer in the Met. And don’t say Ali Dizae in response because he’s not black, he’s Iranian. Anyway. Lennie’s a thieftaker. His troops love him. He runs the Flying Squad.

  ‘And he’s bent.’

  We stared in disbelief.

  The Colonel spoke. ‘Bent in what manner? Tarts? Drugs? Kickbacks?’

  ‘Gambling,’ said Toots, ‘he’d bet on which fly has the most legs. He’s hopeless, and into hock with several right East End faces to the tune of sixty grand.’

  I raised my hand.

  ‘And what about the villains that have a piece of him?’

  ‘We take them out or get them in too.’

  ‘OK. Sounds good.’

  Six months ago Toots would have been going ‘Ya allah, is that legal Sir?’

  Now she just clicked her pen again in satisfaction.

  The Colonel continued. ‘We also need someone on ACPO if possible, and people high up the food chain who can make things go away. As in evidence, forensics, that kind of thing. With me?’

  ‘With you Sir.’

  ‘Right. Now. I have a video to show you two.’

  He clicked a remote and his office TV flickered to life. The Breivik trial. We watched the subtitles as Breivik was cross-examined. He looked rattled as he spoke. ‘Exactly what is it you’re getting at? Are you trying to sow doubt over whether the KT network exists? It does.’

  The Colonel paused it. ‘I’ll precis it. He admitted he met with persons unknown in 2002 to set up a European counter-jihad resistance, whether it’s KT or The Order 777 remains unclear. There were two Englishmen, including his mentor known as “Richard the Lionheart”, a Serb, and a French nationalist at one or both of these founding meetings. One Englishman might be Paul Ray, we can discount him as he’s not a threat. But that leaves a Serb, maybe another English national, and a French national unaccounted for. It gets worse. Breivik has been writing from his cell and these communiques are being put on the web by his fanbase. We think he’s reactivating something, there are unknown commanders out there, and it couldn’t come at a worse time.’

  There was silence. Toots broke the spell by announcing she was going downstairs to type up TANGENT, and the Colonel and I sat down in our respective chairs. We were lost in thought. I toyed with a pen.

  ‘Anyway, Riz. Back to the matter in hand. Afghanistan. Your next port of call is with Wendy on floor three to get you fitted for Dagger. And you’ll need your jabs.’

  Oh brilliant. There went the afternoon.

  ‘Boss, it took a day last time!’

  ‘That was three years ago. It’s quicker now. They’ve got facial mapping.’

  Right. The boss was still on a roll. ‘While you’re getting fixed up, Riz, get creative. Try and think of some ways of getting the chiefs put out of action like the Home Sec wants. The Police Superintendents’ Association is having its conference soon. Nothing is off-limits.’

  ‘Boss.’

  6

  I rushed in from the stairs to my flat with a nagging hunch. How bloody stupid of me! I hadn’t checked the access, if any, to Bang-Bang’s IMVU account. I logged onto my own IMVU account and hit search for “BangBangKirpachi”. I waited.

  And waited. I went to water the collection of pots that made up my herb garden on the balcony. I did a bit of washing up.

  An hour later, the computer beeped. I had a response. Was this her, or FlameLite? Impossible to tell. Onscreen was a weird blend of Holly’s old avatar and a fox. It had nine tails, pointed ears, and a black nose. On either side stood two Manga raccoons. What the hell was this?

  A speech bubble was there. It read ‘Bhai. come find me.’

  I typed back. ‘I’ll find you. Show me where to go.’

  The avatar leant down to the raccoon on the right and a speech bubble appeared. It seemed to be issuing instructions. The bubble read,

  ‘--- class_orig.lua 20:53:25.218750000 -0400

  +++ class.lua 20:53:49.734375000 -0400

  @@ -21,8 +21,8 @@ mt.__call = function(class_tbl,... )

  local obj = {}

  setmetatable(obj,c)

  - if ctor then

  - ctor(obj,... )

  + if class_tbl.init then

  + class_tbl.init(obj,... )’

  The raccoon left the room and the fox avatar folded her hands, tilted its head at me, and waited serenely. And waited.

  And waited.

