For the Love of God and the Arab Rising

  Chapter Fifteen: The run for home. Cat discussed the latest info gained from casing out the lodge. Nosa shouting about there being only four days to the drop off, it was now the 15th December; so the drop was scheduled for the 19th. It was an air drop, and 4.5 million dollars meant the drop was for at least 4 tonnes of Cocaine. McGovan and his mob will have a welcoming committee at Gatwick airport for sure. It really wasn’t much to go on, but they did have a copy of the paperwork that was swiped from Ray Mead; there must be more clues hidden within the notes. They would find time to examine it during the flight, but that was not until the morning. They must get to the airport now and try for an early flight before McGovan reached the airport himself. His contacts would do their work and he would soon know about any flight booking under their name. Cat called the airport while I did the driving. It was approaching 1120pm now and the roads were still busy, it would take at least an hour to drive to the airport and McGovan would only be thirty minutes behind them. His transport was disabled, but he would just call a taxi. It was a good ten minutes before Cat had managed to struggled through the call managing system and reached an operator of British Airways. ‘They have two seats available for the 0030hrs to London Heathrow, so get a move on and we’ll make it’. ‘A change of airport is good; How much?’ ‘Does it matter? Another $700, if you must ask’.

  I accelerate to the outside lane and push on through the sludge as fast as I dare, using full beam to push slow moving traffic aside. The feeling that McGovan was only just behind us continually filling me with dread, I shiver with the thought of that mad man getting anywhere near us. ‘Take junction 5a, it will take us down highway 54, and from there you will see a sign for the airport’. ‘We need to dump these ‘Rugers’ before we reach the airport, give me your piece’. Cat took each piece in turn and removed the magazine, ejecting the loaded shell in the process. She then dismantled the firing mechanism and threw a small part of each hand gun out of the window every few miles, eliminating the chance of anyone putting the pieces back together. ‘There, take Junction: 5a’. ‘OK, nothing to it’: swing the car to the right, join the slip road, ease off the throttle and as the approach tightens into a right hand switch back, the Honda rolling on its chassis, the 4x4 reaching the limits of its traction control and the grip of its tyres; we round the last corner. The corner finally straightens out to a new stretch of highway with promise of the required destination. Another 10km passed by and it was now 1130pm. I pushed the Honda still further, onwards through a dark wet sea of traffic; until we finally reached the turn for the airport. The Honda swung right and took the final turn, as if, as if it could sense the end of the road was near. We approached the filter lanes to the car parks, and the departures ‘drop off zone’ was just ahead. Fully intending to dump the Honda, we headed for the nearest car park across from the terminal. The tyres squealed as I jammed on the anchors, stopping a few millimetres from the gate. Push the button, take the ticket, and up goes the bar. The tyres squealed once more as I stamp on the throttle, momentarily lifting off as I threw the Honda up the first ramp, then the second and finally to the third level, before selecting a spot to leave the Honda to its fate. The surveillance kit was left in the holdall and thrown in the boot. The wrecked Honda was just abandoned and we headed for the terminal, walking across the linking bridge, down one floor and then into the ‘check in’ area. It was 1155 and we were dishevelled; panic was beginning to creep in and take over. Our army training, which remained in a sub conscious minds, kicked in without any effort and slowed the surrounding issues to a series of manageable pulses of thought, where each problem was catalogued to require a solution. Each catalogued problem was not released until a solution had been found.

  The British Airways desk was in a prime location and immediately caught our eye as we entered the main concourse. We pushed our way through the crowds. Cat reached the desk first, leaning on the raised surface, breathing hard, trying to gather her composure to ensure a speedy communication of her plight. They must move quickly to stay ahead of McGovan, but she took a moment, catalogued her problems and engaged the ‘check in’ staff in a standard and calm manner. ‘Good evening, my name is Catriona Mitchell, I called an hour ago to change my flight, my request was accepted over the telephone for the 0030hrs flight to Heathrow; can you please confirm this and point us in the right direction’. ‘Certainly Madam, do you have your booking reference and passports?’ I urgently searched my thigh pockets for the original tickets, and passports. ‘Here, here they are’ ‘Thank you sir’. The young lady was polite and efficient, but oblivious to our plight as she input the required details to confirm the process. ‘You have a provisional booking for the 0030hrs flight that is now boarding, would you like to proceed with the previously confirmed credit card details under the name of Catriona Mitchell?’ ‘Yes. Please’. ‘The additional charge is $700’. ‘Yes, that’s fine; will we still make the flight?’ ‘It will be fine madam, have you any luggage?’ ‘No’. ‘Thank you. I will call the boarding desk and ask them to await your arrival. Here are your tickets and boarding pass. Please proceed to the departure lounge and gate 24’.

