Going Rogue, page 12
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
“Man shot and injured in Hackney gangland-style shooting. Sources say that the gunman, who is described as being tall, masked and in dark clothing, shot the victim twice in an unprovoked assassination attempt. Police report that an unidentified male is currently in critical condition and is currently being treated at an undisclosed hospital. Police are appealing for witnesses who were in the Victoria Park area of Hackney in the early hours of this morning.”
Tom smiled to himself, knowing the extent of the investigative efforts being put into solving this heinous “crime”. The team would be making all the right noises and would present a picture of minimal available evidence, making a big deal of the wall of silence they were being faced with. Such was the frequency of that type of attack that Tom suspected no one would be speaking about it in a couple of days.
Tom yawned and looked at his watch. 5am. He decided that he would sleep for a while before attempting to contact Danny. There was no sense in rushing, and it would allow more chances of social media catching up with events if, as Tom suspected, the rival dealer was to upload the footage he had been recording when Tom “shot” Naz.
He was satisfied that the events had looked real and it was just good timing that there were two witnesses present as well as the inevitable CCTV footage. It had to look real and convincing enough to convince Danny that Tom was who he was presenting himself to be: David Vidmar, a Slovenian who was also a battle-hardened ex-soldier and ruthless racist. An anti-Semite who was willing to kill and maim for the cause and a pay packet. Tom yawned again and headed for the bedroom to sleep. He needed sleep.
*
Three hours wasn’t really enough, bearing in mind how tired Tom was, but he knew that he needed to make contact with the ADF as soon as possible. He still had no phone number for Danny so after a quick shower Tom returned to the internet café. He bought a triple espresso from the bearded hipster and paid for an hour’s internet access.
He logged into the Gmail account as before and saw that a message had been left in the drafts folder.
There was a thumbs up emoticon and a link to a Twitter feed with the hashtag #MLC. Tom clicked the link, fairly confident of what he was going to find. The hashtag clearly related to a gang and was attached to a short video clip. Checking over his shoulder that he was not being watched, Tom clicked on the footage. It was grainy but clearly taken from the perspective of one of the witnesses to the “shooting” the night before. Tom saw his own masked image striding up to Naz and discharging the weapon. Naz then fell to the ground before the camera jerkily moved off shot and showed the trees above. The footage then greyed out only to be replaced with the words #MLC #Mandem #Hackney #OurTurf #SomaliWarrior.
Tom smiled, amused by the fact that a drug gang seemed to be claiming responsibility for a shooting that had been concocted by undercover police. He couldn’t help but admire their opportunism.
He deleted the footage and added into the draft folder one word. ‘Instructions?’
Refreshing the page, the reply came back immediately.
‘Phone number.’
Tom typed the Samsung’s number into the draft folder and refreshed it once more. Again, the reply was immediate.
‘Await instructions.’
Tom deleted the messages in the draft folder, logged off the computer, and cleared the history from his brief session. He sat back and sipped his coffee. From what little information he had, Danny appeared pleased and it seemed Tom may have passed the test he had been set.
He picked up the phone once again and tapped out a message to Jane Milligan. ‘We need to meet.’
21
Tom left his flat and jogged down the street towards Greenwich Park. He selected a mix by The Stone Roses and kept in time with the music as he ran in the weak and milky morning sunshine. He had managed a couple of hours’ sleep after leaving the café but then grew restless and decided that the time was right to clear his mind.
In those situations, his thoughts always turned to physical exercise, something which was ingrained into his DNA: his parents in Bosnia had both been athletes; his father an Olympic wrestler and his mother a gymnast. If Tom went for more than a couple of days without exercise, he began to feel listless and edgy. When deployed undercover he needed to remain as sharp as humanly possible, so he always found time to exercise. As a result, he had found the Belmarsh deployment particularly difficult as, thanks to the restrictive routine inside, he had hardly exercised at all. He promised that, once he was through this deployment, he would redouble his fitness goals.
He picked up his pace as he approached the park, finding himself entering a zen-like state as the mix of exertion and music worked their magic. Once in the large and sprawling park he upped his pace, performing exercise circuits in the open grassed areas: alternating sets of squats, lunges, push-ups and burpees, feeling the tension leach from him as he punished himself.
After completing his circuits, he set off at a steadier pace towards The Café by the Royal Observatory on Blackheath Avenue. Heading up the small hill leading up to the café, he slowed to a walk to allow himself to observe the few individuals sat on the benches outside the white octagonal building. Throughout his exercises he had been practicing anti-surveillance, using skills honed in hostile areas from Basra to Belfast as well as from Leeds to London, both as a member of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment and the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime teams. He knew what to look for and was confident he had not been followed.
Removing his earbuds, he entered the café and walked over to Jane Milligan and Buster, who were occupying one of the tables in the corner. Buster was dishevelled as usual, almost as though he had got dressed in the dark, while Jane was the smart, understated businesswoman in a dark suit and sensible footwear.
‘You look tired, Borat. You getting out of condition, mate?’ Buster smiled a greeting.
