David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

MORE HARM THAN GOOD

Chapter One

The man looked much older than his reputed thirty-five years. His
hair was thinner, and his face was slacker and more sallow than his picture had
suggested. I couldn’t compare his height, though. Because he was on the ground,
kneeling in front of two Royal Marines.

       
One of the Marines had a
pistol
levelled
on the bridge of the man’s nose.

       
And for a moment, I was
tempted to let him pull the trigger.

There are dozens of different job roles in all the British Embassies
and Consulates around the world, but one thing unites everyone who works in
them.
A phone number.
During their training, everyone
– from Ambassadors to janitors to chefs – has it drummed into them.
The number to call if they come across anything remotely
suspicious.
An unfamiliar piece of IT equipment.
A strange noise on the phone.
An
unrecognised
entry in a fax journal.
A ragged seal on an envelope.
A change in
a colleague’s
behaviour
.

       
The first alarm call
from the Boulevard Joseph II was made by one of the Embassy chefs. He was an
eight-year veteran of the diplomatic service. Before that, he’d spent
twenty-two years in the Navy, feeding multiple generations of Royal Marines.
And after dishing out more than thirty thousand meals, he was pretty used to
the amount they liked to eat. So when two of the younger guys from the guard
duty detail starting sending their plates back hardly touched, he noticed.

       
The baton was passed to
the Marines’ CO, and it didn’t take him long to find out why his men had lost
their appetites. The pair of them had been caught carrying on with a couple of
local girls.
But not by anyone from the Navy.
By a man from Liverpool.
He called himself Kevin Truly. And
he had a simple proposition. Carry an extra rucksack each onto the military
plane to England next time they were on leave - neatly sidestepping any customs
checkpoints or police officers with sniffer dogs - and their wives need never
hear what they’d been up to.

       
The analysts in London
figured the danger most likely didn’t extend beyond garden-variety blackmail,
but they needed to be sure. Navy policy ensures every threat - however minor it
seems on the surface - is taken seriously. So they told the Marines to play
along. And when Truly next got in touch - with instructions to meet him the
following night - they decided it was time to send someone in to take a closer
look.

       
That ‘someone’ was
me
.

It was less than a kilometer from the Embassy to the address Truly
had given the Marines. It would have been a pleasant walk. Luxembourg City is
beautiful. It felt like a scaled down version of Paris, crossed with Vienna,
and set on a series of hills. The idea of taking a stroll through its elegant
streets before getting my hands dirty was very inviting, but I couldn’t ignore
a nagging doubt at the back of my mind. Given the subject at hand, it seemed
unlikely that somewhere so central - or public - was going to be our final
destination. My Liaison Officer agreed, and without waiting for me to ask, she
picked up her phone and called the car pool.

       
The rendezvous was set
to happen at a trendy waterfront hotel. The building had recently been
converted from a grand old department store. A new front entrance had been
added, and this was separated from the River
Alzette
by a broad, block-paved promenade. The alleys on either side were too narrow
for cars and vehicle access to the rear of the building was controlled by a
secured gate, so I left my driver to his own devices and took a quarter of an
hour to wander around the perimeter, observing the place from the outside. Then
I made my way into the bar, ordered a glass of still water, and took the seat with
the best view of the door.

       
There were twenty-seven
people in the room, aside from me. A group of twelve - half men, half women,
mixed
ages from twenty to fifty - had pulled three tables
together in the corner. They seemed comfortable with each other, and the volume
of their conversation was rising steadily as the level of their drinks
declined. Four men in their late thirties or early forties were sitting
separately at the bar, quietly nursing bottles of upscale Belgian beer. A woman
was reclining in an armchair near the window, on her own, sipping cappuccino
and tapping away at a laptop. Four couples were huddled around tall, round
tables. And a pair of twenty-
somethings
in suits was
sitting near the door, holding cokes but not making much effort to drink them.

       
A quarter of an hour
passed before I spotted the Marines. They strolled artificially slowly through
the door, glanced around without letting their eyes settle on anyone in particular,
then walked up to the table nearest the bar. They looked just like they had
done in the photos I’d been shown, except for their clothes. One was wearing
motorcycle boots, faded jeans, and a tasseled biker-style jacket. The other had
Timberlands, grey cargo pants, and no coat. And as stipulated by Truly, both
wore black
Motörhead
T-shirts.

       
Five people left the bar
over the next twenty minutes. Three came in. But no one made any attempt to
approach the pair. I finished my water and ordered a black coffee to replace
it. The waiter brought me one with cream, but before he had time to take it
away again a guy entering the room caught my attention. I guessed he’d be in
his late teens. He was wearing jeans, trainers, an Ajax football shirt, and a
denim jacket with a torn right sleeve. His skin was pale. His face was covered
with freckles. His ginger hair was draped over his head in a kind of
half-hearted mullet. But it was the way he moved that stood out the most. He
shuffled into the bar like a sulky teenager at his parents’ cocktail party.
Then, as he drew level with the two guys near the door I saw him make eye
contact with both of them. Brief, but definite. One of them nodded to him, very
slightly. And after that he picked up speed, skirting round the remaining
couples and walking straight towards the Marines’ table.

