Irish Sea
8- 45 a.m.
April 17
Charley Cobb had not had an easy journey down the coast towards Liverpool. For a start there had been a sudden squall amongst the isles of Rhum, Coll and Tireee, a possibility well known to sailors on that part of the coast. It wasn’t stormy, but Charlie felt the small sea going boat’s engine strain as he passed Islay and pushed through the North Channel. It had crossed his mind to make a stop at the Isle of Man when the Irish Sea threw a mild tantrum, but Charlie was made of sterner stuff. He knew the sea well and took the heavy splashing rain, forceful waves and sudden dips and rises as part of the work to be done, just a journey and not an adventure. The small boat made sturdy progress towards the mouth of the Mersey with Charley’s bitter blue eyes reflecting the spray and drizzle.
Chapter 11
Loch Lomond
8- 45 a.m.
April 17th
Martin Wheeler had enjoyed the Honda’s responses to the highland roads. The bike really kicked and he had lost himself in the rollercoaster adrenaline experience of a fast bike on empty open roads. The south bound route he took went over a short stretch of the Grampians. The empty mountain scenery flashed by in his peripheral vision. At those speeds, even with a couple of stops he knew he’d be in Glasgow in two or three hours. He pulled the hot bike over, ticking and sizzling in the drizzle, at guest house on the northern shores of Loch Lomond. The cooked breakfast, with Scottish sausage rolls, firm pork patties with a distinctive flavour in heavy rolls, washed down with hot sweet tea, took him a good half hour to enjoy. He felt good and the thrill of being the killer amongst the low chatter and clatter of forks and plates in the rest house dining room brought sharpness to the day and the business in hand. He enjoyed the feeling of being the outsider, the mission man, amongst the everyday people.
Well fed he went back to the bike and his race to the London meeting point. His thought was that it was all too easy. He slipped into traffic on the eighty-two and twisted back his wrist. The bike and the money pulled him south. Dewey’s alert had the motorbike registration listed as a wanted vehicle; stop on sight being the instruction.
Chapter 12
Rail Line between Duirnish and Inverness
8- 45 a.m.
April 17th
Even under the shelter the niggling drizzle had blown at Peter Mason. When the train did arrive, fifteen minutes late, it was gone eight am. The train journey seemed to wind on forever. He bought tea and biscuits from a trolley, which surprised him at that time in the morning. Mason was bored and cursed the straw picking ceremony for transport. His mind turned to Stanton as he waited for the scalding hot, watery tea in the too thin cardboard cup to cool, cursing his hunger for opening the short cake packet, leading to thirst and ultimately burnt fingers and a scalded mouth. Stanton had chosen to hitch; the slowest possible means. Mason wondered why? Did Stanton know something or was he just avoiding any camera spots? Stanton was the oldest, he looked it; maybe his face was registered in places?
Mason mused on the British Navy submarine drop off. There was influence in the mission he was sure. Though they’d only given them thirty pounds cash and a fake credit card, though a working one. Because his train was pre-booked he had the ticket. It was all very well organised.
Thirty quid though. He smiled, cheapskates, this had to be a government funded kill, but why have them enter that way? It didn’t add up. Mason took a speculative sip at the tea and winced. Still too hot a small wave of tea burnt his fingers as the train jump stopped and jolted into the next station in what seemed an unending chain of ‘dree’ stops.
Chapter 13
London
8- 45 a.m.
April 17th
McKie stepped from the fuggy train onto the London concrete slipping into the salmon throng of commuters working their way up stream one way or another. They all threaded their way through the eye of the ticket barrier McKie amongst them. The stream of commuters spread out into the city and he headed down into the underground for the quick hop to Warren Street.
On the underground platform he looked up at a CCTV camera and wondered if any colleagues were tuned in. It was one of the amazing facts about DIC that they were able to access every closed loop camera network in the country. The firm that serviced the national and business cameras was in fact a front for a branch of DIC whose bid for the job was secured by underhanded dealings. The front firm meant that DIC technicians placed digital microwave transmitters which used the cell phone network to feed all the captured images, which were bled from the camera, into the computer storage systems of local DIC operatives. The DIC job of monitoring the entire country was helped enormously by the system. Scanning through hours of CCTV footage is more interesting than one might think and being paid well to do so at home a good way of making a living.
The tube train from Charing Cross on the Northern Line shook its way into Warren Street station.
For McKie the city was full of potential; miles and miles of streets and buildings full of rooms, full of humanity, with all the chaos and turbulence that goes with it. The day was just beginning and he felt invigorated by the life around him. He followed the map in his head to the building two streets away.
If you look at a satellite map search of Euston Road you’ll see the top of the fourteenth largest office building in London; Euston Tower, number 286 Euston Road. What you won’t see on a satellite image nor on the 3D image of the well known office block is the satellite dishes, radar scanners and microwave phone masts which cover the top of the building, all of which still leaves enough space for a helipad. It took a certain amount of underhanded doctoring on the quiet to eradicate from the satellite photograph the mass of surveillance technology which might arouse curiosity as to what was going on in that building. That in turn would lead to unwanted interest and publicity, something that DIC have managed to avoid since 1940, though they didn’t move into this building until 1970, when it was built.
David turned into building’s concourse and entered through the revolving door. The door moved very slowly on its revolving pivot. It was an annoying experience for anyone coming in who felt the need to hurry as the door could only be made to move faster by controls at the security desk. The slow moving door allowed security to photograph and check every entrant to the building, from different angles, and have time to appraise any threats. As no-one from outside DIC, the espionage services and certain government ministers knew they existed it might have seemed unnecessary to go to such lengths, but it was such an exact and pedantic approach to secrecy that had kept DIC out of the public domain for so long.
Inside the foyer there was a security desk from wall to wall. There was a gap to pass through to the building behind, but it wasn’t clear where it was unless you knew or were given the time to look, which you wouldn’t be if you weren’t meant to be there.
Behind the desk, some five metres, there was a wall set into which were two lifts. They didn’t work. Once inside one of the lifts you had to be let out. To the right of these red herring lifts there is a concealed door leading
