Going Dark Page 4

  ‘Operation Springfield’ was the headline on the screen. Jean cleared her throat and spoke in a broad Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Op Springfield is the investigation into a Bosnian Serb gang that are trafficking vulnerable women into the UK from Sarajevo, mostly with the intention of working them as prostitutes and, as a bonus, using them for sham marriages to foreign nationals already here. Once married, they claim EU status and get a five-year stay. The grooms are charged a fortune, up to ten grand a pop.’

  She pressed the remote, and the slide changed to mug-shots of four men and a woman.

  ‘These are our main subjects. Sat at the top is Mira Branko, who is also the mother of Aleks and Luka Branko. Mira’s husband, Zjelko Branko, is currently in jail in Switzerland serving a nine-year sentence. He was apparently very well connected and involved in high-value robberies of jewellers all over Europe and beyond. Interpol have him pegged as one of the Pink Panther diamond thieves who’ve been tearing the arse out of all the high-priced jewellers in Monaco and places like that, proper multi-million-pound thefts. There is intelligence that he was an active paramilitary during the Balkan wars and was responsible for some terrible acts. We also have some unconfirmed intelligence that he was responsible for a number of contract killings that took place across the Balkans. All-in-all, he is a thoroughly dangerous sadist. We have literally just managed to deport their footsoldiers: Zoran Radic and Mirko Zoric. All five came over in the nineties as refugees and one of our caseworkers managed to prove that Zoran and Mirko came over on false documents. This obviously leaves us in a position where they are now short-handed and may be looking for a new recruit to assist them. This is where we hope you can come in. Any questions so far?’

  Tom had nothing yet, so Inspector McDonald continued.

  ‘Mira tends to deal with the girls and acts as the Madam when they’re working in the pop-up brothels. The brothers recruit them in Sarajevo and bring them over on forged or stolen Slovenian passports, which is handy for them with Slovenia being in the EU. They generally come overland by car and ferry, but sometimes by air. Mira can be particularly spiteful and treats the girls like crap once they’re here.

  ‘They’ve been using a dirty solicitor in East London to make the introductions to prospective grooms and submit the applications to Visas and Immigration once the sham marriage has gone down.’ She pressed the remote again and an image of an African man in his thirties flashed onto the screen. He was slim, with thinning hair, a clipped beard, and moustache. He was smiling slightly at the camera; Tom guessed it was a publicity photograph. The man had deep-set, impenetrable eyes that projected no warmth to accompany the smile.

  ‘This is Michael Adebayo. He is the sole solicitor at Adebayo Associates Solicitors, and he came to the UK aged eight with his parents. He’s a Christian by birth but converted to Islam at university. His firm is an immigration specialist and the analysts looking at the applications he has submitted have raised some serious concerns. We think he is submitting hundreds of corrupt applications every year. It seems he is active at the local mosque and, as he’s been so successful, he is inundated with clients of all nationalities. In the eight years Adebayo Associates have been trading, he has submitted over seven thousand applications, many with serious question marks about them. Financially, he is very wealthy and has made a fortune out of his trade. He’s the only solicitor at the firm; the other staff are unqualified caseworkers. He’s a clever man as he only employs local employees who are all multi-lingual, so he can see and deal with all types of clients. He is a terrible employer and a really nasty piece of work, apparently: everyone is terrified of him. He also has a brother, Emmanuel Adebayo, who seems to be his link to the underworld.’

  A further image flashed up on the screen of another African male who looked similar to Michael Adebayo but with a much larger build, close-cropped hair and a short, trimmed goatee beard. His face was twisted in a grim, arrogant expression and his flat, dull eyes were so dark they almost looked black.

  ‘We think Emmanuel sorts the forged documents required for supporting bogus applications and provides security and muscle if things get a bit lively with unsatisfied customers, of which there are lots. He got out of prison a year ago: he got four years for GBH after he battered one of his brother’s customers to a pulp when he went to his office to complain that his application for leave to remain got refused—’

  ‘Jean, do we have a source for any of that intelligence?’ Neil interrupted.

  ‘Not directly into the solicitor’s firm, but there has been some anonymous intelligence, probably from ex-staff members and clients about his business practices. We can’t just go storming into his offices: because of legal privilege we’d get our arses sued off. We need a solid, prima facie case before we go in. We do have a live informant on the periphery of the Bosnians. He’s done some work with the Branko brothers, but he’s not a hard man so is of no real use to them. I think they’ll need some extra muscle and you could be that muscle, Tom.’ She fixed him with an appraising look.

  Not an intercept then, thought Tom.

  ‘I understand from Neil that you’re something of an expert in martial arts?’ she asked.

  Tom suppressed a grin. ‘I wouldn’t use the word expert, Jean. I’ve wrestled and boxed pretty much all my life and I’ve been doing Muay Thai and ju-jitsu for about ten years. I can probably hold my own,’ he said modestly. The truth was that, had Tom led a more settled life, he could have achieved a great deal of competitive success in any one of his disciplines.

  ‘How are your languages? I understand they speak English most of the time, having been here many years. But any ability you have could only help.’

