Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) (25 page)

‘I am pleased to tell you, Cecilia – may I call you Cecilia? – you have made such good progress this morning that we can now move on to the next stage. This is your advanced lesson. You are fast becoming an expert!’ Cecilia watched her lovely features crease into a smile, showing perfect teeth. She felt a sudden burst of pride: she had discovered a talent she’d never known she had. Now, maybe, she could escape her life of poverty. Her earlier misgivings were forgotten.

Ana María picked up a small black rectangular object, about the size of her little finger, and held it out for her. ‘You will recognize this, I expect? It is a USB stick, a memory stick, no?’ Cecilia nodded uncertainly. It was true that she had seen them a few times in the offices she cleaned, sticking out of computer drives under the desks where someone had left one, but she had never given them much thought.

‘
Sí, claro
,’ she replied, ‘but I have never thought to ask what they are for.’

‘Ah, you need not concern yourself with that,’ said Ana María, in that soothing tone. ‘Instead, I am going to show you how to attach it to the printer. Like this. Here, you try.’ Cecilia picked up the USB stick and slotted it into the socket. ‘
Bien hecho!
Well done!’ exclaimed her coach. ‘You see? Didn’t I tell you you would soon be a natural with technology? Now, I want you to pick up that object there, the other one, that’s right. It’s called a three-into-one connector. I want you to fit that one into the printer, go on – yes, that’s perfect – and then I want you to fit the USB stick into that. Can you do that for me?
Mira!
You did it! Please practise taking them out and putting them back in while I go next door for a moment.’

When Ana María came back into the room she was carrying a
sheaf of papers, which she now spread out on the table. Cecilia could see they were diagrams.

‘Now,’ she said, her voice dropping lower, suddenly more serious. ‘This is a layout of the office you will be cleaning tomorrow night.’ Tomorrow night? Cecilia’s brow furrowed briefly; the man had not mentioned anything about working a night shift. Could she leave Emilio alone in the flat while she worked? This was a worry and she was only half listening as Ana María continued.

‘The office will be on the third floor of this building here.’ She laid a finger, the nail varnished, on a schematic layout of Permanent Joint Headquarters. ‘It is at Northwood, the government place. Please, Cecilia, I need your full attention. The door is marked here, the windows are here . . . and over in this corner is the desk of someone very important to us. To me. You understand?’

Cecilia nodded, saying nothing. Here it came. The catch. Well, it was not as if she hadn’t been expecting it.

‘I want you, Cecilia, to take these two objects we have here and attach them to the printer in the corner. Exactly like you have been doing here today.
Es nada complicado.
Nothing complicated. But this is the important bit. Nobody, and I mean nobody, must see you do this, you understand? You are to wait until you are alone in that room and there is no one coming. And then I want you to place the waste bin in front of it, so it hides it. You follow me?’ Cecilia followed her. She just didn’t like the direction this was going in.

‘And that’s all I have to do?’ she asked in a guarded tone. The warm glow she had felt all day had evaporated.

‘Not quite,’ said Ana María. ‘You will be working night shifts for your first week – everyone has to when they start. On the second night you are to remove both devices from the printer and hide them somewhere personal.’ Ana María glanced down meaningfully at the Colombian woman’s ample bosom. ‘I’m sure you will think of a hiding place. When the night shift is over and you leave Northwood in the morning you are to turn right out of the gate and walk down the hill through the woods towards the station. At the first layby on the right a man will be waiting for
you in a car – you know him. He has come to your home. You will give him the two devices and he will give you a lift to the station. You will tell no one about any of this.’

Cecilia stepped back a pace from the table and looked at the woman she had thought was becoming her friend. A hard edge had crept into Ana María’s voice and she, Cecilia, was deeply uneasy about what she was being asked to do. Of course, she knew that her late husband had been mixed up in all sorts of business but that was his concern, not hers. Her record was squeaky clean. And this smelt like trouble. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Can I think it over?’

‘No,’ said Ana María flatly. ‘There is no time.’

‘I think maybe I have made a mistake in coming here today,’ said Cecilia, gathering up her coat and preparing to leave. ‘Can we just forget this? I will tell no one, you have my word.’

