Deep Sleepers (A Tom Blake thriller - Book 1)

  'We're seeing pictures, Blake, and hearing you loud and clear.' The DDG, two senior anti-terror security officers, and two Met Police officers in uniform had joined Patterson around a conference table at MI5 headquarters.

  As Blake steadied his phone, the camera picked out a number of greasy tools laid out on a bench inside a garage workshop. Wrenches, spanners, and industrial-looking containers of fluids, illuminated by the light of Blake's head torch.

  'As I'm sure Harry's explained, we tracked the two Phineas Priest suspects to this garage where we believe they have been preparing two vehicles in readiness for an attack on a cross-Channel ferry.' Blake spoke in a hushed whisper.

  As the senior team had assembled in the briefing room, Blake had been breaking into the garage through a bathroom window at the back of the building, located in a rundown industrial estate on the outskirts of Crawley, a stone's throw from Gatwick Airport. White walls supported a pitched roof clad in corrugated asbestos that had been blackened by the elements, and two ancient-looking fuel pumps stood on the forecourt below a towering sign displaying the price of diesel and unleaded.

  Once inside the bathroom, Blake had picked his way into an office where two desks were buried under swathes of oil-stained paperwork. An internal window ran behind the farthest desk and overlooked an adjacent workshop. A glass-panelled door marked 'staff only' had been left unlocked.

  An overpowering odour of paint fumes hung thick in the air of the workshop. Blake fixed his head torch and switched on the camera on his phone before making contact with Patterson via a Bluetooth earpiece.

  'This evening, the first suspect, Ben Proctor, left the BFA safe house carrying the sports bag he collected from the IRA bomb maker, Martin Kelly,' Blake continued. 'We have evidence that it contains in the region of two kilos of Semtex. His accomplice, Mike Clark, has been missing for around three days, whereabouts unknown.'

  Apart from Patterson and the DDG, no one else in the room was aware of Proctor's identity as an MI5 undercover agent. For Proctor's safety, Blake was keen to keep it that way.

  He turned to his right, and the pictures blurred momentarily as the lens struggled to keep up with the movement.

  'The first of the two vehicles we think they intend to use is this Mercedes Sprinter van, which has recently been resprayed.' Blake touched the bodywork with his index finger, and turned his hand over to show the camera, the tip of his finger stained with a reddish smear.

  At his feet, he focussed the camera on a coil of cable attached to a spray gun. Then he gave his audience a three hundred and sixty degree tour around the vehicle.

  'Unfortunately, all the doors are locked so I can't check inside, but I'll take some pictures so everyone can ID the van later.'

  'We're getting that very clearly,' said Patterson. 'What about the number plates? Have they been replaced?'

  'The screws look intact.' Blake read out the registration plate number for Patterson to take a note. 'I'm assuming it's stolen so it should come up on a police database. But this is possibly the more significant vehicle.'

  Blake pointed his phone at a nine-year-old blue Ford saloon that had been raised off its front wheels on jacks.

  'I suspect this is the car they're planning to use for the bomb. It's a Ford Mondeo, and as anonymous as they come. There must be thousands of cars like this one on the road.'

  Its paintwork was scratched and faded in keeping with a vehicle of its age, and unlike the van, there had been no attempt to alter its appearance. Blake tried the handle of the passenger door, but found it locked.

  'This is interesting,' said Blake, the excitement in his voice apparent even through his whispered tones. He pointed the camera at the ground, and when the image focussed, the men watching saw a discarded sports bag lying in the corner by a pile of old tyres.

  'The bag Proctor picked up from Kelly?' asked Patterson.

  'It looks like it.' Blake scooped it up one-handed. 'The last time I was able to take a close look, it was full of Semtex. It's empty now,' he said, tipping it upside down and shaking it to prove his point.

  Blake dropped to his knees and shone his torch under the chassis of the car, training the camera along its beam. Then he examined the front of the car where the wheels had been removed, the circular brake drum and rusty suspension coils clearly visible.

  'Here we go,' said Blake. 'I count five blocks. Can you see?'

