Limit of Exploitation (7 page)

Phil's body armour felt like a heavy rigid corset as he struggled and twisted in his seat to check on the progress of the rear vehicle. Even at this distance he could clearly make out its tall CODAN whip antenna gently bouncing and swaying in its rubber mount on the bumper. In the far distance he could just make out two lanes of Iraqi traffic. They were holding well back, not wanting to come near the APT's convoy let alone pass it. Surviving popping to the shops for some new flip flops and a Burkha for the missus could be a risky day out for the average Iraqi, and avoiding armed security convoys had become the new national sport.

As they hurtled south on Heretic, there was a sharp double tone from the dash mounted Thuraya satellite phone, a text message was coming in. Phil uncoupled the phone from its docking station for a closer read. There was no sender name to the text, just a number.

Through his wrap around's Phil studied the last four digits of the UK phone number.

He grunted and murmured under his breath. “John Logan, now what can I do for you?”

It had been quite a while since he'd heard from John, but what with him working in Iraq and John still serving in the Army, it wasn't like they were going to pop to the pub each night and swap stories on their day at the office. People who had served together in Military units form a tight and unique bond. It could be years that two people in that position would see each other, but put them in the same room together and they can strike a conversation up like it was only yesterday.

Phil's mind starts to race as he idly watches the distant traffic. John needed a favour. All he had to do now was get out of Iraq.

It had been decades since anything commercial touched down at Bo. The years of civil wars and inter-tribal fighting that reduced Sierra Leone to the world's poorest nation had effected every aspect of life there. Nowadays the only aircraft that ventured to Bo were the military variety that flew in, spent minimal time on the ground and then flew out again. Located a couple of kilometres south-west of Bo town, the airfield had definitely seen better days. Weeds and coarse bush grass now spiked through the cracked runway and a steaming jungle was forcing its way over the decaying perimeter fence. Not even Easy Jet landed there.

Half way along the abandoned runway is a small car park, a group of sagging aircraft hangers and Bo's derelict control tower. At the base of the tower groups of African Soldiers draped in AK47's and RPG's lounge around in any available shade. They smoke the local gat and chitchat in creole.

A British soldier; tall, athletic looking with a tanned baldhead, sits halfway up the towers external metal staircase. Unshaven and dirty, he wears filthy worn out jungle combat gear, but the AK across his knees is clean and good to go. His hawk-like face and crows feet are testament to years of soldiering spent under a tropical sun. Military advisor Jack Lyndhurst pulls hard on a tatty hand rolled cigarette while gently drumming his fingers on the AK's curved magazine.

Along with the African troops below him, the quietly spoken Jack patiently waits in the heat and humidity for the UN Helicopters that will lift them all back to Freetown for a welcome shower and some hot food after their long border patrol.

Jack was posted to SL as a military advisor to the country's fledgling army. British foreign and defence policy had made a commitment to aid Sierra Leone in its reconstruction effort after a series of particularly brutal civil wars had reduced the place into blood soaked chaos.

Previous British army operations had finally ended the violence and put an end to the almost medieval carnage that had swept the country for decades. The fact that the former colonial power had intervened and brought peace and stability to a troubled land was something that the white liberal tree-hugging community just could not get their head around.

Perched on top of the daysack laid at his feet was Jack's IsatPhone. As he quietly smoked he stared at it, daring it to ring with the bad news of a delay in their pickup. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Below him the chitchat suddenly drops off, as all eyes turn skyward. In the distance can be heard the rhythmic beat of rotor blades. He looks down at the troops with almost fatherly admiration and gives them a cheery thumbs up. Happy black faces beam back Colgate smiles.

The troops haul each other to their feet and grab their weapons as the beat of the inbound helicopters grows louder. Jack pinches out his cigarette and places the butt into a small plastic bag, ice-cold Castle lager on Lumley Beach now upper most in his mind.