Ana María stepped to one side, neatly blocking her exit. She was nearly a head and shoulders taller than Cecilia and now she looked down at her, staring hard at the Colombian cleaner’s face. Gone were the soft, coaxing tones of this morning as Ana María said, ‘Of course, you can refuse, but I wouldn’t advise it.’ She pronounced each syllable carefully. As she did so she pulled out a photograph from inside her jacket. ‘I believe this is your son, Emilio?’

Cecilia staggered backwards, both her hands going to her mouth to stifle a cry. ‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded. ‘Leave my boy out of this. What could you want with him?’

Ana María gripped Cecilia firmly by the shoulders and held her gaze. ‘I want there to be no misunderstanding between us. If you refuse this small task, I promise you will never see your son again. Is that clear enough?’

THE CHINOOK IS
a giant twin-rotored beast of a helicopter, a metallic pterodactyl of the skies. At thirty metres long and able to carry up to forty fully laden troops, it has been the workhorse of Western military operations since as far back as the Vietnam War. Naturally, Luke had spent more of his life in them than he cared to think, strapped into a canvas bucket seat, his helmet strap chafing his jaw, exchanging glances with fellow Marines as they helicoptered into some sand-blasted battlespace in Iraq or Afghanistan. Today, though, was an airborne cab ride to the West Country, and he felt a familiar wave of exhilaration as he ducked his head to meet the blast of downdraught from the rotors and strode quickly up the rear ramp, a day sack of essentials slung over his shoulder. He was alive, he was back in play, and he was heading for the action.

Curiously, the throbbing pain in his foot, such an unwelcome feature of the last few days, had subsided, pushed into second place by the adrenalin that flowed through his veins. He felt a pang of guilt at the lengths to which Elise had gone to speed his recovery. In return he had abandoned her again, slipping out of the door just forty minutes after that phone call from Angela. Still, it was not as if he was going back to South America, he had reassured her, just a quick trip to Cornwall, should be back in a few days. Hopefully.

The loadmaster gave Luke the thumbs-up, indicated where he should sit with a vertical slicing motion of the hand, and spoke into his helmet-mike. The ramp went up and seconds later they were lifting clear of Battersea heliport, dropping the nose, angling the tail and powering westwards along the Thames, rising quickly over the traffic jams on Putney Bridge and heading for the checkpoint on the map that RAF helicopter pilots call Hotel Two. At three hundred metres above the M3, the pilot spoke briefly into his headset to welcome Luke aboard, and in no time at all they were over the south coast, heading out to sea, then west for Falmouth and the nearby Royal Naval Air Station at Culdrose.

They landed into the wind a short distance from a giant green hangar. As the pilot powered down, Luke caught sight of a short, broad-chested man in a camouflage smock striding forward to greet him.

Once the ramp had gone down he disembarked. ‘Buster!’

‘Hey, Carlton. Heard they were sending you.’

The two men shook hands, old comrades-in-arms from operational tours with the Royal Marines in Kajaki and Sangin, two of the most dangerous places to serve in Afghanistan. A fearsome operator in the field, Buster Loames had always had a certain reputation. Once, after losing a bet in a Plymouth pub on a Saturday night, he had shed his clothes and run butt-naked up Union Street before the police could catch him. It had nearly cost him his commission. Well, those antics were in the past now, thought Luke, as he noticed the woven crown on Buster’s combat smock. ‘Can’t believe they’ve actually given you a squadron to command,’ he said, as they walked away from the Chinook towards the hangar. ‘Major Loames . . . It just doesn’t sound right. What’s the Corps coming to?’

‘Easy there, Carlton, or I’ll have your bedding moved into the latrines.’

Luke gave him a back-handed punch to the solar plexus. It was rock hard.

Banter over, the two men fell silent as they walked into the
hangar, recent memories of Afghanistan coming fleetingly back to them. Inside, several dozen men with large chests and unruly hair were perched on the edge of green camp beds, cleaning their Diemaco assault rifles, checking the laser sights and muzzle-suppressors. An SBS assault troop preparing for an op.

A chill passed down Luke’s spine as he experienced a flashback. This had been almost the exact scene in another country just over two weeks ago, at a Jungla barracks. Ten good men had died on that op, Luke the only one to walk out alive. All that training, all that experience, gone in a blaze of bullets. The thought of it haunted him.

