Going Rogue, page 19
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
In the end all of them had been charged with multiple counts of murder and terrorism charges and all were remanded to the High Security Unit at HMP Belmarsh. It had been an absolute torture on the Unit, as they were all marked men to the scummy Islamist prisoners that dominated the spur. As a result, they were locked up pretty much all the time, only allowed out very briefly for a little exercise and, even then, they were heavily guarded.
It was depressing and claustrophobic and he just couldn’t see how he could survive the rest of his life like that.
There had been a glimmer of hope when the very expensive barrister, again appointed and paid for by Zelenko, had made an application before the judge at the Old Bailey that the undercover officer’s identity be divulged. The barrister, Leon James QC, had vehemently and skilfully argued that the infiltration by the undercover officer known only as “David” was unlawful and had breached the defendants’ rights. McEwan had watched proceedings with interest: if they could find out the officer’s identity then maybe they could eliminate him and remove a central plank of the prosecution’s case. Or at least stand a good chance of discrediting him; he was clearly a foreigner, and those types always had some muck which could be used against them.
The judge hadn’t even retired to consider, instead immediately ruling that the officer could give evidence on video link with his identity secured and, even worse, with voice disguising technology.
That was it. The trial date was set with a time estimate of eight to ten weeks. It would be just him on trial; Simmo and Danny had already entered guilty pleas and were due to be sentenced soon.
McEwan looked up as he heard the keys rattle in the cell door and Jason Scripture entered the cell, immaculately dressed in a pinstripe suit and Etonian tie.
‘Is that it then, Jason?’ McEwan asked in a resigned tone.
‘I’m very sorry Andrew, old chap, it seems that this is really the end of the road, legally speaking. If the undercover officer gives evidence then, to put it bluntly, you are truly fucked.’ The delivery of this news was more impactful accompanied by foul language delivered in a classic public-school accent.
McEwan slumped back on the concrete bed and stared at the ceiling, tears brimming in his pale blue eyes. ‘I can’t handle the rest of my life in Belmarsh. Even if I survive the fucking barbarians in there, I will go stark raving mad.’
‘Don’t lose heart, old chap. Mr Zelenko has his ways of rewarding loyalty and I am sure that he won’t forget you.’ There was something in the solicitor’s voice that made McEwan pause and stare at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Major. Just never lose heart, eh? As long as you are still breathing in and out then there is always hope. Anyway, I must dash; I am due at another court shortly. I’m sure I will see you again soon.’ He extended a manicured hand which McEwan shook briefly.
‘Chin up, old boy,’ Scripture said as he knocked on the door to be let out.
McEwan turned the solicitor’s words over in his mind for a few minutes until the cell door swung open once again. ‘Right, come on, it’s bus back to Belmarsh time,’ the G4S guard cheerily declared.
McEwan silently complied, going through the familiar routine of being handcuffed to an escort, then led out to the sweatbox prison van, then locked into his own tiny cell within the box-like vehicle. He tried not to look at the phalanx of armed police officers that watched as he was escorted onto the van and through the gate, the armed response vehicles ready and waiting for the convoy back to the prison.
He felt the sinking feeling which came every time he was about to make the dreaded hour-long journey back to the prison. His cell in the van was only three feet wide by three feet deep and seven feet high. It had a plexi-glass door with a gap at the bottom and the only window was made of a deeply tinted glass. The one benefit of being a “Category A” terrorist prisoner was that at least he didn’t have to endure the tour of other courts on the bus picking up prisoners from all over. But this was of scant consolation when his destination was yet another isolated cell on a wing full of mostly Muslim maniacs, all hell-bent on harming him.
The van began moving forward and, looking out of the small armoured window, he could see them passing through the court security gates on Newgate Street. He felt the van turn sharply right and then accelerate, the engine noise drowned out by the wailing sirens from the escorting police vehicles. He knew from previous journeys that they would not be stopping for traffic lights, the escorts clearing a path to keep halts to a minimum. This always made for a very jerky and uncomfortable journey as he was thrown around on the slippery seat in the tiny cell. He sat back and braced his legs against the wall in front of him to minimise the movement.