  ‘I’m okay in Serbo-Croat and can manage in most of the region’s dialects,’ said Tom. ’They’re pretty similar.’

  Peter De-Glanville piped up at last. ‘How much more information will you need on the big picture?’ he asked.

  ‘I prefer to not to know too much,’ Tom replied. ‘It makes it easier to be natural once I meet them. Who are your priorities here?’

  De-Glanville paused for a moment. ‘Ideally we want the lot of them, but with the amount of applications coming in from the solicitor, we want to take him down as a priority. It makes a better headline and will save us a lot of time and money. The Brankos would be a bonus; I have to say, some of the intelligence reports filtering through make it clear that the brothers are very nasty. Some of their clients have been sadistically beaten, particularly by Luka: it seems he enjoys inflicting pain. The victims are all too scared to come forward and go on record, given the reputation of the Branko family. It seems they have inherited their father’s violent tendencies.’

  ‘Any info on guns by the gang?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Not that we know about, although their father is heavily linked with firearms from his paramilitary days. My understanding is that they intimidate physically. The punters they engage with aren’t villains, they’re just desperate to stay in the UK,’ Jean said.

  Wilkinson nodded. ‘I think we have enough background. We need to get a cover officer assigned and develop Tom’s undercover legend, make sure it’s all back-stopped. It’s not bad already, but it needs some tweaking so it can hold water. Can the informant do an introduction into the Branko’s gang for Tom?’

  De-Glanville nodded. ‘I’m told he’s as reliable as any snout can be. The martial arts may be a good inner. Luka fancies himself as a bit of a cage fighter and he loves a tear-up. If Tom gives him a good bout, he’ll be easily impressed and that might get him onside. We can arrange a meet with you guys and the informant and then come up with a plan. Jean will forward you by secure email a detailed briefing pack with all the photos and everything else you need.’

  ‘Right,’ said Neil, ‘that’s enough to be moving on with.’

  *

  Tom made his way back home, a briefing for the next day planned with his cover officer to iron out the plan around his legend. He would need to be ready for an
y questioning by the Branko brothers, especially as they were his countrymen. His interest in the assignment was high, especially as one of them was a solicitor. The fact that he had limited information didn’t concern him; too much intelligence could be a dangerous thing and could cause unnatural reactions when deployed. If, for instance, he was told that one of the brothers always concealed a knife in his sock, it may cause him to react if a leg was innocently scratched. In many ways, it was safer not to know: if you could improvise, you could generally cope. Tom was confident in his ability to think on his feet; he’d had plenty of practise.

  He got changed into his training gear and beasted himself with a punishing exercise routine for a full hour to clear his mind.

  6

  The gym was in a grubby Islington side street, just a stone’s throw from Angel Tube station. Tom approached it with the informant, Ivan, a small, nervous young man in his twenties with sharp features and a wispy moustache and beard. He spoke good English, but they conversed in Serbian to maintain Tom’s cover. They had already spent a couple of hours with Liam, the cover officer, coming up with a cover story which they’d deliberately kept very straightforward.

  ‘I’m, a simple man, Tom. You know my brain won’t let me come up with a complicated cover story, so it won’t,’ Liam had said, exaggerating his sardonic Northern Irish accent. He was a funny man with a gentle, self-deprecating line in humour. He was very sharp, though, which contrasted with his rather hang-dog expression, messy greying hair and poor taste in clothing.

  They agreed that Tom and Ivan’s cover story was that they’d met in a pub and got chatting once they realised they were both Serbians. Tom was going to be known as Tomo Kovac, a refugee orphan from Sarajevo who had been more recently living in Glasgow, where he had done some security and door work before making his way to London to look for something new. He had in reality spent plenty of time in Glasgow and knew the city well, meaning that he could deal with any questions they may throw at him. He would present himself as being a bit dodgy and open to any offers that came his way.

  The story was that Tomo was looking for a gym to train at for mixed martial arts, which would put him in the sights of the Branko brothers. Using his real first name would mean he would react naturally when it was used. He hoped that impressing the brothers in the ring would be the key to the infiltration. Ivan had said that Luka Branko was ‘Good but not that good’ at MMA fighting, but was good at Brazilian ju-jitsu and grappling. He liked to be tested but was in possession of a massive ego and apparently didn’t react well if he lost. Tom was confident enough in his own ability to be able to take Luka close but still ‘lose’ by just enough to massage the Serbian’s ego, and hopefully make the right impression.

  In these assignments, legends were kept as simple and as close to the undercover officer’s real history as possible. Simplicity made things easy to remember, especially when Ivan was introducing Tom to the Branko brothers. They wanted Ivan out of the picture pretty much straight away, as he wasn’t a professional, would be very jumpy and, to be frank, Tom didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Anyone willing to sell their friends and accomplices down the river for a few quid, or because of some pressure being applied, was at risk of switching sides back again if it was of some advantage to them. Informants were the lifeblood of covert policing, but Tom had never met one he could trust.

  The cover story had been rehearsed and Liam, as cover officer, gave the official briefings, warning, as always, that Tom couldn’t act as an agent provocateur. This meant he couldn’t encourage others to commit a crime that they wouldn’t have committed without his involvement.