‘I take it we are all clear?’ Tom wanted to get formalities out of the way first.
‘Clear as a bell, Tom. The team have been staking this place out since you called, and we are confident we have no unwelcome visitors or diners nearby.’ Jane spoke in her normal blunt style but still seemed pleased to see Tom.
A casually dressed waiter approached the table and Tom ordered an espresso.
‘So, what do we know?’ Tom asked.
‘Well, all in all the deception seems to have been successful,’ said Jane. ‘A street gang have leapt on the opportunity to advance their reputation by taking responsibility for the shooting. Instagram and Twitter are alive with hashtags and the short clip shot by our friend has been shared thousands of times despite the companies’ attempts to delete it.’
‘It’s far better than us leaking some CCTV or having press briefings to try and keep the ADF convinced that there really had been a shooting. You got lucky mate, as fucking normal,’ Buster added.
Tom nodded; the information being organically shared gave the shooting a far more believable feel.
‘How are we dealing with the investigation?’ Tom asked. ‘Are the locals getting curious?’
‘Not at all,’ said Jane. ‘I spoke personally to the Borough Commander, who was only too glad to hear that a new project unit is trialling an experimental youth violence approach. As I understand it, the DCI at Hackney was overjoyed not to have to add a shooting to his overworked detectives’ caseloads. We have briefed the press through one of our trusted stooge press officers and are not identifying the person you shot for reasons of anonymity, et cetera. The press has already moved on to the next one. I think we can say our deception has been successful.’
The trio stopped talking as the waiter returned with a small cup of espresso for Tom.
Once the waiter had departed Tom took a sip of the strong, thick coffee and said, ‘Did we manage to find anything out about Danny?’
‘Yes. Chris caught a few lovely images of him, and the foot-team managed to follow him for a short while. He went into the underground station then started to perform some really obvious anti-surveillance, so we backed off and let him run. We felt that there was no need to spook him so soon after meeting you.’
Tom nodded. That was a very pragmatic and sensible decision. Surveillance is an art, not a science, and it is very difficult to follow someone who believes or suspects that they may be being followed without alerting them. If Danny suspected he was being tailed straight after the meeting with Tom it would have blown the whole operation, with potentially catastrophic consequences.
‘Sensible decision,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time to get behind him once I’m further into the ADF.’
Jane nodded. ‘Still, a mix of facial recognition and some enquiries with the Army and we are pretty sure we have him identified. Daniel Wilder. Aged thirty-five, ex-soldier from the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Reached the rank of corporal, good reputation until a violent encounter in which he assaulted his superior. A spell in Colchester Military Correctional Facility and he was out on his ear a couple of years ago. Then: nothing, he’s been flying under the radar. No current address, no social security, no vehicles and no employment that we know of. It’s like he just disappeared after leaving Colchester.’
Buster slid a smartphone across the table, showing a photograph of a much younger Danny wearing camouflaged fatigues and sporting the plumed beret of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.
‘No intelligence or any suggestions of extreme behaviour from SIB?’ asked Tom. Special Investigation Branch was the Military Police’s version of the CID.
‘Nothing,’ said Buster. ‘He was a model soldier right up until he broke his RSM’s jaw. He went into Colchester and was a model prisoner until he was released and discharged from the army.’
‘So we wait for them to make contact, then,’ Tom said. A statement, not a question.
‘Essentially, yes,’ said Jane. ‘We need you to be further indoctrinated into the ADF, which I suspect will come sooner rather than later. I suspect that they are going to be pretty impressed with you, but the whole cut of their jib is one of professionalism, so we need to tread carefully. I think you need to stay fully undercover for the time being.’
‘Agreed. I’m going to head back now and wait for contact. I’m sure it will come soon, Danny made it clear that they needed to step up the pace.’ Tom finished his espresso, feeling the familiar, welcome buzz as the caffeine worked its magic. ‘I should go. I doubt anyone will have followed me, but these bastards seem pretty professional, so I am not taking any chances. I think it best if I remain as deep as I can until I’m further embedded. Who knows how far this goes? Anything else on the internal leak?’
‘Nothing specific,’ said Buster. ‘The operator at the Roads Policing Command doesn’t flag anywhere. She has been a researcher for a number of years and has a good reputation. No links to crime or criminality within her family or identifiable network. She may not have even known what she was doing and Vidmar may have just been a name added to a list by someone else.’
Tom nodded. ‘Okay. If you need to contact me, use the agreed email method and I will contact when I can. I am going to assume that I am being watched until I know more.’
They all knew that, now Tom was going to really enter the lion’s den, they couldn’t just call him out of the blue. A simple method of contact had been devised: an email would appear in a David Vidmar account promising guaranteed weight loss with a simple tablet with “zero side effects”. That would be the signal for Tom to make contact with the team as soon as possible. Other than that, he was going completely off-grid; he was now David Vidmar, a dangerous and ruthless far-right criminal.
22
Major McEwan sat at a table in the lounge of the safe house on an estate in one of the worst parts of Camden, working on a laptop computer. He looked over the top of the screen at the other two occupants of the room, who were sat around the cheap Formica table: Danny and the bombmaker that everyone called “Simmo”, the latter with his prosthetic leg extended onto another chair.