       
I sent a text to my
driver: Contact. Stand by.

       
The Marines watched the
ginger haired kid approach, but neither of them got down from their chairs. He reached
their table and stood and looked at the one in the biker jacket for fifteen
seconds, fidgeting slightly as the bigger man returned his gaze. None of them
spoke. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, laid it on the table,
turned, and walked away.

       
As soon as the guy was
half way to the door the biker Marine picked up the note he’d left. He glanced
at it. Showed it to his friend. Then he dropped the paper back on the table,
both of them stood and made for the exit themselves. I slipped some money under
my saucer, waited until they were clear, then stepped across to where they’d
been sitting.

       
The note was written by
hand, in pencil, but it wasn’t too hard to read:

       
Unit
4. Rue Robert Schuman.

       
30
minutes. Come alone.
Take a taxi
,
don’t
use your car
.

       
People
will be watching.

I looked up and saw the Marines had just reached the door. The two
guys who’d nodded to the ginger kid stood up and moved after them, their drinks
still untouched. I scanned the bar for anything else that rang a false note.
Nothing struck me, so I made my own way outside.

       
The Marines were
striding away to my right, towards the nearest point where the promenade met
the street. My car was already there, waiting, with its hazards on. The two
guys were twenty feet behind, walking almost in step, hands in their pockets,
not talking. And straight ahead, leaning on the railing that separated the
river from dry land, was the ginger haired messenger boy. I strolled across and
rested my forearms on the rail next to him, as if I was an old friend. No one
was watching from the far side of the river. No boats were moored nearby. The
lad started to fidget. I guess he was uncomfortable, being so close to a
stranger. I turned so my back was against the rail. No one was paying us any attention
from the hotel or the road, so I drew my right arm across my chest. I glanced
around one more time, and rammed my elbow into the side of the lad’s head. Then
I stepped across and caught him before he hit the ground. He was heavier than
he looked, but I was still able to support him with one arm while I reached
into my pocket. I took out a
flexicuff
, fed one of
his arms through a gap in the metalwork, bound his wrists together, and set off
towards the road.

       
The drive took
twenty-two minutes, which was plenty of time for me to call the Embassy and
arrange for them to have to the police scoop the boy up and keep him out of
circulation until we saw what happened next. It turned out that the Rue Robert
Schuman was in an industrial area that spurred off one of the major arterial
routes from the north west of the city. It led to a T-shaped development,
probably built in the 1980s judging by the design of the small factories and
warehouse units that were lined up on both sides. I counted twelve of them.
Unit four was at the left-hand end of the crossbar. I couldn’t help thinking
Truly had chosen well. There were no houses nearby. No offices, or schools.
With the nearby businesses closed for the night the whole area was deserted. An
ideal situation, if he needed to move people and supplies around unnoticed.

       
Without waiting for me
to tell him, the driver turned to the right and didn’t stop until he’d gone
another hundred yards. Then I climbed out and made my way back on foot. The
other units all showed signs of occupation, but number four looked derelict.
Its windows were boarded up. There was no company name. Patches of rust were
showing through the peeling paint on the metal cladding. And there was only one
vehicle – a jade green Ford Focus – parked anywhere near.

       
As I moved closer I saw
the Ford was occupied. Two people were sitting in the front seats. They were
both men. It was easy to guess who they were. And after another ten yards, I
could confirm it. They were the two guys who’d been sitting by the door at the
hotel bar.

       
I continued in the
shadows at the edge of the pavement until I was level with the car. Then I drew
my Beretta with my right hand, took hold of the passenger door handle with my
left, and pulled.

       
“Good evening,
gentlemen,” I said, in French. “You now have two choices. Put your hands on the
steering wheel. Or be shot in the head.”

       
Neither of the men made
a move.

       
I tried again in German.

       
They were both stock
still for another 20 seconds. Then the driver put first his left hand, then his
right, on the wheel. The passenger followed suit, very slowly.

       
“Very good,” I said,
pulling two more
flexicuffs
from my pocket.

       
I dropped one in each
guy’s lap.

       
“You first, I said to
the driver. “Cuff your friend’s wrists together.”

       
He did as I instructed.

       
“Now, you,” I said to
the passenger. “Take care of your friend. Make it good and tight.”

       
He also complied without
a word.

       
I checked the cuffs to
make sure they were secure,
then
patted the guys down
for weapons. They both had 9 mm pistols.
A
Ruger
P-85, and a Colt 2000.
I took the guns, tucked
one into the waistband of my jeans, and slipped the other into my coat pocket.
Then I took their phones, switched them off, and slid into the back seat behind
the driver.

       
“Did you see a taxi drop
two men at unit four in the last few minutes?” I said.

       
Neither of the men
responded.

       
I jammed the barrel of
my Beretta into the bone just below the driver’s right ear, and repeated the
question.

       
“All right,” the driver
said. “Yes. We saw the taxi.”

       
“You followed it here?”
I said.

       
“Yes.”

       
“Why?”

       
“We were paid to.”

       
“Seems like a good
enough reason,” I said. “Now, think about when it arrived. Describe exactly
what happened.”