  He turned the camera towards the clay bricks that had been neatly packed into the wheel arches. Blake reached up and prised one of the blocks free. It was heavier than he had expected, and when he turned it over, he discovered that a large magnetic block of metal had been buried in it.

  He re-attached the block and scanned the others for a detonator. He found it attached to the middle brick. A coil of wire was taped neatly along the inside of the bodywork and disappeared inside the engine housing. He shuffled around to the passenger side, and found five more bricks in the other wheel arch with another wire snaking up through the front end of the vehicle.

  Inside the car, blue plastic sheets had been draped over the seats to protect the fabric. Blake's torch beam picked out the glove compartment, which had been open. He could just make out thin wires protruding through the opening, their ends attached to a mobile phone in a cradle on the dashboard.

  'It appears that they've rigged up a rudimentary detonation device that's triggered by a mobile phone signal. My guess is that it requires a call or text message to set off the blast,' said Blake.

  'Excellent work, thank you, Blake,' said the deputy director general, speaking for the first time.

  Blake glanced at his watch. He'd been in the workshop for a full twelve minutes. He'd given himself fifteen minutes to be in and out. It was time to leave.

  'I don't want anything going wrong on this operation to jeopardise the good work that's been done in the field already,' said the DDG in Blake's ear. 'I want these bastards nailed.'

  'Sir, I need to get going,' Blake interjected, heading back towards the office and checking he'd not left any evidence of his visit. But a noise outside caused him to freeze and kill the torch. The screen on the wall in Thames House went blank.

  'Blake?' said Patterson. 'What's going on?'

  'There's someone coming.'

  It sounded as though a car had pulled up outside the workshop. Blake heard a door open. He clicked off his phone and shoved it in his pocket.

  Footsteps tapped across the forecourt, and keys rattled in a lock. Blake scuttled around the van looking for a place to hide, realising if someone came into the workshop he'd be discovered in an instant. With nowhere to take cover, he opted to crouch behind the rear of the vehicle and watch the office from the shadows.

  The main door to the office was thrown open and the overhead lights buzzed on, flooding the room in stark, white light. A man headed for one of the desks, and Blake watched him rifle through some papers. He whistled a familiar tune that Blake couldn't place, and turned his attention to a row of filing cabinets along the back wall.

  Blake edged backwards, deeper into the darkness until he bumped into a workbench. When he put a hand out to steady himself, it fell on a sheet of vinyl, cool and smooth to the touch. His hand recoiled as the office lights went out and the office door slammed shut. A car door opened, thudded closed, and an engine coughed into life.

  As Blake listened to the vehicle pull away, he felt the tension ebb from his body. He flicked on the torch and shone it on the workbench where his hand had fallen. It was covered in colourful sheets of letters and numbers that he'd not paid attention to before. They looked like decals used for sign writing on vehicles. And a dawning realisation hit him.

  Chapter 44

  The Rose and Crown was an old-fashioned type of pub, with no jukebox and absolutely no fruit machines with their irritating tunes and flashing lights. It was exactly the sort of place Pete French was drawn to, especially as they knew how to keep good beer. It had become his regular haunt, near the newsroom and on h
is way home. Trent found him at the bar hunched over a newspaper, nursing a half-finished pint. Trent hobbled over, laid his crutches on the floor, and eased himself up onto a stool.

  'Thought I'd find you in here.'

  'It's where I usually am,' said Pete, glancing up from his paper. 'What happened to your leg?'

  'It's a long story.'

  'Anything to do with the BFA by any chance?'

  'Is it that obvious?'

  'So you've made some progress then?'

  'A little,' said Trent.

  'And Hopper?'

  'I've had the pleasure of his company, albeit rather briefly.'

  'You've met him?'

  Trent pulled a knowing grin. 'I managed to get on board his yacht.'

  Pete folded his paper closed and gave his friend his full attention. 'How?'

  'You know, a little improvisation, a dash of imagination.'

  'You managed to blag your way on board Larry Hopper's super-yacht in the middle of Canary Wharf? Genius! So what went wrong?'

  'I got caught and they threw me over the side.'