As always, the movement made him feel nauseous and, after about ten minutes, he was glad when the vehicle slowed to a halt. Peering through the deeply tinted window he could see that they were stuck on London Wall, the traffic seemed to be locked up tight; not surprising given the time of day. Even with the police escorts it was impossible to get through when the traffic was as dense as it seemed from his vantage point.
McEwan wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. It was oppressively hot in the van; the reason, he guessed, why they were known as “sweatboxes”.
Suddenly a brief but loud whooshing sound was followed by the deafening, dull crump of an explosion. A pressure wave hit the van and a slow smile spread across McEwan’s face. He’d heard that sound before. Many times, in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was an RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade.
36
The first of the grenades hit the driver’s side door of the lead police escort BMW X5, piercing it and exploding with a deafeningly dull explosion. All three of the officers inside were immediately killed, shredded by the thermobaric charge that instantly turned the interior of the soft-skinned vehicle into a furnace.
The firer, a tall man in a ski mask and combat jacket, dropped the RPG to the ground, retrieved an AK-47 from its sling, put it to his shoulder and unleased a long burst of 7.62 ammunition into the following police car. The bullets stitched a line of holes across the windscreen, the high velocity ammunition smashing into the helpless police officers within the vehicle. Simultaneously, a Honda motorcycle drew up alongside the prison van, the dark-helmeted rider quickly shouldering an AK-47 which he fired at the bullet-ridden police vehicle, adding to the carnage within. None of the officers were able to return fire from within the police vehicle.
Pandemonium erupted in the busy street as pedestrians dived, screaming for cover, as drivers and passengers ducked down in their vehicles.
The motorcycle rider calmly dismounted, leaving the bike on its stand. He unhurriedly sauntered to the front of the prison van and pointed the assault rifle at the driver’s cab. The other gunman left his position on the pavement and walked, again with an eerie calmness, to the driver’s door, pointed his AK-47 at the driver and simply shouted, ‘Get out!’
The driver, a middle-aged woman, looked terrified. She opened the door and then, hands aloft and gibbering pleas, climbed out of the cab, leaving her colleague frozen in fear inside.
The terrorist holding the AK-47 said in a harsh Slavic accent, ‘Let prisoner out or I will kill you both.’
The female officer knew that she was out of options, having just witnessed the brutal murders of at least six police officers. ‘Terry, open the back,’ she shouted back to her colleague in the cab.
Terry was an overweight man in his forties, who was wearing an ill-fitting shirt, a look of utter shock and terror on his face. He nodded frantically and then disappeared through the door that led to the rear of the van. A few seconds later, the nearside rear compartment door swung open and Terry appeared with his hands held up.
‘Get prisoner,’ spat the masked man with the AK-47. Terry disappeared back into the van, returning a few seconds later with Major McEwan, who was wearing his rumpled suit and a look of elation.
Another motorcycle pulled up, also ridden by a dark-helmeted rider who handed McEwan a helmet and said, ‘Get on now.’ Not needing to be told more than once, McEwan mounted the pillion of the large motorcycle and they sped off, weaving through the carnage of the blazing police cars and snarled traffic.
Both gunmen looked at each other and nodded before calmly walking back to the Honda. The balaclava-wearing gunman pulled a helmet from the top box and jumped on the bike, riding away from the smoking carnage.
*
McEwan sat on the back of the motorcycle feeling a sense of triumph and profound joy at being free. He was sure that Zelenko was responsible for springing him, but he had no idea where they were going next. They rode for about forty minutes, getting further and further out of London and towards Essex, before they pulled over into a small car park that backed onto a scruffy shopping precinct containing a small convenience store and a collection of down-at-heel shops. The road signs said they were in South Ockendon.
