Going Dark Page 20

  ‘Where is this safety box? You’d better not be shitting me, Novak.’

  ‘I’ve had a safe deposit box for years. Why wouldn’t I put something so important in there? Your tame policeman must have told you I have one. Come on, be logical.’ This was a calculated risk. Taylor and his people had obviously done a financial profile on Tom when tracking him, and that would have revealed the Holborn bank branch where he had the box. His thoughts briefly turned to the two remaining diamonds tucked safely away there.

  There was a pause at the end of the line that seemed interminable.

  ‘Eleven tomorrow at a place of my choosing. Just remember, Novak: I own you. I will be tracking this phone, so you must leave it on. If you try anything stupid, your mother will lose another finger. I will call you every so often to make sure you’re in London and not trying to do anything stupid. Remember, I will know everything you’re doing. Your family is being held by men who would enjoy killing them and your cooperation is the only way to keep them alive. Now, do you understand, Novak?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tom, quietly.

  The phone beeped as the call was finished.

  Pet looked at him. ‘I think I got the gist of that. Arken is hitting a cell mast close to your family’s place. I’ve run him through the CIA database and he’s a nasty piece of work: ex-White Eagle, suspected of multiple murders, and an active and dangerous criminal in Scotland and Bosnia.’ A photograph of a Slavic-featured man in his fifties with dark hair and a broken nose filled the screen. Tom stared at it, committing the image to memory.

  ‘Right, lets pack up and get out of here, and I need Mike Brogan on the phone.’

  *

  Minutes later they left the basement car park in the Passat and exited onto City Road. All the equipment, including the laser-listener, were stowed in the boot.

  ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘I have no choice; I have to get to my family. There’s no way Branko is going to let them live, not a chance in hell. As soon as I hand over the card, we all get killed.’

  ‘But what can you do? Why not just call it in? Let the professionals handle it.’

  ‘I can’t. Taylor would be bound to hear about it and then they’re dead. I have to do this on my own.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘If I leave my phone with you in London, will you be able to divert calls to me on the satellite without anyone knowing?’

  ‘I’m sure I can. I would need to route the call via VOIP into a sat-com. I’m sure it would be achievable. Your iPhone would hit the London cell sites and, to all intents and purposes, it would be as if you were speaking on your phone.’

  ‘Right. I just need to get to the Highlands sooner than they could ever expect. Can you get Mike on the line for me over speakerphone?’

  When Mike answered the call, Tom brought him up to speed without preamble.

  ‘Jesus, Tom. This is bad. What do you need?’

  ‘I need to get to Inverness airport urgently. I need to be there much faster than they would expect me to get there. Can you help?’

  ‘Possibly. But are you sure you want to go dashing up there alone? Can’t the kidnap squad lead this?’

  ‘No way. Simon Taylor is corrupt and has influence; he would hear of it immediately and then my family is dead. They’re all I have left, Mike.’ Despite his even tone, there was no hiding the desperation in his voice.

  ‘Wait by this line and I’ll call back in ten minutes.’

  Tom pulled into a side street just short of Upper Street and stopped the car.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Pet.

  ‘I’m hoping Mike has some resource that can get me to their house quickly. I can watch without being expected and then figure out a way to take the gunmen out. If I was going to drive up there, it would take at least ten hours; but a flight is just over an hour. It would give me the element of surprise I badly need.’

  ‘You only have the Sig, and you can’t take that on a flight.’

  ‘I’ll improvise; I’m good at that.’

  The sat-phone buzzed.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Islington, in a car with blue lights and a siren.’

  ‘Okay. Get yourself to RAF Northolt, go to the main gate and get Pet to take the car away. You’re expected. There’s a jet ready to take you on a priority flight path to Inverness airport; it’ll take less than an hour. You have some photo ID?

  ‘A driving licence in my cover name.’