‘Thank you for attending, gentlemen. I know it is unusual for us to meet, but I felt it important as a vital new tasking has arrived from our sponsor. I haven’t invited Rocky or Chas as their presence would be unnecessary.’ McEwan spoke brusquely and without warmth.
‘As you are probably aware, we are about to induct a new recruit into our organisation in order that we have the correct number of operatives to undertake our next major mission. He has passed the test we set him and has acquitted himself well. We have all seen the social media footage of him shooting the Muslim dealer, so we are as sure as we can be that he is not a plant. We intend to deploy three devices simultaneously, at three locations that I will divulge to you at the appropriate time. Simmo, I take it that the devices are ready to deploy?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Simmo. ‘All ready with the same remote detonation method as before, and a similar payload. I’m confident in them.’
‘Excellent. There will be a three-pronged simultaneous attack that will be timed for maximum effect and will be placed to ensure maximum casualties. We cannot deploy you, Simmo, owing to your disability; and to be honest you are too important to our cause to risk on the ground. We need you to keep building devices for as long as we have Semtex available.’
Danny and Simmo were transfixed by McEwan’s delivery, with a gleam in his eye and an infectious vigour in his voice.
‘Before we deploy the devices, however, our sponsor is very keen that a troublesome MP, Nasir Akhtar, is dealt with. It is vital, tactically, that he is eliminated as soon as possible to ensure that the timeline of our mission is not interrupted further. Are we clear on this? Simmo, is an explosive attack possible?’
‘Possible, sir, but difficult. I can construct a vehicle-borne device easily, but how would it be safely deployed bearing in mind his current level of protection?’
Danny interjected confidently and quickly, never one to waste words. ‘He is hard to get to, sir. Full security detail on him twenty-four-seven, with a PPO at all times. They seem to be really on top of him; my contact has done some digging and the police realise what is at stake if he gets taken out. My assessment is that it will need to be a long shot when he leaves his constituency office. At least three hundred metres, which I wouldn’t be confident taking. Rocky and Chas are not snipers, either. Do we know if Vidmar has that skill?’
‘I’ve no information to that effect,’ McEwan said, pausing for a second. ‘Vidmar comes from a unit in Slovenia with a very good reputation, the Special Operation Unit. He could well be a sniper or, failing that, he may have a contact for an independent contractor. Our sponsor has deep pockets and will pay for an individual with the correct skillset. Let’s get Vidmar in and on board now, Danny. I want to meet him as soon as possible.’
‘When do you want to meet him, sir?’ Danny said.
‘As soon as possible. I will go now to the farmhouse. Bring him there but take all usual precautions.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘One more thing, Danny,’ McEwan said, fixing Danny with the stare he knew so well.
‘Sir?’
‘If he gives you any cause for concern, kill him. Immediately.’
23
Tom sat nursing a coffee in the kitchen of the Lewisham flat. After the meeting with Jane and Buster he decided to keep a low profile and stay out of sight. He had the TV on but was not really paying any attention to it as he mulled over exactly where they currently stood. He was confident that the charade of the shooting had been successful and that his legend was tight. He was fully backstopped in Slovenia, enough to withstand scrutiny should any enquiries or influence be exercised in that regard. He was more than capable of dealing with any questioning and could display any military skills, if required.
He just needed to wait. It was the same as when he was an operator with the Special Reconnaissance Regiment and, before that, with the Royal Marines. Long periods of crushing boredom interspersed by periods of extreme, stressful activity. He had learned to deal with it over the years and could generally relax in the down-periods. He yawned deeply, aware that he was sleep deprived after the activities of the last few days. Using the old military mantra—“Sleep when you can, eat when you can”—he decided that he should rest. He moved into the living room and lay on the sofa, falling asleep almost immediately.
*
The buzzing of his Samsung pulled him from his slumber with a jolt. He reached for the phone to see a WhatsApp message from a number he did not recognise. ‘Dartmouth Arms, Forest Hill. 2000hrs tonight.’
*
Tom approached the grey-fronted pub on the Dartmouth Road in Forest Hill, an area of London desperately attempting to justify the term “undergoing gentrification”. It was an attractive, Georgian detached building situated just off the South Circular Road. The roads were still thick with cloying traffic full of frustrated commuters trying to negotiate their journeys home to the suburbs.
As Tom pushed open the doors, he was assailed by delicious aromas of cooking, strong with the sharp tang of garlic. The place was buzzing, with nearly all the tables full of diners tucking into quality-looking food. He suddenly realised how hungry he was. Looking at his watch he saw that it was 19:45 and that he hadn’t eaten for some time. Approaching the bar his gaze was met by a smiling barman busy polishing glasses. The gentrification process had turned what was once a haven for the working classes into what nowadays would be referred to as a “Gastropub”, a pretentious term Tom hated.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ asked the barman.
‘Just an OJ, please. And could I get some chips, maybe?’
‘Sure thing. Have a seat at the bar. Waiting for someone?’