  Pete laughed hysterically, but stopped when he realised his friend wasn’t seeing the funny side. 'You're okay now though? I mean, apart from the leg?'

  'It'll heal.'

  'Christ, Trent, you're lucky they didn't kill you.'

  'I think that was actually the idea,' said Trent.

  'And you confronted Hopper?'

  'More like I stumbled across him. He was entertaining a friend.'

  'Don't tell me Longhurst was on board too?'

  Trent nodded and took a gulp of beer.

  'You're kidding?'

  'They were holding some sort of conference. I accidentally barged in and that's when it turned nasty. There were a couple of BFA heavies who forced a bottle of brandy down me, broke a couple of bones in my foot, and chucked me overboard.'

  Pete's mouth hung open. 'Wow. Seriously?'

  'Yeah. They said at the hospital I was lucky that someone saw what happened and dived in to save me. Not that I can remember much about it. Anyway, on a positive note, at least I now know for sure that there's a connection between the BFA and Larry Hopper.'

  'Proof that Hopper's financing them?'

  'I have a suspicion there's more going on than that.' Trent checked the barman wasn't listening. He was at the back of the bar checking his mobile phone and well out of earshot. 'I think he's here to orchestrate some sort of attack. They think he's behind a number of incidents in the States, and my guess is that he's here to incite Longhurst to do something similar.'

  'An attack?'

  'They'll probably be looking to target a mosque or something. Low-level stuff. I don't know really, maybe something bigger.'

  'That's a serious allegation, Trent. You got enough to publish?'

  'Not yet. I want to know exactly what they're planning first, and maybe get some harder evidence. As far as they know, I'm fish food at the bottom of the wharf so that should make my life a little easier for now.'

  'Trent, be careful. You can't muck about with these guys. They didn't kill you last time, but they won't make that mistake a second time.'

  'It's fine. Anyway, I think I've found a way into the BFA. You're not going to believe this. 'Trent pulled out a folded scrap of paper from the pocket of his jacket and smoothed it out on the bar. 'I found this earlier. There're loads of them plastered around Holborn station.'

  'A missing person's poster? How's that help?'

  'It's some bloke called Nick, but I swear this is one of the BFA guys who was on Hopper's yacht.'

  Pete frowned as he scoured the poster, Nick Richard's beaming face staring back at him. 'Really?'

  'Trust me; he got up pretty close and personal. I'd recognise him anywhere. He's lost a bit of weight, and he's shaved his head, but it's definitely him. Look, if I can get hold of his sister and put them in touch, it could be my way into the organisation,' said Trent.

  'You're forgetting one thing. He's missing, and you have no idea where to find him.'

  'I'll find him. How hard can it be? I can check all the regular BFA places. He's bound to turn up somewhere.'

  'Are you going to tell his sister that he's run off to become a neo-Nazi then? That might come as a bit of a shock, don't you think?'

  Trent hadn't considered that. He'd been so caught up with the excitement of recognising the man in the poster that he'd not taken into account the ramifications of tracking him down. 'What's the worst that can happen?'

  'That they actually manage to kill you this time?'

  'Don't be so melodramatic, Pete.'

  'Please be careful. I'm serious.'

  'I'll be okay. I'm like a cat with nine lives.' Trent managed a half-hearted smile.

  'I nearly forgot. I've got something for you.' Pete grabbed his briefcase from the floor and flipped open the catches on his lap. 'You might find this interesting,' he said, handing Trent a single sheet of paper.

  'What's this?'

  'I was doing some digging around Longhurst's business background after you called me the other day. It's from the Land Registry. I discovered he's a director in a property management company called Montrieth. Companies House says he runs it with a couple of other directors. Didn't recognise their names though. Their account returns are pretty basic, but what's interesting is that they've received a number of fairly substantial lump sums deposited on a regular basis. Several hundred thousand pounds worth of lump sums each time.'

  'Donations from Hopper.'

  'Could be,' said Pete, with a shrug. 'It would be an easy way for party donations to be hidden. I'll send the accounts over to you when I'm back in the newsroom.'

  'So what's this?' said Trent, waving the slip of paper.