Two Russian MI8 Helicopters suddenly burst into view over the jungle canopy; they bank hard and start to flare into the airfield. The Helicopters are dirty white in colour and have UN stencilled in large black letters on their sides.

Bending down for his day sack, Jack notices the IsatPhone screen suddenly illuminate. He crouches down; bracing himself against the downdraft of the landing helicopters and grabs the phone. Thumbing buttons, his eyes narrow as he reads Johns text. In the background the MI8's clatter down onto the tarmac.

Jack was slightly older than John, and as a Colour Sergeant, in strictly Military terms he also outranked him. But that wasn't Jacks thing at all. To him the Army was a just hobby that filled his days, a pastime not to be taken too seriously. People often told him that he really should be higher in rank by this stage in his career. Career? Jack never saw it that way. If the Army wanted to promote him they would, if they didn't then fuck them. He was far too laid back to give damn about all that type of thing.

He smiled to himself as he finished reading. John Logan, he thought, what have you gone and got yourself involved in now?

Wind is driving sheets of pelting rain across the sleeping city as a lone Ford Mondeo works its way through rows of gloomy
Coronation Street
terraced housing. Headlights illuminate IRA graffiti on the gabled ends of the houses as the Mondeo splashes down the deserted streets of the sprawling Andersonstown Estate.

Behind the wheel the driver is alert and aware; the yellow streetlights catch the eyes in the rear view mirror, blue, female eyes.

Captain Samantha Mayfield of the Special Recon­naissance Regiment works the car hard and expertly. She heads out the grid of grimy streets, hits the main Andy-town road and travels west.

She grips the steering wheel hard in frustration and glares through the lazy arc of the windscreen wipers. Wasn’t she worth more to the SRR than playing cat and mouse with the Continuity IRA? She felt overlooked, ignored and pushed aside. What the hell was she wasting her time tooling around this dump for?

Next to her on the front seat is a copy of the
Belfast Telegraph
; the pistol grip of an MP5 ‘Kurtz’ Sub Machine Gun sticks out from underneath the broadsheet.

In the boot along with some medical and radio kit, are a couple of G3 Heckler & Koch Assault Rifles and on Sam’s hip is her trusty SIG Pistol. All the necessary accessories for a girl about town, this town anyway.

Sam detested the male dominance in the Army and especially in the UK Special Forces community. She had fought tooth and nail to be where she is now, but it still didn’t seem enough. She shifted down the gears and sped along the Falls Road into the heart of Republican West Belfast, her scalp itching under the black wig that covered her blonde hair.

The Mondeo snaked its way up a slight gradient towards the Beachmounts. On the left and set back from the main road, Sam could just make out the Beachmounts Leisure Centre in all its new EU funded splendour. Coming to the main intersection of the Falls and Springfield roads she hangs a right past the Royal Victoria Hospital, heading down to the Westlink and out of the city. After twenty minutes or so on the dual carriageway she finds her exit and takes the slip road onto country lanes.

Finally, in her headlights warning signs start to appear, telling her to slow down for an Army checkpoint ahead. Through the arc of the wipers a heavily fortified military installation comes into view.

She slowly takes the Mondeo over a series of flood lit speed bumps, then through a chicane of huge concrete blocks, stopping at a raised anti-ramming barrier set into the road. Sam flicks her headlights off and powers down her window as an armed Soldier approaches to check her ID.

Once through the checkpoint she steers the Mondeo to a secure area of the base and negotiates more security to enter a series of unlit buildings. In a hushed operations room people with no sense of humour hunch over computers set around a large central screen. Lights are low; it’s a serious place of work.

Sam makes her way to her desk and powers up a laptop. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she logs into various email accounts.

Even with no makeup on she has classic model type features and attracts admiring glances from male colleagues. But Sam’s not interested, she’s never interested. With Sam the ice never melts.

She pulls off the wig and shakes down her shoulder length blonde hair. As she unzips her fleece something catches her eye on the screen. John’s email makes her slowly sit upright, those model features now turning distinctly cold and hard.