  ‘Okay. You’ll need to show that. You can’t take any weapons through the gate or on the flight so lose whatever you have. I’ve arranged for a tactical package to be made available for you. I know I said I couldn’t give you any equipment, but this has gone up to a level where I am gonna pull some strings. My representative on the flight has access to some irregular resources that we tend to reserve for special circumstances. I think we can call this a special circumstance, Tom. Use the flight to acquaint yourself with the contents. It’s nothing you’ve not seen before, but my representative on the flight can answer any questions. Sorry, my friend, I can’t give you any manpower on the ground.’

  ‘That’s no problem, Mike. You’re doing more than I expected. Thanks, man,’ he said, the gratitude heartfelt in his voice.

  ‘We can get you to the airport, but after that it’s over to you.’

  ‘That’ll be enough. I’ve another favour to call in elsewhere.’

  ‘I want you to stay in constant contact with Pet: there’s a communications kit in the tactical package. We may also be able to offer some real-time support, technically. I may be able to divert a satellite or two.’

  ‘I will, Mike, and thanks.’

  ‘Best of luck, man.’ And he was gone.

  Tom looked at his watch, it was 1645 hours. Branko would be expecting him to hand over the SD card in eighteen-and-a-quarter hours.

  ‘We will need to secrete my phone somewhere en route and leave it switched on. I don’t want them seeing it close to the RAF base. I know a place, but you’ll need to retrieve it as quick as you can after you’ve dropped me off, in case he calls. I think we are safe for an hour or two, though.’

  Pet nodded in agreement as Tom started the engine and then pressed two hidden switches just below the steering column. A wailing noise erupted from the bonnet area and he engaged the automatic gearbox, speeding off west, weaving through the dense traffic. His face was a mask of pure concentration as the city at rush hour flew past, the blue strobe lights concealed within the grille flashing urgently.

  *

  The journey to RAF Northolt took just under half-an-hour, the only sound inside the car the wail of the sirens. At Hanger Lane on the A40, Tom pulled into a small cul-de-sac and stashed his iPhone under a loose paving slab beneath a bush. Once at the RAF base he pulled over in the visitor parking bays, removed the keys, and handed them to Pet.

  ‘Take the car and go somewhere safe where we can stay in contact, and retrieve my phone as quick as you can,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the barrier.

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want? You know it’s almost certainly a suicide mission.’ She looked at him, her eyes moist.

  ‘I’ve no choice. My foster family is all I have, and without them I’m all alone. There is no way Branko will let them go, even if I give him what he wants.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There’s no other way, Pet. Take the Sig and go somewhere safe. Be ready for me when I start; I will need your help.’ He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight for a fraction of a second before opening the door. Pet pulled him towards her and threw her arms around his neck, burying her head against his chest.

  ‘Promise me you’ll be careful, Tom,’ she said in a faltering voice.

  ‘Always careful, Pet,’ he said, disentangling himself and fixing her with a smile. The smile didn’t reach his flinty hard eyes, though.

  He got out, carrying nothing but the sat-phone, and strode up to the main gate, which was manned by a
uniformed MPGS guard armed with an SA80 assault rifle. The guard viewed him with mild interest.

  ‘My name is Tom Johnson,’ he said, giving his cover name. ‘I understand I’m expected.’

  ‘Go into the guardroom, sir, and speak to the duty RAF Police.’

  Tom went up to the small window of the guardroom at the side of the barrier, where a middle-aged man dressed in the petrol-blue of the RAF sat. Tom noted the epaulette-mounted rank slides of a sergeant, with the red-and-black insignia of the RAF Police.

  ‘My name is Tom Johnson. Are you expecting me?’ He proffered the driving license and the sergeant took it wordlessly.

  ‘Wait one moment please, sir,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  Tom heard the barking of orders from within the guardroom, shortly followed by the sergeant striding out of the door wearing the white-topped flat cap which gave the RAF Police their nickname: ‘Snowdrops’.

  ‘Follow me please,’ he said, nodding at the armed guard, who in turn raised the vehicle barrier. They walked to a nearby battered Land Rover Defender, which bore the same black-and-red RAF Police insignia.

  ‘Jump in and I’ll take you straight to the terminal. Someone is waiting for you there.’

