Going rogue, p.10
Going Rogue, page 10
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘So, am I right in thinking that all we have so far is what I have found out about Smith and the email address?’
‘Pretty much. Whoever is controlling this is leaving no trace anywhere else. Let’s get back to the office and talk this through.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home first. I need a shower, a proper meal, and a change of clothes.’
‘Tom, we need to get moving on this.’
‘If I access this email straight away then it may trip suspicions. We need to leave it at least twenty-four hours. It wouldn’t be normal for a guy straight out of prison to do anything else. Plus, I need to get this prison stink off me. Once I’m feeling fresh, we can get this thing moving.’ Tom spoke evenly and without irritation, but he really needed to get home just for a few hours.
‘It’s true, Jane,’ Buster interjected. ‘No way would a bloke get out of jail and be straight on to a far-right terror group. He’d want a beer first.’
Milligan sighed. ‘I guess you’re right. We just need to hope there are no other bombs in the next few hours. I will sell it to our paymasters that we need to allow a little breathing space and have time to properly research the email address. Drive to Tom’s then, Buster. We’ll meet tomorrow morning back at the office.’
Tom sat back, satisfied and looking forward to a few hours at home. The stench of the prison felt like it was ingrained in his pores. He also accepted that several days of high tension was leaving him with the need to just quietly reflect and clear his mind. Once the email was sent, there was no telling where it may lead and when Tom may see his home again.
*
Tom let himself into his ground floor apartment, a unit in a converted sheet metal fabrication warehouse in one of the better roads in Kentish Town. The heavy steel door swung inwards and he deactivated the alarm system before shifting the few days’ worth of post over to the low table without looking at it. He walked through the kitchen and into the bedroom and the en-suite bathroom. Stripping off, he stepped into the large walk-in shower and switched the powerful jets to maximum. He stood under the deluge for a good ten minutes, just letting the water cascade all over him and wash away the stink and grime accumulated from several days in HMP Belmarsh. Then he soaped himself and washed his hair, relishing in the feeling of cleanliness that gradually took over from the grime.
Once finished, he dried quickly and stood before the sink, surveying the reflection that met him in the mirror. He looked as pasty as his Romani heritage would ever allow and his untidy beard bristled. He looked terrible. Tired, drawn, and unhealthy after the time confined with a seething mass of masculine humanity. He took his time cleaning his teeth with his electric toothbrush; the prison-issue brush really had been substandard to say the least, and he was glad to get rid of the furry coating in his mouth.
He pulled on an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and returned to his kitchen, his stomach rumbling. He fixed himself a strong coffee and sat at the breakfast bar inhaling the drink’s heady aroma. His stomach reminded him again that he hadn’t eaten since his paltry breakfast pack earlier that day. Looking at the clock on his oven he saw that it was nearly 3pm. He needed food. Grabbing his keys, he headed out of the apartment and walked to a nearby kebab shop where he bought a chicken shish and large salad which he took straight back home, picking up a couple of beers on the way.
Back in his apartment he hungrily ate the spicy food, washed down with a beer. After the stodgy prison food it felt like the best meal he’d eaten in a long time. He switched on the TV and sat on his leather sofa watching the news on the twenty-four-hour channel, yawning. A journalist stood on a suburban street in South London reporting on the most recent bomb attack that Tom had seen on the news in Smith’s cell just the day before.
‘Unconfirmed reports from the police have revealed that, as of now, thirty-one people have lost their lives including seven children. It seems the device was designed to cause as much damage as possible to the visitors to the Islamic bookshop as well as worshippers attending Friday prayers. The Prime Minister has condemned the bombing as “a heinous attack on our way of life, our acceptance and our shared values, and the cowards that carried out this attack will be caught. They will not prevail.” Local community leaders called for swift action to prevent reprisal attacks.’
Tom tuned out the rest of the report and sat back on the sofa with the detritus of the fast food around him. Just as he was about to doze off, the buzz of his phone jolted him awake.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘Borat? Were you sleeping?’ Buster chimed.
‘Not anymore.’
‘Never mind. Intel from the email address is as expected. Not linked to any particular account and the only time it’s hit the web it was protected by a VPN. So, it looks like we ain’t dealing with amateurs, either. Want to know something else?’
‘Go on.’
‘Your alter-ego David Vidmar has just been researched by someone accessing the PNC.’
‘That may not be anything unusual. They may just be researching in relation to the EAW or something following my release.’ Tom spoke easily, but something was beginning to itch in his brain.
The Police National Computer, or PNC, was a fully audited database containing information on all criminal nominals throughout the UK. Every access and every search performed left a trace, and anyone with the correct level of access could monitor those traces.
‘If it was the extradition squad then I’d believe you, but it’s not. It was checked at a terminal linked to roads policing in Kent by an admin staffer, but we don’t know who got her to do the check. I don’t like to be pessimistic, but it looks like they have access to people inside the police as well as the prisons. This goes further than we ever thought.’