  'It looks as if the company used some of the cash to purchase a house in Sussex a few months back.'

  'Isn't that what a property management company does?' asked Trent.

  'It's the only property they own, Trent. It's a cottage in the middle of nowhere. A place called Nutwick. I looked up the pictures on the estate agent's website. It's pretty rundown. Not the sort of place you'd expect Longhurst to be buying for an investment.'

  'Holiday home?' ventured Trent.

  'If he wanted it for his personal use why purchase it through the company? Trent, in my humble opinion, and I'm no expert, but it looks to me as if they've tried to conceal the purchase. Maybe he's bought it on behalf of the BFA.'

  'What would they want with a cottage in Sussex.'

  'You said yourself they were planning some kind of attack. Perhaps they're using it as an operational base. It's certainly out of the public eye.'

  'Bloody hell, Pete. Do you really think so?'

  'I don't know, mate. It's just a hunch.'

  'There's only one thing for it, then,' said Trent, downing the remnants of his pint of beer. He slipped off the stool and picked up his crutches. 'I'll go and have a snoop around, just as soon as I've had a chat with this woman about her missing brother.' He folded the poster back into his pocket and limped towards the door. 'Cheers, Pete. I owe you another one.'

  Chapter 45

  Trent had already finished a large cup of black coffee when Lucy Chapman walked into the café. He instantly knew it was her from the uncertain way she stood in the doorway scanning the tables.

  'Lucy?' Trent asked, rising from his seat and beckoning her over to his table.

  Lucy smiled as a prospective employee might greet a manager at a job interview. Her straight, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she clutched a large bag, which dangled on the floor. Her bright red raincoat fell open, revealing a figure-hugging charcoal dress, which clung to her petite frame. 'You must be Trent?'

  Trent noticed how cold her fingers were as he took her hand. 'Nice to meet you,' he mumbled, a little fazed by being in the company of a beautiful woman. As he sat down, he busied himself rearranging cups, napkins and a sugar pot, unable to hold her gaze.

  'Coffee?' he asked, catching the ey
e of young waiter clearing a nearby table.

  'Cappuccino, thanks. You said you know where my brother is?'

  'I said I'd seen your brother.'

  'Where?'

  Trent ran a finger nervously around the rim of his cup. He had never considered himself much of a player, and envied the type of man who could walk up to a woman in a bar and strike up a conversation. The woman sitting opposite was well out of his league, and he felt a little embarrassed to be monopolising her time. He reminded himself why he'd called in the first place.

  'I need to explain why I wanted to meet face-to-face. I'm a journalist, working freelance, for different publications, but mostly investigative work.'

  'I see,' she said, but he could tell that she didn't. The waiter brought a cup on a saucer and placed it on the table. A sprinkling of chocolate had begun to melt into the foamy topping of milk.

  'I'm investigating the British Freedom Alliance.'

  Lucy showed no reaction.

  'I'm trying to work out who's financing them. The guy in charge, Ken Longhurst - '

  'I'm sorry, you said you had information about Nick?'

  'Yes, I'm coming to that. You see, in recent years the BFA has come into quite a lot of money and I think it's down to an individual rather than a lot of smaller donations.'

  'I'm sure that's all very fascinating, Mr Garside, but what does this have to do with Nicholas?' She fixed Trent with her unblinking cold, blue eyes.

  'Bear with me. I've been trying to stand up this story that someone's funding the BFA anonymously because I think the public has the right to know that it's happening and who it is.'

  'Are you deliberately trying to waste my time? Either you've seen Nicholas or you haven't. Which is it, Mr Garside?'

  Trent threw back the last of his cold coffee and pondered his reply. 'I think I've seen him, yes.'

  'You think? Where?' There was a strained emotion in her voice.

  'The thing is, and I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I think he's joined the BFA.'

  'Don't be so ridiculous!'

  'I've seen him with Ken Longhurst. He's working for him as a sort of minder. You know, like a bodyguard or something.'

  'What utter nonsense. You're sick, you know that? You've dragged me halfway across London to play games with me, is that it? ' Lucy stood up so forcefully that her chair almost toppled over.