‘Care for a wet, boss?’ A corporal was standing in front of him, holding out a Styrofoam cup of steaming grey liquid. Military tea. Luke knew it would taste like dishwater but he took it anyway and thanked the man.

‘We’re still getting set up here, as you can see,’ remarked Major Loames. ‘The troop only got here this morning and we’re having a few problems with the comms, but we should be good to go from tomorrow. We’re currently minus one of the Fleet divers – he’s on his way down from Arbroath – but otherwise we’re operational.’ He motioned for Luke to follow him over to a corner of the hangar, where several men were discussing a laminated map, balanced on an easel. It showed the Cornish coast and the south-western approaches to the English Channel, with the locations of various vessels and distances between them marked in purple chinagraph pencil.

‘Let me introduce you to our ops officer,’ said Loames, turning to a well-built figure with a squashed boxer’s nose. ‘Luke, this is Captain Chris Shaw. Chris, this is the bloke from London I was telling you would be joining us as liaison. He’s from the dark side now, but he used to be one of us, so be nice to him. Gents, I’ll leave you to it.’ And Loames was gone, off to chase down a hundred and one things on his mental checklist.

The ops officer held out a giant hand to Luke, then dismissed the men he had been talking to. ‘I’ll see you later, guys . . . So,’ he said, turning to Luke with a lopsided smile, ‘good to be back?’

‘Yeah, it is.’

Shaw peered closer at Luke’s face, with its faint traces of purple bruising beneath the eye, the healing cuts and fast-fading South American tan. ‘I won’t ask where you’ve just been,’ said Shaw, ‘but it looks like you got knocked about a fair bit.’

Luke shrugged. ‘You could say that.’

‘Right, let’s talk shop,’ said Shaw, sweeping a hand over the map beside them. ‘You know we’re lining up for an interdiction at sea. The lads are on thirty minutes’ notice to move. Question is, which vessel is our target? That’s where we’re hoping your people at Vauxhall Cross can enlighten us so we can get the job done and all go home. J2 intel says it’s coming from the Caribbean, and Fleet reckon it’s a small- to medium-sized freighter. Which means we’ve got every port from Merseyside all the way round the south coast and up to the Humber on standby.’

‘What if it’s heading for Scotland?’

‘Good question, well put,’ replied Shaw. ‘Fleet HQ, in their wisdom, don’t seem to think that’s a possibility. We’re focusing on a south-westerly approach. Task Force HQ have offered us a mix of helos on call – Merlins, Sea Kings and CH47s. I’ve put together a package that can deliver enough of our operators onto the deck to take it down and secure the cargo the moment we get the word.’ Shaw dropped his voice a shade lower, even though there was enough activity going on inside the hangar to mask whatever he was going to say. ‘Speaking of that, um, the boss and I would really appreciate it if you were able to give us an early heads-up on timings. Strictly on the down-low, you know.’

Luke smiled. He’d have been asking exactly the same thing if he were in Shaw’s position. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied.

Shaw looked up at the roof of the hangar as a low drumming started above them. Rain. ‘That’s another thing. NCI say the forecast is truly crap.’

‘NCI?’ All these acronyms.

‘National Coastguard Initiative. It’s the volunteers down at Lizard Point. They’ve got their own radar and their reports tend
to be spot on. They’re currently giving us a sea state of four to five. If it’s still up that high when we get the off, it’s too much for a boarding at sea – the waves will smash the lads to pieces.’

‘I remember,’ said Luke.

‘Of course you do, sorry.’ Shaw grinned. ‘Whatever it is that’s steaming in here across the Atlantic, it’s going to have some seasick matelots onboard by now. Anyway, it’ll be helos all the way for us on this one. I’m putting eight operators into each of two Sea Kings and the rest on a Chinook. That will include the medics, signallers, bomb disposal and a liaison bod from Police National Counter-terrorism. And yourself. I take it your people want you in on this one? Oh, and if you see any blokes walking on in space suits, that’s the HAZMAT guys. Task Group Headquarters are taking no chances with this thing.’

‘Any idea how long you’re going to be standing by for, if we don’t get the word in the next day or so?’

‘How long’s a piece of string?’ said Shaw. ‘It’ll be a case of hurry-up-and-wait, won’t it?’

For the first time since leaving London, Luke felt the pain in his foot returning. It was always the waiting before an op that got to him.