  They were ready.

  As soon as they entered the gym, the smells and noises instantly relaxed Tom; it was an environment he’d known since childhood. Ever since his papa had taken him to wrestle in the gyms in Sarajevo, he’d relished getting involved in contact sports.

  He’d carried this on after settling in Scotland and then into the military, practicing the disciplines of grappling, boxing, kick-boxing, and Brazilian Ju-Jitsu, or BJJ. BJJ had become popular in the Marines while he was serving and was his sport of choice. He enjoyed that it was highly technical as well as brutally physical. Technique trumped size and power every time. The upside of BJJ was that you could practise all the time: something you couldn’t do in boxing, kick-boxing, or MMA unless you wanted to spend all your life nursing concussions. You could go full-bore at BJJ and grappling and, every time you were locked or choked out, you learnt a little more. A smaller guy could easily defeat a much bigger guy simply through technical expertise.

  When on deployments with SRR, BJJ practise had become a big part of their training regime. It could be practised anywhere, was relevant to the job, and was a good pastime in the long periods of inactivity that often blight soldiering.

  The Islington gym was a large, cavernous area with big matted grappling zones, a weights zone, kettlebell racks, squat racks, and strong-man zones. Old tractor tyres, battle ropes, sledge hammers and atlas stones dotted the training areas. It was not a corporate gym with treadmills, cross trainers and weights machines, but a serious, no-frills establishment for dedicated trainers. Hard-core kit for hard-core workouts. Thumping heavy metal music shook the air, competing with the sounds of exertion, shouts and grunts from a mix of all types of people. City businessmen rubbed shoulders with rough looking, tattooed monsters and slim females, all training hard. The motto: ‘Train Hard or Go Home’ was emblazoned on a large poster on the wall facing the entrance. The painted walls streamed with condensation, rolling in rivulets down the chipped surfaces.

  Ivan had a quiet word with the gym owner, a brute of a man in his fifties dressed in a grey sweatshirt and jeans, hunkered in front of a battered laptop. He looked Tom up and down, nodded and then said in a surprisingly light voice, ‘I’m Tommy. This is my place. Have a trial week, mate, if you want. Ivan here tells me you’re a handy MMA man. If you like it, we’ll sort you out with a membership.’ He winked and then turned back to his laptop.

  Tom went into the changing rooms and emerged wearing shorts and a tight rash vest and trainers. He began gently warming up, going through a series of stretches and Pilates movements, while Ivan kept a look-out for Luka. Tom’s routine drew some quizzical looks from one or two of the guys pumping iron, but Tom smiled inwardly; he was always careful with his warm-ups and it helped him mentally. Once warm and stretched, he moved over to the squat rack and loaded up an Olympic bar and began his usual squat routine, loading the 20kg plates and increasing after every set. He started light, at 80kg, pushing the repetitions out with strict form, head back, pushing though the heels and lowering himself fully at the end of each repetition.

  After a while he became aware that Ivan was watching him, accompanied by a well-built, muscular man with dirty blonde hair and sleeve tattoos on both arms. He immediately recognised Luka from the briefing pictures. Ignoring both, he loaded the bar up with his working weight of 180kg, carefully pushed out a good solid six repetitions and then re-set the bar on the rack. As he finished, Ivan and Luka approached.

  ‘Tomo, this is a friend of mine, Luka,’ said Ivan. ‘He loves a bit of BJJ and MMA. Luka, Tomo is a fellow countryman.’

  Luka stepped forward, an imposing man with heavy Slav features and broad, muscular shoulders squeezed into a sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off. He was powerfully built: a similar height to Tom at about six-foot-tall but at least twenty to thirty pounds heavier, mostly muscle. He extended his hand and gripped Tom’s hand with a firm shake, smiling to show a row of crowded teeth.

  ‘You any good at rolling, my friend? I always struggle to get someone to roll with, who can stay with me for more than a minute.’ A glimmer of sarcasm was detectable in his deep, even voice. ‘Rolling,’ the term used by BJJ practitioners to describe practice bouts.

  Tom met his stare. ‘Good to meet you. I can roll pretty well; happy to help you out. I’ll see if I can last more than a minute,’

&nb
sp; ‘Where are you from, Tomo?’ Suspicion and reserve deep in his face.

  ‘Sarajevo. Came over when I was twelve at the start of the siege.’

  ‘How come we’ve never met? Not so many of us Serbs about.’

  A slight interrogation starting already, thought Tom. Not even a subtle one.

  ‘I grew up in Scotland. I was an orphan and lived all over, but I’ve only been down here a couple of months. You want to roll, or talk?’

  The Serbian smiled. ‘Come on then, let’s see if you’re as tough as Ivan says.’

  They moved through to the MMA area. Luka stripped off his sweatshirt and track pants, pulling on a skin-tight rash vest similar to Tom’s. He was well-muscled but, Tom noticed with a touch of satisfaction, carrying a bit too much fat for proper efficiency. They faced each other on the matting in the dojo area, bumped fists, and then took the fighting stance.