17
Two days later, Tom stepped out of the Lewisham flat which he had been arrested in prior to his prison incarceration and walked out onto the High Street. The previous day had been a blur of meetings, paperwork and presentations to very senior officers to get the plan signed off. It was pretty straightforward. Tom was to return to the dingy Lewisham flat, which had been expertly dressed to give the appearance of a typical single man’s apartment, and re-inject himself into David Vidmar’s life. The team that organised the flat had worked with amazing speed and had done a remarkable job. Anyone visiting the flat would only find what one would expect to find in such a dwelling; the furnishings were spartan but functional with a few personal items, and little in the fridge beyond a couple of six-packs of beer, some bread and cheese, and a carton of milk. Tom’s wardrobe remained simple and plain, in line with his own usual choice of clothes. On undercover deployments Tom would often dress in designer labels and gaudy jewellery, that being the preferred choice of many criminals, but it was felt that David Vidmar, as an ex-military man, would dress more soberly.
He walked along the busy road to an internet café that he had spotted the previous evening. It was a hip and busy little establishment with bench seats and battered tables. At the rear there were a few computer terminals which afforded pay-per-hour internet access. Tom realised that he could have easily used the battered Samsung smartphone he had obtained for the role, but it added to David Vidmar’s professional tradecraft that he used an anonymous computer terminal. Tom ordered a black coffee and paid the bearded and tattooed barista for fifteen minutes of internet access.
Tom sipped the strong, smooth coffee and sat in front of the computer. He logged into the email account that Lenny had provided him with, almost wincing as he entered the password “love18”. He would normally have thought it to be utterly ridiculous, but the actions of the ADF to date meant that they were to be taken very seriously.
Opening a new message, he wrote, ‘David Vidmar, Lenny Smith,’ before saving and closing the email, sending the email to the “Draft” folder. He sipped his coffee as he opened up a new browser and surfed the news pages for a few minutes. They were dominated by the recent terror attacks. There had been a couple of fairly minor attacks on synagogues, linked as reprisals by angry Muslims blaming “Zionists” for the terrorist attacks. At this stage they seemed only to be fairly minor in comparison. A petrol bomb had been thrown into the garden of a prominent Rabbi’s home, and racist graffiti had been daubed on the wall of a synagogue in Golders Green. The whole feeling on the news sites was a bubbling tension which reinforced just how important it was that they succeeded. The ADF were starting to have the effect they were seeking.
He refreshed the Gmail page and returned to the draft folder. Under his name was now written, ‘Bunch of Grapes, St Thomas Street. 8pm tonight. Delete after reading.’
He smiled to himself. The ADF was careful with its tradecraft. No message had been sent across the internet that could be intercepted. No message had been sent at all.
He deleted the draft and sat back, sipping his now cold coffee, screwing his face up at the bitter liquid.
Phase one in the prison had got him access to the group; he was now about to descend a little further. He felt the little buzz of anticipation he often experienced when he was about to enter the lion’s den. He knew that he couldn’t underestimate these people despite how ridiculous they seemed with names like the Aryan Defence Front and their ridiculous email addresses and passwords. The memory of powerful Semtex-driven devices wreaking carnage amongst innocent victims reinforced the reality. Tom was about to attempt to infiltrate a gang of ruthless, trained and skilled murderers.
18
Danny Wilder sat back and looked at the iPad screen as it refreshed after updating the drafts folder. The message he had typed in to arrange the meeting with David Vidmar had gone, meaning that it had been deleted as expected.
He smiled to himself at the prospect of a new recruit. Lenny Smith had told him all about the man on a call from his cell in Belmarsh using a smuggled mobile phone supplied by their friendly prison officer. Danny would meet Vidmar later and make his own mind up, but he sounded like a really good prospect; a proper hard man with first-hand battle experience. The fact he hated Muslims, was of course a bonus.
Danny picked up his phone and keyed in a number using WhatsApp calling. With its end-to-end encryption, WhatsApp was their favoured method of communication.
‘Yes,’ clipped tones in a flat accent spoke from the other end.
‘Major, it’s Danny.’
‘You’re clear to proceed.’ McEwan always wanted any phone contact to begin like that, checking that he was clear to speak before beginning.
‘I’ve made contact with Vidmar. Message received and the meeting is going ahead as planned.’
‘Right. How much do we know about Vidmar?’
‘Smith has reported in from Belmarsh. From his description of how he managed to deal with the three ragheads who were about to kill Smith, he is an impressive operator. Smith is confident that he shares our ideals.’
‘What about police intel?’
‘My contact has checked, although her level of access is limited. The warrant stated that Vidmar was wanted in connection with the stabbing of a Muslim who was paralysed as a result. They had attached a risk assessment of Vidmar that seemed to suggest that he was affiliated with “Blood and Honour”, a far-right organisation over there. That group seems to have gone down the tubes after the police locked up all the ring leaders.’
‘Hmm. Bloody amateurs,’ McEwan said with disdain.
‘Agreed, sir. It also seems that the Slovenian authorities are not the best quality either. From what I have learned they managed to fuck up the warrant which meant Vidmar had to be released. Not an uncommon occurrence, apparently.’
‘Well proceed with caution, Danny. It all appears to be in order, but I think we should send him out to perform a test of loyalty before we indoctrinate him into our organisation.’
‘Agreed, sir. The usual test?’