She looks around warily before closing down the laptop screen. Suppressed memories of a husband killed not three miles from where she sat suddenly overwhelm her.

A couple of days slipped past as Johns emails and texts bounced around the world. He was growing impatient and had been filling in time doing some homework on the Eastern Logistics website. There was the usual corporate blurb about the efficiency of their import and export operations, waffle about the company's global reach and a few reviews from previous clients.

As he searched deeper into the website he came across a page advertising the many port and airport facilities EL had a stake in. Victoria Deep Water Terminal in London was listed as one of its interests in the UK. There was also a storage facility in Deptford; John decided that he would start there. It was a long shot hoping that Miroslav would keep a kidnap victim in a location he was associated with, but it was worth a look just to discount it.

Now, sat in a greasy spoon Café he watched as cab drivers and builders sitting at formica topped tables scoffed down bacon sandwiches and huge plates of full English. The cafe reminded him of his youth and he felt at home amongst the cafe's rough and ready clientele.

The till rang and an overweight waitress in jeans and blue apron shrieked over the stereo that Dave's Bacon sandwich was ready. A wall mounted TV showed Sky football to no one in particular. John sat with a huge mug of tea at a table near one of the Cafe's steamy windows and minded his own business.

Looking across the street into a small industrial estate, he had a perfect view of the Eastern Logistics storage unit that was mentioned on the website. It was the far end unit and the EL logo was proudly mounted over the premises.

A row of parked cars ran along the front of the café but John could clearly see that the outer steel double doors of the unit had been reinforced and secured into fresh concrete and brickwork. The other units were fitted with bog standard roller shutters.

Two black youths loitered around in hooded tracksuits trying hard to blend in, but their body language was telling a different story. Inquisitive glances at passer's by and their looks to other youths on street corners told John that these young youngsters weren't out for a spot of fresh air. They were clearly associated with the lock-up unit and John put them down as lookouts, or dickers.

Once upon a time they would have been looking for car stereos to nick but nowadays they were looking for anybody carrying out surveillance on the EL lockup. Working as a dicker for the Zemun was obviously more lucrative than flogging moody stereos.

Johns plan was to take a cursory look over the EL unit and then move onto the Victoria Deep Water Terminal, but this changed things. He opens a copy of the Sun. Sellotaped inside the middle pages is a Google Earth image of the industrial units and surrounding area. He studies the imagery and orientates himself, tuning into his surroundings. To any casual observer he's just a bloke reading a paper. He memorises the local area, the roads and the footpaths, finishes his tea and heads for the door. He had to make the most of a single walk past and gather as much information on the place as he could without sticking out and becoming obvious.

Tucking the paper under his arm he walked with a nonchalant gait, like he wasn't paying attention to much at all, but underneath his eyes were busy. He mentally logged the number of dickers and where they were hanging around; he took note of the CCTV and whether it was a pan-tilt and zoom system or on a fixed arc of observation.

Sauntering along with the line of lock up units on his left until he came to the end of the row and the EL unit. Following the building round to the rear on a small access road, he came into a courtyard that serviced the rear of the lock ups.

It was a white van man convention at the back of the units with box vans picking up and dropping off at various lockups, all except EL's. From inside his donkey jacket John produces a yellow high visibility vest and slipped it on. The high vis instantly made him part of the landscape, part of the fabric, like walking around with a clip board on a factory floor. He put his iPhone to his ear, pretending to make a call while videoing the area.

The rear door to the EL unit was a single steel reinforced pedestrian entrance. To the right of the door was mounted an electronic keypad security system complete with magnetic stripe card reader. Above that was a fixed arc CCTV Camera that covered both the door and the card reader. No other unit was boasting this level of security.

He saw the lighting system on the unit's exterior walls; it was the fixed Bulkhead type. This was a bonus, it meant that the lights had to be physically turned on and off from somewhere inside the buildings. Passive Infra Red systems react to movement, and that would be tricky at night.