  Looking up and twisting round, we searched for a sign that would provide the required information to lead us to the departure lounge. There it was, across a sea of bustling humanity, illuminated from above. We ran, bumping and jostling the surrounding and innocuous crowd to reach our destination; but with so many people on the concourse we slowed to a hurried shuffle, past one person and then the next, dodging suitcases and trolleys. Finally approaching the entrance to the departures lounge, a temporary feeling of safety swept over us as we left sight of the main concourse; cocooned by the inner heart of the airport. Cat and I began to relax, as we queued to be searched, removing belts and boots in time to box up them up for examination by the X-ray machine. I looked at Cat, she had a clear look of relief on her face and I felt the same. She touched my arm, and I took her hand; squeezing it in a strong but affectionate manner, that let her know I was still there for her and loved her deeply. She held on and gave me a lingering kiss on my cheek, looking into my eyes with love and relief. After collecting our affects and now out of the crowd: I decided to give Jeff a call. ‘Hello mate, is that you?’ ‘Hi Steve; are you all right?’ ‘Not really Jeff, I’m scared witless if you must know. You know that bloke I mentioned, Ray mead?’ ‘Yeh’ ‘well his bloody dead mate, shot through the chest at point blank range and we witnessed it. That psycho McGovern chased us through New York; we managed to lose him but his goons will be waiting for us, and he will be on the next flight’. ‘All right, what can I do?’ ‘We are literally boarding a flight now, meet me at Heathrow airport in 4 hours; that’s 530am: UK time’. ‘Will do mate’. ‘We will need a quick getaway, so drive around the drop off circuit until we come out. In fact: as soon as we land I will call you, and you can park in the drop off zone. We have no luggage, so no worries there’. ‘Ok Mate, see you soon, bye, bye, for now’.

  There it was: gate 24; ‘boarding passes please’. The boarding tunnel was cold, long and hard edged. But, the standard flight greeting was warm and polite, if not over the top as usual. A painted lady with an extremely wide smile gave the customary verbal greeting and a guiding hand to the correct isle. After settling into our seats; I could feel the confidence that McGovan could not have made this flight; Cat and I felt safe for the first time in four days. Catriona began to relax, her heart rate slowing to below 55 beats per minute, her breathing slowing to no more than 15 cycles per minute; I sank into my chair and closed my eyes. A steward was already giving the safety presentation when Cat reached out and touched my hand on the shared arm rest between our seats; we continued to hold hands for at least 30 minutes, eyes closed, just enjoying the security provided by knowing your partner, friend, and soul mate was sitting next to you. I could hear the whine of the jets as the captain taxied to the start of the runway, his precise and educated narration instilling confidence in everyone who confided in his flight briefing. T
he lights dimmed and we sank further into our seats as the jets roared, and the plane accelerated down the runway. And then skyward with power and confidence, the sort of confident power that only the modern jet engine can provide.