  I sighed and went to my kitchen and got cooking to take my mind off things. Something quick. I looked in Mrs Kirpachi’s handwritten recipe sheets. Her chicken Karahi was always worth a punt. I read her delicate script, tracing my finger down the ingredients…

  “Slice and brown 3 medium onions, add 4/5 cloves of crushed garlic, about an inch stick of crushed garlic and 1 1/4 tsp salt, stir till onions are golden brown, adding splashes of water as you go to stop onions sticking to the pan. When onions are brown, add 1/2 tin of chopped tomatoes or 3 large fresh, stir till tomatoes have softened, again add splashes of water to help mixture become a sauce consistency... Should take 10/15 mins. Riz pay attention beta!”

  I chuckled. She knew where my mind would wander and she’d actually written that in.

  “…Add a tablespoon of medium hot curry powder and 3 green chillies.. Keep stirring again till chillies have softened... Now add in about 1lb of chicken breast (cubed or cut into strips) stir till chicken is browned and tender, keep water handy again... Helps mixture combine as well as stopping it from sticking, then add in a good pinch of fenugreek leaves (methi) and a teaspoon of garam masala. When oil begins to separate from the masala, add enough freshly boiled water to just cover chicken, leave to simmer for about 10 mins on low heat, then garnish with fresh coriander and toasted cumin seeds! Serve with rice, naan or chappatis!”

  I got busy with the instructions.

  An hour later I had some really good Karahi. While I was filling my face with it there was another ping from my screen. The raccoon servant had returned. It looked out of the screen at me. Its eyes were like dead black whirlpools which I really didn’t want to look into. Something was wrong about its eyes, its face. The raccoon-thing whispered to Bang-Bang’s fox avatar. Its speech bubble was saying-

  ‘local function makeProxy( rep )

  local proxyMeta = {

  __metatable = "< protected proxy metatable >",

  rep = rep, -- GC protection

  __index = proxyIndex,

  __newindex = noProxyNewIndex}

  local proxy = setmetatable( {}, proxyMeta )

  rep2proxy[ rep ] = proxy

  return proxyKabulRoom’

  Kabul Room? Was that confirmation of Afghanistan?

  And what was with the raccoon avatars? I stared out of the window and tried to think where she might have come up with that. My eyes wandered to a pile of her old computer games and I leafed through. It didn’t take long to find the inspiration. Here was a copy of Resident Evil Operation Raccoon City. I’d played this one with her ages back. As I recalled, Raccoon City was where they mutated animals with genetically engineered viruses… or something. I also seemed to recall that there was a complete virtual Raccoon City in Second Life, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember if Bang-Bang had an account there. I certainly didn’t, and there wasn’t time to set one up.

  I
snapped back to the present. It wasn’t too early to contact IMVU customer service. They were in the US and at least eight hours behind us. It was four here. I emailed them via the site. I had a ticket within seconds, and then an email from Candy from customer services ten minutes after that. I gave it the full jolly-old Englandland, as experience had taught me that Americans love that stuff, and I also laid on the MOD security of the Queen’s realm angle quite thick.

  I had a response within three minutes. Candy from customer services was more than happy to answer my query since it was related to law enforcement. No IP address had logged on to or used that account since September 9th.

  What the hell was going on here? I got my coat and went out, my mind already in deepest Oxfordshire.

  7

  At six that evening I was sitting in what we called the KTS staff car, an unremarkable dark blue Ford Mondeo. I was parked in the village of Deddington, Oxfordshire, just before the junction where the ambulance was spotted heading out of town, up the A4260. I’d driven in from junction 10 of the M40, just like the ambulance, and gone straight to Deddington, following the pool car’s satnav, through stone-built villages and deepset, winding roads.

  Deddington was…well, dead. Reddish stone buildings and nothing going on. The sun would set in about an hour, and I wouldn’t have much ambient light after that. I had better get a wiggle on.

  Across the main drag was a pub called the Crown and Tuns. I’d allow myself half an hour or so in there for a bit of HUMINT foraging. I got out of the car, checked any kit I’d brought with me was safely in the boot, locked up, and walked across the street and into the pub.