  The journey took no more than five minutes and was taken in absolute silence. Tom suspected that the sergeant had been warned to ask no questions, owing to the irregular nature of the encounter. His manner was not one of interest or excitement and it seemed that ‘Ask no questions’ visitors were not uncommon, given it was an airfield used regularly by Special Forces from varying countries. Tom himself had deployed over to Northern Ireland on more than one occasion from that base on SRR assignments.

  The Land Rover pulled up alongside a low, white art deco building, which Tom recalled was the small terminal that housed passengers and processed the security procedures. As well as being a fully-functioning RAF base, Northolt handled a large amount of civilian flights, particularly smaller business jets, within the UK and Europe.

  ‘Gentleman to meet you is here now, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Have a good trip,’ he added, almost as an afterthought but with a smile touching his lips.

  Tom nodded his thanks and got out of the vehicle, watching as his greeter approached. He was a tall, well-fleshed serviceman wearing CS95 fatigues bearing the chest-mounted rank insignia of a Squadron Leader. He wore no headdress and had a wide smile on his face.

  ‘I’m Roy McKenzie,’ he said in a light but confident Scottish accent. ‘I run 32 Squadron. I look after all the flights that come and go from this place. I’ve no idea who you are, Tom, but someone in a very high place wants you looked after and on your flight. Immediately.’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Roy.’

  ‘If you follow me, I’ll get you on your flight straight away, lucky bugger. You’re on a HS215.’

  ‘Should I be impressed?’

  ‘It’s the RAF business jet taxi. Whatever clout you have, mate, can you pass some my way?’ He smiled again, showing even, white teeth.

  Tom said nothing but followed in the officer’s wake as he strode through the terminal building and straight to security.

  ‘No luggage or anything you shouldn’t have on a plane, Tom?’

  ‘Nothing: just a phone and driving licence.’

  ‘Right. Whizz through security and you’re on your way, mate.’

  Tom passed through the metal detector arch, having put his phone, belt, and watch through the X-Ray machine. Having cleared security, the Squadron Leader led him at breakneck speed through to the exit gate and out onto the aircraft pan.

  A small twin-engine business jet with red and white decals was waiting, engines already humming. A set of steps that were part of the cabin door were in position, with a suited attendant waiting at the top to greet him.

  ‘Have a good trip and take care of yourself, Tom.’ The Squadron Leader extended his hand, which Tom shook with a firm grip, before smiling, turning on his heels, and striding off.

  Tom ascended the steps, two at a time, and came face-to-face with the man waiting by the door.

  ‘Tom, I assume,’ the man said. He was in his thirties, fit-looking, of average height and build with neat dark hair, dressed in a dark suit and an open-necked shirt. He had a soft New York accent and an open, smiling face.

  ‘I’m Bill Kowalski, an associate of Mike Brogan. He’s asked me to offer you every courtesy. Please, welcome aboard, Tom.’ He extended his hand which Tom shook; there was no trial of strength, just a genuine warmth.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Bill. Are we ready to go?’

  ‘Yep, fuelled up and ready to rock-and-roll. We’ll have you in Scotland in less than an hour. I’ve also got some kit to talk you through once we’re up; I’m told you will be familiar with most of it. Come on: let’s get going.’

  The aircraft interior was functional and had a military feel in the décor and furnishings.

  ‘Mike didn’t say why, but he said you needed to get to Inverness ASAP. He must like you, Tom,’ said Bill, fixing Tom with a searching stare before turning to deal with the jet’s steps and door, securing them tight.

  ‘We go way back.’

  They sat opposite each other on the leather seats and both fastened their seat belts.

  ‘We have a priority take-off in place, so we’ll get going now. No stewardesses, I’m afraid, but I’ll fix you a coffee once we get going and there’s a sandwich somewhere. No safety briefing, either, but I’m guessing we’ll be fine.’

  The cockpit door was shut and Tom imagined it would stay that way, bearing in mind the unofficial nature of this flight.

  ‘Who does the jet belong to?’

  ‘Your Royal Air Force. Someone senior from our end has put in a phone call to someone senior in the RAF and they’ve very kindly lent us a jet. I came along from Northwood with the tactical package.

