Adrian Magson - Deception

‘Lieutenant, my name’s Harry Tate, attached to the Recovery Office in the Ministry of Defence, London. I think we work in the same line of business.’

‘Sounds like we do, Mr Tate. What’s the problem?’ Garcia sounded businesslike, but her tone was a good deal warmer than that of her boss.

Harry gave her the details. While he was talking, he heard a burst of conversation in the background at the end of the line, then the sound of a door closing. A man’s voice said something close by and there was an intake of breath as if Garcia were mouthing something in reply. Another rumble of background conversation was followed by a door closing, this time with a firm snap. Garcia said, ‘Uh. . thank you, Mr Tate. I’ll have to get back to you on that.’

‘Is there a problem?’ Harry’s antennae were twitching. Something told him that Garcia had just received a visitor, most probably her boss, Major Dundas. She sounded distracted. What the hell was going on?

‘Uh, no. . not really. I’ve been advised that our system’s down for a routine maintenance check, so I’m not able to access those files right now. We should be up and running again later. . say in an hour?’

Harry gave her his email and phone number, then thanked her and rang off, puzzled by what had sounded like a blatant delaying tactic. If what he’d heard about the amount of money being thrown into the Department of Defense for IT systems was true, they should have an answer very quickly. But instinct told him that wasn’t going to happen.

An hour and a half later, Lieutenant Garcia still hadn’t called back. Harry gave it another twenty minutes, then called Fort Knox and asked to be put through to the lieutenant’s extension.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the receptionist after a few moments. ‘I’m afraid Lieutenant Garcia’s in conference.’

‘Can you interrupt it? It’s very urgent.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. There’s a strict protocol on this session: no calls allowed.’

‘I see. The system’s still down, then?’

‘Sir?’ The receptionist sounded puzzled. ‘There’s no problem with the system. I’ve been on it all day and it’s fine.’

Harry thanked her politely and cut the call.

Someone wasn’t telling the truth.

A few miles away, Ganic and Zubac had pulled off the M25 motorway at the first available exit and were heading north at a fast clip. A phone call from Deakin had given them fresh orders, and they were to report to an address in east London.

‘C’emal?’ Zubac was on the phone, arranging a meeting in a part of the city called Hackney. Neither man had been there before, but they had been assured of a safe reception.

‘Yes, brother. It is good to hear from you again.’ Their contact’s voice was softly familiar, the same voice which had arranged the guns and stun grenades for the attack on Brixton police station. ‘While you are on vacation in the city,’ he continued quickly before Zubac could say anything else, ‘you should call and see your uncle Bakir.’ He gave no address, but Zubac knew it meant they should go to a store in Dalston Lane. ‘Come and visit. We will eat and help you shake the dust from your journey. Eight o’clock. Drive carefully.’

The call was ended. Zubac put the phone away and gave his friend directions.

It was dark by the time they reached Hackney and parked in a side street just off Dalston Lane. They were a few blocks away from the address they had been given, but the car would be safe enough here. Just in case, they used wet-wipes to go over everything they had touched and made sure they left nothing of themselves behind.

They walked the rest of the way, noting familiar smells and sounds, of music and conversation, eyeing the eateries with interest but resisting the temptation to go inside. Being seen in the open around here would be a mistake; if the police had released photographs of them attacking the station, it would not take long for someone to see them and call it in.

Eventually, they found a store trading in all manner of goods from groceries to clothing and kitchenware. The lights were still on although no customers were in evidence. Zubac tried the handle. The door was locked. He tapped on the glass. Seconds later, they were admitted and ushered to the rear of the store, where the air was heavy with the smell of fruit and spices, and the mustier aroma of soft goods and clothing. Three men were standing by the counter at the back, watching the two new arrivals. The man who had let them in remained by the door, watching the street.

Two of the men were in their twenties and dressed in jeans, trainers and jackets, the uniform and appearance of a million others. The third was a large individual with a shaved head, a heavy stomach and beard, and piercing eyes. His hands were resting on the counter.

‘I am C’emal Soran,’ he said, and swept a hand towards the others in introduction. ‘Antun, Davud.’ He did not introduce the man by the door, but it was clearly one of his sons, since he possessed the same build and posture.

Zubac and Ganic nodded and shook hands all round with steady formality, then Soran led them through a door at the back, to a storeroom with a central table and four chairs. The air here was heavy and gritty on the tongue, the floor scattered with a variety of packing materials. The table held a large platter of food, bread and fruit, and alongside stood glasses of juice and bottles of water.

‘Sit, my brothers, sit,’ said Soran and waited for the visitors to take their places, then offered them food and drink. ‘I apologize for the surroundings, but we have a growing mail-order business and not enough room.’ The two younger men sat but did not eat or drink.

‘So,’ Soran said eventually, when Zubac and Ganic were refreshed. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Did the rucksack come back to you?’ asked Zubac, pushing his glass away. ‘There should have been two handguns, some ammunition and three grenades.’ He smiled to soften any implied suggestion that he did not trust the Jamaican who had handled the weapons after the attack. ‘Our thanks for everything — and the car.’

‘It was nothing.’ Soran waved a vague hand. ‘And yes, we have everything back.’ He gave a humourless smile to show that he understood the reason behind the question. ‘We have a good relationship with the Jamaicans. They help us, we help them. Because nobody expects it, it works to our mutual satisfaction. You have need of these things again?’

Zubac nodded. ‘The guns, yes. But first we need these two.’ He lifted his chin to indicate the two younger men, who had so far remained silent, summoned by Soran to listen and be ready to follow instructions.

‘That is why they are here, brother.’

Ganic leaned forward. ‘Are they any good, though? They look very young to me, just out of school.’ He seemed less comfortable with the ritual Zubac had insisted they should observe, and more intent on getting down to business. He stared hard at the two young men, who blinked nervously before looking to Soran for guidance.

‘They are sons of my cousin,’ the older man rumbled, and looked calmly at Ganic as if daring him to question it further. The message was clear: these two are blood relations and therefore vouched for. ‘They have lived here two years and know the city well. They have also been trained in another place. They have many skills.’

Zubac nudged Ganic’s knee under the table, and the taller man shrugged and sat back with a muttered, ‘Very well.’

‘What do you want them for?’ asked Soran, eyes switching back to Zubac.

‘Surveillance work,’ Zubac replied. ‘That is all. Watch and report on a target. . on who comes, who goes, what she does. We will pay well for their time.’