‘I think so, Danny. If he carries it through, we will at least know he is not an informer.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good work, Danny. Any luck with the Honourable Member for Tower Hamlets?’
‘Not yet. His security is tight. We need a sniper if we are not to risk an arrest.’
‘No more arrests, Danny. We need a small but tight team. Smith was our introduction to the world and with his prognosis he won’t be a concern. I want men I can rely on for the foreseeable.’
‘Maybe Vidmar will be the solution to that conundrum, sir.’
‘Perhaps. Keep me informed, but the Ukrainian wants this dealing with quickly, so if it’s not Vidmar we will need to come up with another plan. Our funding depends upon it.’
‘Understood, sir.’ The call was ended.
Danny scratched his chin as he put the phone down. He had high hopes for Vidmar but that would have to wait till he was satisfied that he was right for them. Vidmar would have to prove himself, as did all team members before McEwan was satisfied and they could be inducted into the ADF. Danny smiled to himself as an idea struck him as to how Vidmar could demonstrate his commitment to the cause.
*
Tom walked slowly along St Thomas’s Street, relaxed and ready for the meeting, safe in the knowledge that the pub was covertly surrounded by his colleagues who were also utilising the local CCTV to good effect. As well as the initial infiltration, the aim for the operation was to identify the person Tom was about to meet and obtain some imagery of him or her. Whether or not the target was to be followed after the meeting was a decision which would be made on the hoof as the meeting progressed.
Tom carried his battered Samsung mobile and nothing else. Instead of a regular covert listening device, the Samsung had been adapted by Tiny so that even if switched off it would still transmit any conversations it could detect back to the support team, who would all be positioned nearby in various vehicles parked up in the surrounding streets. It had been decided to keep the backup limited as they did not know exactly who would be attending and what resources they had access to. They didn’t want to spook anyone and blow their only real lead.
Tom walked into the busy pub, which was modern and had recently been refurbished. Background music and a buzz of conversation made for a relaxed and happy atmosphere; a perfect place to be anonymous amongst all the office workers de-stressing at the end of the day. He ordered a pint of the lowest alcohol local session ale; having a beer was the natural thing to do but he wanted to remain as sharp as possible.
He took a seat at an unoccupied table at the rear of the pub with a good view of the doors. As he did so, he avoided the eye of the other team member in the bar, Chris, who was engrossed in a newspaper at a table across the bar. Chris had entered the pub half-an-hour before Tom so that he could be in a position to identify whomever showed up at the meet. Chris was equipped with a covert camera linked up to the backup-team with a live feed of events.
Tom sipped at his beer and began to scroll through the newsfeed on his phone whilst simultaneously keeping an eye on the door with his peripheral vision. He wasn’t nervous at all. He felt a little tingle of anticipation at the prospect of what was to come; he was, after all, about to meet a member of a murderous far-right terrorist group. In spite of all this he breathed normally, his pulse remained level, and he felt as cool and collected as could be expected.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pub door swing open and a lone figure enter the pub and walk confidently up to the bar before conversing briefly with the barman. Tom watched the new arrival in the mirror, taking in the wiry but solid-looking man in his early thirties. He had short, neat hair which was swept to one side, and was casually dressed in clean jeans and a plain blue polo shirt. The tattoo on the man’s tightly muscled forearm was easily identifiable as the plumed feathers insignia of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.
Tom continued to study his phone, half-reading about the recent sporting events on the BBC news app. Raising his eyes just a little he noticed that Chris had shifted his position, just slightly, most likely in order to capture images of the newcomer whilst continuing to seem engrossed in the newspaper.
A shadow fell across his table and he looked up to see the newcomer stood before him clutching a beer.
‘Mind if I join you?’ the man asked in a quiet South London accent.
‘Be my guest,’ Tom replied looking up at the man’s unlined face that sported a neatly trimmed beard. He was not a big man, well under six feet and no more than twelve stone, but he looked lean, fit and strong. Even without the Regimental tattoo he looked military; he had the look, often only identifiable to other veterans, of someone who had seen combat.
‘Nice boozer this, eh?’ the man said, amiably holding Tom’s gaze with light blue eyes that shone with intelligence.
‘Yeah, it’s okay. Nice beer, anyway,’ Tom lifted his glass to his lips with a half-smile.
‘You have pubs like this in Slovenia?’ The man stared at him directly, almost with a challenge in his voice but a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Tom didn’t reply, wanting to let the man take the lead.
‘Our mutual acquaintance from Belmarsh speaks highly of you, David. He says you probably saved his life and wants his thanks to be extended.’
Tom smiled. ‘Lenny knows that it was no problem. I don’t like bullies and those fuckers were bullies. If we are on first name terms, what do I call you?’
‘You can call me Danny. I know much more than just your name, David Vidmar. I know you are ex-Slovenian Army, Special Operations Unit, or Slovenska Vojska to be more accurate. I know you ran to the UK after stabbing the fuck out of a Muslim wretch in Ljubljana and an arrest warrant was issued. You were facing many years in jail but somehow the daft bastards fucked the warrant up and you got released a couple of days ago. Lenny seems to think that you may be a good fit for our operation.’