McEwan dismounted and removed his helmet and then the rider handed him a single car key. ‘Mr Zelenko sends his compliments, Major. There is a black Mondeo in car park. The sat-nav is programmed with a destination. Do not stop or deviate from the route, do not exceed the speed limit. At your destination, park the car in the car park and leave the keys under the seat. It will be taken care of once you have gone. There is a British passport in the glove box and a representative of Mr Zelenko will meet you there. Your flight leaves in three hours so you have no time to delay. Good luck, Major.’ His accent was Slavic but his diction was absolutely perfect and his eyes, the only part of his face visible through his helmet, creased in a smile that was surprisingly warm given the circumstances. Then the motorcycle engine burst into life and he drove off at a sedate pace.
McEwan walked through the half-empty car park and pressed the key fob. The indicators flashed on a new-looking black Ford Mondeo in the far corner. He strode quickly up to the vehicle and climbed straight in. Britain held no interest to him anymore, and he wanted to get away as soon as possible. He would by now be one of the most wanted men in the country and the sooner he was gone the better. Britain could rot as far as he was concerned.
He pressed the ignition button and watched as the sat-nav began to search for its destination. The map homed into view, with the car’s current location marked on a map. Zooming out, he noted that his destination was Maypole Airfield, slap-bang in between Canterbury and Margate. The display showed that his journey time was just over an hour. He adjusted his seat, pulled his seatbelt on, and pulled out of the car park sedately and sensibly, as directed by his friendly motorcyclist.
During the journey to the airfield he thought about the events of the past few months. He was sad that the ADF was no more and that he wouldn’t see the chaos that they had planned and the race war that they had so longed for. Britain was heading into insignificance and the sinister creeping menace of Muslims and Jews would continue.
He shook his head in disgust at the prospect. He had no reason to stay in Britain, even if he wasn’t destined to spend the rest of his life in jail. He had been divorced for more years than he cared to remember, and his kids were ungrateful little bastards. They could all swivel now for any kind of maintenance from him, that was for sure.
He had hoped that the investments he had made with Zelenko and the rewards he had been promised in return for successfully completing the Ukrainian’s tasks would have made him a rich man. He couldn’t help wondering what Zelenko had planned for him now. Whatever it was, it would be much better than sitting in the HSU at Belmarsh, forever looking over his shoulder.
He drove for close to an hour-and-a-half, the traffic heavy getting out of suburban Essex until he reached the quieter Kent countryside. He had no idea what to expect, but the map of the airfield made it look absolutely tiny. He was almost doubting the sat-nav when the tinny voice declared that they had arrived at the destination.
The “destination” was a small aircraft hangar next to a livery yard in a tiny hamlet, parking the car and leaving the key under the seat as directed. He reached over to the glove box to find a new-looking British passport that bore his photo and under the name of William Delaney. To his inexperienced eye the passport looked to be genuine. He was studying it when he heard a tap at the window and looked up with a start to see a small, lean, deeply tanned man smiling outside the car.
The man opened the car door and spoke in a soft French accent. ‘Mr Delaney, I am Jean, your pilot for today. Mr Zelenko has asked that we get going as soon as possible. I understand that your vehicle is being taken care of.’ He had a face that seemed to be set in a permanent smile, and he had an engaging and jolly demeanour.
‘Yes. That’s my understanding, thank you. Are we ready to go?’
‘Yes. Our flight plan is filed and approved. We are flying to Calais where Mr Zelenko’s representative will be waiting for you.’
‘Excellent. Well, let’s get going then,’ McEwan said as he got out of the car. ‘How long will the journey take?’
‘Thirty to forty minutes only, depending on how the wind treats us.’
‘Fine. Can’t be soon enough for me.’
‘Do you have any luggage, Mr Delaney?’
‘No. Just my passport,’ smiled McEwan.
They walked across the car park and over to the front of the small hangar, which was situated adjacent to a grassed landing strip that McEwan estimated was about eight hundred metres long. A few small propeller-driven planes were parked in front of the hanger and a couple of picnic tables dotted out front. Other than that, there was no one else about and it seemed incredible that they were about to leave the UK with such ease.
