Canterbury

England

“He kissed me on the cheek before heading off to work, knowing nothing of my real profession.” Ashley had no sooner said the words than her husband stepped into the study.

Gerald said, “There was a hint of menace in your voice when you read that, my love. Perhaps you should perform the voice-over for other people instead of imagining your own world of covert agents.” He kissed his wife’s cheek. “Some of us have to save the world every day.”

“Have a pleasant day, darling, and be careful you don’t let any nasty people into the country.” She grinned as her husband went downstairs, chuckling to himself. Ashley read through the paragraph again. As she considered whether to use first or third person point of view her phone buzzed with a text.

‘COFFEE AT 9mm. USUAL PLACE. ’

To anybody else the 9mm looked like it should have been 9am, but it was misspelt for good reason.

Ashley saved her work in progress, closed down her laptop and changed from her baggy tracksuit into a blouse, skirt and heels. Before going downstairs she opened the top drawer of her desk, reached to the back and lifted out her Beretta 9mm and her knife. She pulled out the large drawer below, which was full of suspension files.

Ashley flicked the files forward with her fingertips, passing Writer Today, All About Writing and various other magazines. At the back was the magazine she needed, but it didn’t have pages, it was loaded with live ammunition. She slipped it into the pistol grip of her automatic and pulled back on the slide; ready.

* * *

“Good morning, Ashley,” the man said as he took a seat opposite the attractive brunette in the cafe. “

“What’s happened, Mark?”

“We’ve got eyes on Lolita and the boss would like her compromised with extreme prejudice before she targets another official.”

“If this is sanctioned we must be absolutely certain. When was Lolita identified?”

“Two days ago. I’ve got three good people on her tail, and though she’s good, our people are better.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s here in the UK, in Dover.”

“I understood that Lolita had her claws into customs officials in the Netherlands, Belgium and France.”

“She does, but forty-eight hours ago we found out why she takes so many risks. Lolita is a top asset for the trafficking operation but she isn’t the top dog. The kingpin is the Czech guy we codenamed Vladimir.”

“He’s been under surveillance longer than Lolita so how come we’ve only just discovered that he’s the top man?”

“Until two days ago we’ve never seen Vladimir and Lolita in the same country, let alone the same city. They met in Cologne Cathedral in Germany and our operative got the pictures, the targets were standing closer than we are now.”

“Have we any intel on why they met in Germany?”

“I had our analysts studying the photographs we’ve got of both of these top people and it was only a couple of hours ago when one of our guys hit on it. We have pictures of Lolita all over Europe and a host of pictures at hotels near seaports on both sides of the English Channel and the North Sea. Vladimir on the other hand has never been seen in any country with a coastline … he flies everywhere.”

“It takes him out of most equations then, doesn’t it? The trafficking operation is all done by road and ferry crossings but to locate Vladimir you’d have to trace him by following several other people. I don’t understand how he can trust each one in the chain to get the information passed accurately.”

“The guys in GCHQ can’t locate them on phones because they don’t talk to each other. A recording device with a few music tracks on it is transported physically via the use of a dead drop system. It sounds long-winded and old-fashioned, but it’s not so silly when you consider that a written letter is more secure than a bloody email these days.”

“Right, so a list of names and other details is recorded on the device and it would only take three or four couriers before it becomes difficult to keep up with where they’re going.”

“Correct.”

“Wouldn’t the system be compromised if a border official was to stop just one person and check the device?”

“No, because they have it hidden in plain sight. The courier has ear-plugs in and connected to the device as if they’re actually listening to it, but it can be switched on and not playing. The person responsible for sending the message records a few songs on the machine before any names or other information is added via speech, so unless the official was to listen for longer than say fifteen or twenty minutes all they would get is music.”

“How do we know this is the method being used?”

“One of our people saw a dead drop being used and got to the machine before it was picked up by the next courier. Our girl copied the memory of the device, replaced it in the dead drop and maintained surveillance to see it continue the journey.”

“Okay, so how much damage can we do to their operation?”

“I’m sorry to say it depends a lot on you, Ashley.”

“Well I can take out Lolita if she’s here in the south of England, or get me to Prague and I’ll cut the head off the beast.”

“Across France, Belgium and the Netherlands we’ve got fourteen couriers identified, right down to their names and addresses. We have two addresses for Lolita in each of those countries and she has flats rented in Ashford and Maidstone. We also have an address for Vladimir.”

“Has the agency involved the police or intelligence services in those countries, bringing them up to date with progress?”

“No, because I’ve come up with a new plan this morning. The boss said we can go for it if you agree.”

“Why am I the key to this working out?”

“I made a few rapid phone calls earlier. Not including you, or me, we have twenty-five assets in Western Europe. Right now every courier has one of our people within a five-minute walk. We have three people on Lolita and up until a short while ago we had two on Vladimir.”

“You’ve got my attention Mark. What’s your revised plan?”

“I wanted to share the two top people with you, but I have to control the flow with so many assets involved. The boss has sanctioned the elimination of the whole package.”

“Including the couriers?”