  Catriona was awakened by the stewardess distributing a late meal. She then woke me; I was in a deep sleep and was genuinely shocked to be pushed back into this mortal world, but Cat was right, we had not eaten for at least 7 hours, we must eat. I was groggy, bordering on angry but accepted the situation and gladly received the meal and a hot drink. The beguiling and calm atmosphere of the plane interior was a wonderful tonic in comparison to the recent life and death events of the previous 24 hrs. We ate their meals, sank into their seats one more time, and drifted off to sleep. It was another 3 hours before I woke to find Catriona poring over Ray’s paperwork, looking for clues to where the drop off could be. ‘Any ideas’ ‘Not yet love, I’m looking, but if it’s here, it’s hidden in the text. Rays East Ham Lodge letter mentions McGovan, but the New York lodge minutes are something else. Why would Ray carry these back to the UK’? ‘Let’s both start at the beginning; two sets of eyes will spot it. We’ve got the emblem, nothing new there. A set square and compasses, nothing new there. We could check the lodge name and number, The United Lodge of New York No: 1275. Still means nothing to me’. ‘I know Cat. Nosa said the drop off was in 4 days. If we take his statement literally; it will mean the drop off is scheduled for 19th December. But we still need a time and location’. ‘What are those numbers beneath the logo: 51.02.00.00’ ‘Is that a reference number, a date, or a time. What could it be’? ‘It could be a time if the five was not there. Reading it backwards would give zero hours, zero minutes, two seconds and fifty one of something else, which is nonsense’. ‘There’s not enough variance for it to be alphabetical’. ‘I agree’. The rest of the document was attendee names, business proposals and some minor finance issues to do with the lodge. None of the names and text lends me to think that there is any link with a UK location. Item 6 refers to a new member being proposed from the New York District: Cambridge. A Peter Dale; are there any dales in Cambridge? And if so, where; and we still needed a time, and even a method to smuggle the goods into the country. ‘They said it was by plane’. ‘Steve, leave it, there’s nothing there.’ ‘Yes dear’! ‘You do realise we will need some help to pin this down, don’t you. Even if we manage to sort this out, which I agree must be done to secure our sanity and future safety; we will never be able to do anything about it. Ray’s dead, and is probably wearing concrete boots by now. And that psycho: McGovan has tried to kill us; and will continue in his vendetta until he succeeds, a man like him does not like to lose. His crew will be waiting for us at the airport, we won’t make it home’. ‘Take it easy Cat; we will think of something. I will think of something’. Our hands were clamped together tightly, so I hung on and gave it another reassuring squeeze, she reciprocated. Then we leant inwards to each other and kissed and as our skin brushed gently together, I could smell her sweet scent that so coalesced with my own. Cat turned toward me and spoke of her fears: ‘I’m ok Steve, but that McGovan is an out and out killer and I desperately want to defeat him. To get him locked up. But he must have dozens of people ready to do his bidding. We are really in deep here. Shall we go to the police at Heathrow?’ ‘We don’t have a lot on him at the moment; he didn’t kill Ray or even injure us. We could inform the police on what has happened at the lodge, but our evidence of them dealing drugs is purely circumstantial; it would be enough for them to start a surveillance operation in New York, but not on McGovern, we need more evidence. Let me look at those numbers’.

  You can only stare at a set of data for so long. Firstly the numbers, then the rest of the letters, and then the numbers once again; nothing came to us, no ideas, and no triumph of logic. I was slowly losing the will to succeed. I sank back into my seat and hit the ‘ON’ button for the TV screen that was embedded in the front seat. A white welcome screen flashed into life and a message in italic text scrolled across the centre of the display: Welcome to you, our most valued customer. Please enjoy using the information and entertainment media system’. A blue background then slid in from the right and held a map of the Eastern seaboard, the Atlantic, the UK and Northern Europe. A small graphic interpretation of the Boeing 747 was shown following a flight path that just overlapped Greenland and headed on to the UK; the flight was mid way between Greenland and the UK. Adjacent to the 747 graphic was the numerical display of latitude and longitude. It was then that I had my triumph of logic, could it be? Could the numbers in the letter be latitude and longitude? The illuminated display stamped its graphical impression on my mind; I was sure this was it. ‘Cat’ ‘Yes love’ ‘Pass me that letter please’. The numbers listed below the logo were definitely in the right sequence, was it possible? The plane had WIFI so I took out my mobile and fired up the web browser, searched for a lat long website and after a couple of tries settled for a website that allowed me to search a lat long location. I typed in the lat long numerical and a small flag appeared on a map. So far, so good; I nudged Catriona. ‘Look Cat, the flag is on a land mass over the UK! This must be the drop location’. ‘Oh Steve well done, this is it, it must be’. It was not what I had expected at all, I had assumed the drop off would be over water and a planned pick up would be completed by divers at a later date. Cat had clearly heard the drop was by a small plane; so there was no reason why the drop off could not be over land. The area certainly looked remote enough to receive a drop and if a group were ready they could easily retrieve the drop and be on their way within 30 minutes. This must be the location, it’s all we had and I was feeling quite pleased with myself. All we needed now was a time for the drop.

  Cat continued to push me for a decision on who we should inform about the information we had gathered; it was imperative that we go to the police. Having survived so far, it would not be long before McGovan caught up with us and we would end up in a world of pain; and or more to the point, be killed. After days of running around, the soft, comfortable seats sucked us both back into their warm folding arms. Our hands touched once more on the central arm rest and I am sure Cat was on an identical wave length to me; as I pondered at what I should do; and who I should tell. It was 3 am and the flight was only 3 or 4 hrs away from Heathrow. We fell into a deep sleep. The seat belt alarm nudged us awake. It took some minutes to untangle my legs and stretch out as far as I could. Catriona cursed me for taking up all the space before she could stretch out also. The flight was approaching Heathrow and the flight staff hurriedly cleared up and stowed away service equipment. The realisation that we may have a welcoming committee was hitting home; Cat looked at me and each of us knew exactly what the other was thinking. We could easily be picked up entering the main concourse and would probably be tailed when Jeff picked us up. The only other choice was to avoid customs and head for the fence, but the chances of getting past the CCTV and the guards was remote. We had no choice. Airport security would easily pick us up if we left the passenger route from the plane or took an exit before customs; the chances of getting away from the main building and out via a fence or a gate was minimal. The best option would be to keep calm and meet Jeff, he had a good motor and our chances of escape were far greater. I did not want to involve Jeff but he’s a big lad; he will help us get away from the airport and McGovern does not know his identity.