‘Our plane is just here, fully fuelled and ready to go,’ Jean pointed at a small white single propeller-driven plane.
‘Is that it? It doesn’t look big enough to cross the channel,’ McEwan said.
‘It’s a Cessna 182 four-seater; totally reliable. Can do up to two hundred and seventy kilometres per hour and has plenty of range. They’ve been in service for many years, my friend. It will get us to Calais just perfectly,’ Jean said. ‘I fly many planes for Mr Zelenko, including his very expensive private jets, but this is my favourite. It is aviation at its purest, Mr Delaney.’ Jean smiled as he opened the aircraft door and held his hand out indicating for McEwan to embark.
Within minutes the small plane’s wheels had left the long, smooth grass runway and McEwan felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders as he watched Great Britain disappear beneath him. He felt no sadness, just relief and excitement about what came next. He searched for any other emotions that lingered and was surprised to find just only one. When he thought of that rat, David Vidmar, he had only one thought that burned in his very core.
Revenge.
37
‘So where are we then?’ Jane Milligan spoke in the meeting room in the team’s offices three days later, as all twelve members sat around the central table looking like they hadn’t been home for a while: which they hadn’t. Even Jane’s elegant business suit and impeccable hair and makeup could not disguise the impact of the preceding days on her. Seven police officers had lost their lives that terrible day and tremendous resources were being thrown into the hunt for McEwan and those that organised the prison break. The Metropolitan Police was in deep shock at the loss of their comrades by such a professional terrorist gang.
Buster spoke whilst stifling a yawn. ‘Absolutely fucking nowhere, boss. A warrant has been issued for McEwan but, beyond that, there is still no clue as to who shot up the armed response vehicles. Witnesses at the scene reported that the bloke who spoke had a Russian accent. CTC are heading up the enquiry and I understand from my contact on the team that they are getting nowhere fast. Neither of the bikes have been found and CCTV has thrown very little up. Absolutely nothing is coming in from any of the usual intelligence sources.’
‘Jesus. Nothing? Someone must be talking, somewhere,’ Jane said, massaging her temples with her fingers.
‘Security service have had a whisper, but it is only a whisper, that a Ukrainian gang of mercenaries were brought in ’specially to spring McEwan out of jail. Apparently, they have already gone back home,’ Buster said regretfully.
‘Well, the weaponry seems to bear that out,’ said Tom. ‘The RPG launcher they abandoned was of an unusual type: precision made and an improved copy of the Soviet RPG. But it was made in the US: it was one of a large consignment supplied by the Yanks to the Ukrainian National Guard just a year or two ago. A Precision Shoulder Fired Rocket Launcher, or PRSL-1, made by AirTronic in the USA.’
Jane stared at him. ‘So how the hell does a modern version of the RPG-7 end up in England in the hands of a professional hit squad?’
‘CTC via the diplomatic channels have been on to the Ukrainians, but they are not playing ball at the moment,’ Tom said.
‘Fuck,’ Jane said, rubbing her temples once again. ‘This is a lead we have to develop. In fact, it’s the only proper lead we have. We just can’t wait for the wheels of international diplomacy to turn as slowly as they do. We have a weapon made in the States, delivered to the Ukrainian National Guard, and now killing police officers in London. Surely we can use that as leverage?’
‘It seems not,’ Tom shrugged.
Farita spoke up quietly, ‘The Ukrainian angle is interesting from my point of view.’
All eyes in the room turned to look expectantly at the financial investigator.
‘As you know, my enquiries into the holding company, Asquith-Nevison, have been very complex and are moving slowly, but there is a common theme. A good deal of the funds used to purchase the numerous properties have been funnelled through a Ukrainian Bank: CGS Bank in Kiev. Not all of them, you understand, but a significant amount. There was a fairly complex network of offshore trusts and dead-end companies in non-reporting countries, but a significant amount had funds that originated, or passed through, CGS. It could just be a coincidence.’