  ‘Well, I’m very grateful. The quicker I’m in Scotland, the better.’

  Within seven minutes, the engines roared and they were away. Tom looked out of the window and watched West London disappear below him, his mind turning over what lay ahead. He looked at his watch: 1735 hours.

  *

  As soon as they’d reached cruising altitude Tom asked Bill, ‘Am I good to make a sat-call on here?’

  ‘Go ahead. Something important?’

  ‘I just need to plan my onward journey,’ Tom said, punching in a number.

  ‘Hello?’ a broad Highland accent barked down the phone.

  ‘Donnie, it’s Tom.’

  ‘Tommy, my boy, where have you been? We were supposed to all go fishing last month; what happened?’

  Donnie was an old family friend. He’d served with Cameron over many years in the Marines, both rising through the ranks together. He was a legendary character: joined at sixteen, fought in the Falklands War, highly decorated, and eventually commissioned as a helicopter pilot. He’d stayed in the Corp for over thirty years, retiring a couple of years previously when he managed to get employment with Bristow Group in Inverness as a search-and-rescue pilot. It was a perfect home-from-home for Donnie, as almost all the pilots and crew were ex-Navy or RAF. He lived close by Cameron and Shona and they remained good friends, often going out on the hills and fishing together. He was also a big character who didn’t suffer fools gladly but would do anything for Cameron and Tom.

  ‘Listen, Donnie, I don’t have time to explain. I’m on my way up now and will be at Inverness airport in about forty-five minutes. Please tell me you’re on duty?’

  ‘Certainly am, mate: on all night. What’s going on?’

  ‘For reasons I don’t want to go into right now, I urgently need a lift up to the bothy as soon as I land. It is, quite literally, a matter of life-and-death. Can you help?’

  ‘Possibly, son. But I’ll need a little more than that.’

  ‘It’s to do with Cam and Shona and it’s urgent—as in life-and-death urgent—and I can’t call it in officially or it will all go bad. I’ll ex
plain as much as I can once I get there. Can you trust me that much at least?’

  ‘Tom, I trust you, of course, and I owe Cameron everything. I’ll meet you off the plane; what flight are you on?’

  ‘It won’t be on the flight list. It’s a standard RAF business jet: I think it’s an HS215. It will be there in about forty minutes.’

  ‘Jesus, are you on a private jet now? I’m intrigued. I’ll meet you there.’

  Bill looked quizzically at Tom, one eyebrow raised slightly.

  ‘I seem to be calling in a lot of favours at the moment.’

  Bill reached behind him and pulled out a plain, matte black, vulcanised Pelican case. ‘Shall I brief you on the tactical package Mike asked me to leave you with?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Bill snapped the case open, revealing that it was inlaid with dense foam with cut-outs storing various items. Bill reached inside and pulled out a short machine pistol.

  ‘Heckler and Koch MP7 personal defence weapon, telescopic stock, folding front-hand grip. It has 4.6 x 30mm ammunition, and this one has an Armasight NYX 3 third generation night-scope with eight-times magnification. Are you familiar with this weapon?’ Bill was clipped and business-like in his delivery.

  Tom nodded. ‘I used it in the military but not with this sight.’

  ‘It’s a great sight, can be used without magnification and it’s the latest generation of night vision tech. Ideally it would be zeroed before operational use.’

  That was generally the case with many firearms. They needed to be test-fired and adjusted to suit the individual user, owing to natural variances in eyesight.

  Bill pulled out a long, black, flat metallic box from one of the cut-outs and screwed it on the front of the MP7.

  ‘Gemtech 4.6mm brick suppressor. It’s really effective but, if you’re firing the normal high-velocity rounds, it won’t be that effective against the noise. You have four magazines, plus three forty-round boxes with standard copper-jacketed, armour-piercing rounds that will make short work of anyone in body armour. You also have one twenty-round magazine containing some made-to-measure subsonic rounds that will be all but inaudible if shot from any kind of distance. A hundred metre headshot would take out an enemy and no one would hear anything. Okay so far?’