  There was no luggage, so to walk straight through baggage collection was a bonus and we headed straight for customs: ‘Nothing to Declare’, past ‘Duty Free’ and down the corridor to ‘Arrivals’. The double doors to the main concourse flew open as we charged through and kept walking; bobbing heads with zealous smiles peered over cardboard messages, looking for relatives, friends and business contacts. No immediate threat could be perceived through the chaos and we kept walking at pace, but calm and focused to reach the main exit. The exit to the ‘pick up’ point was some 400 yards away at least and Catriona was terrified. My peripheral vision alerted me
to a movement from our extreme left, my subconscious mind was on some sort of primal overdrive, my adrenaline was that high; but on looking left for a second time I could still not confirm any immediate threat. Cat paced past me at some pace and headed for the first sign giving directions to the exit and pick up area. I followed and again was drawn toward a movement on our left flank; I looked again for a third time and could see a blond man staring straight at me. The human reaction is to look straight back, you cannot help it. So I looked back at the blond man and our line of sight locked together, the blond man’s expression suddenly raised to one of surprise and the game was on. He immediately tried to push his way through the crowd towards us. A brunette woman followed the blond man closely. I raced past Catriona and yelled at her that we were being followed, we both ran, pushing people out of the way, breathing heavily as panic set in. The door’s to the ‘pick up’ zone and the taxi ranks was in sight; Jeff would be waiting. We ran straight at the automatic doors, but they were desperately slow and I crashed straight into them, my fingers rammed their way through the rubber safety strip and forced the doors open. Catriona twisted her body sideways and squeezed through. We both stopped abruptly, all we could see were taxi’s, taxi’s everywhere, where was Jeff? ‘Steve. Over here’. At least another hundred yards to our right, down the pavement was Jeff’s lumbering hulk, waving and shouting. We ran, we ran as fast as we could, shouting at Jeff to start the car. People in Hawaiian shirts and flip flops, others in their best to impress, looked on with amazement. Jeff started to walk towards us? What is he doing? Cat and I kept running for the car, we were now level with Jeff. Unbeknown to us, the blond man had gained considerable ground and had nearly caught up with Cat. I was now at the car and opening the door. Cat was a few metres from the car and had now passed Jeff also. The blond man was now coming up to and was going to run past Jeff as he was unaware of his identity. Jeff is 5’ 11’’ and 22 stone, a solid lump of a man. In one short sharp motion, Jeff raise his thick set arm, lent into the action and ‘clothes lined’ the blond man. The blond man’s head and neck stopped abruptly, his legs and torso kept moving forward until the neck and head stopped this forward motion, whipping the blond man’s legs into the air. The blond man was, for a second, completely airborne; he then crashed to the ground, cracking his skull on the concrete pavement. He lay there, groaning in pain. Jeff calmly kneeled down and punched the man squarely in the face; the blond man’s head shook with the weight of the punch and then did not move. ‘Come on Jeff, let’s go’. Cat and I are all ready in the car. Jeff slid his twenty stone bulk into the driver’s seat and started the Jag with a dainty push on the start button with his pudgy finger. He then gunned the throttle; 3 litres of fuel injected and twin turbo assisted V8 propelled the Jag out of the parking lane and into the traffic flow; the weight of the car and its passengers loading the rear axle and suspension as it accelerated away from the kerb. Looking back, we can see the brunette woman kneeling over the blond guy and looking up as we pass by; a scathing look of hate so evident on her pretty face. ‘Where too’ ‘Well not ours, that is for sure, yours will do just fine’ We could do no more for a while except sit there in the Jag’s sumptuous seats, once more cocooned from any danger; for now. We were soon on the M25 and passing junction 8 at a steady 90 mph heading for the Dartford Bridge. Jeff eased back on the throttle and adjusting the cruise control to a steady seventy five mph.