“None of them are innocent, Ashley. Every bloody one of them is aware that in the past three months fifty-four people have been found dead in containers at British ports. I don’t want to cut the head off the beast, I want to wipe the fucking thing from the face of the Earth.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Five minutes before I texted you this morning I got word that Vladimir landed at Heathrow Airport. He had a rental car waiting and left London as soon as his passport and hand luggage were checked.”

“You said that until a short while ago we had two people on Vladimir—”

“One of them is missing in action, and the other was found in a public toilet in Heathrow.” He looked around, reached into his jacket and produced a smartphone. “The operative in Heathrow didn’t die in vain, because he got a bug attached somewhere on Vladimir.” Mark switched on the monitor. “This uses the usual satnav technology and because we’re within fifty miles of the target, the screen is showing the southeast of England. The red flashing dot is telling us that Vladimir is travelling towards the south coast.”

“Who or what is the blue dot?”

“Lolita, and as you can see, she’s already in Dover. We believe she’s going to see a double-agent or recruit another UK asset.”

“How do I enlarge the map to show one or the other?”

“Usual routine—tap the one you want highlighted. The screen enlarges automatically as you get closer. By the time you’re within five hundred metres this will show street names.”

Ashley took the device, switched it off and slipped it into a pocket. “How will we handle the eliminations?”

“The boss has been summoned to MI5 HQ to ask for permission to go ahead. He ought to get clearance by about the time we’ve done the job.”

“Are you telling me that this is going to be a sequence of unofficial hits?”

“These people are causing the deaths of around twenty desperate people every month. Are you in, Ashley?”

“I’ll contact you when both have been neutralised.”

Mark leant across the table. “Are you taking a long shot?”

“No, for these bastards it’s up close and personal. We need immediate confirmation.” She winked and stood to go. “Speak to Gerald for me if it goes pear-shaped.”

“I’ve no intention of speaking to your husband … go and do some cleaning-up.” His smile faded as he watched his friend and colleague stroll out into the street. Mark pulled out a smartphone like the one he’d given his best field agent. When he powered-up he got a map of the southeast of England, showing a blue dot, stationary in Dover, a red dot travelling towards the Dover coast, and a green dot close to his location, but moving away.

* * *

Twenty minutes after leaving her controller in Canterbury, Ashley was on the A2 heading south to Dover. She selected ‘hands-free’ and hit speed dial for her husband’s number.

“Hello, Gerald … I’m sorry to be calling you at work, my love. I know how you hate secrets, so I thought I’d give you a heads-up about something.”

“Go on, but you’ll have to be quick. I shouldn’t be on my phone.”

“What’s up?”

“The whole of Dover Port Authority is heaving this morning. It’s one of those days when we have a maximum number of container lorries coming in.”

“Well, it’s not really work-related, but I got a call earlier from one of your colleagues. Apparently, there is a strip-o-gram or something similar going on at your immigration section. Don’t tell any of your friends, but if you see an attractive female around, keep away from her.”

“Are you jealous, because you’ve no need, and you know that?”

“No, my love, but if it’s the person I’ve heard about she gets pictures taken and then they end up on social media, and it doesn’t take much to photoshop—”

“Bloody hell—thanks, love. Now, you get back to killing bad guys.”

“That’s what I’m about to do. I love you, Gerald.”

“I love you.”

* * *

Five miles from Dover as she drove along the A2, Ashley was able to look out at the English Channel. In a couple of minutes the road would descend in a steep curving gradient towards the coastal town and the ports. She glanced at the satnav phone Mark had given her.

“Shit … where the bloody hell—” The A2 on the screen was no longer a thin red line but showing clearly as the four lanes of a dual carriageway. The red dot was less than a mile away. “What are you up to?” She slowed from seventy to fifty and then flicked her indicator and eased up to pull into the next lay-by. The red flashing dot took up most of the screen and had circles radiating from its centre.

Ashley pulled in behind a white Ford Focus which had a long yellow strip on the rear window to advertise the rental agency. “Nothing too flashy, or powerful. Good choice.” She was wearing her light jacket but still undid the next two buttons on her blouse and hiked her skirt up another couple of inches before getting out of her car.

The operative went around the front of her car, walked in towards the grass verge and then strolled along the side of the verge, passing the rental car. While she walked she flexed the fingers of both hands in the way that some people do after having driven a long while. As she pretended to look down at her hands she glanced in the nearside wing mirror of the Ford.

Mikhail Norakov, otherwise know to British Intelligence as Vladimir was squinting as he watched the attractive brunette stretching her considerable legs. The Czech gangster was a heartless individual but like many men his Achilles’ Heel was nowhere near his feet. He watched the woman walk past, turn and stroll back again. She glanced at him and smiled as she made the slow and leisurely walk back along the inner perimeter of the lay-by twice more.

Norakov wondered if the woman was a hooker, but then he thought, no, she was too classy. If he had somebody like her working for him he’d put her in accommodation … she was too good for the streets. He was considering whether he would enjoy her himself first, and then she walked behind his rental car and paused. She’d obviously had a long enough break. By the time he realised she was walking along the driver’s side of his car it was too late to react.

Ashley had measured the length of the Ford by pacing along the nearside of the vehicle. She was confident that four good strides from the rear would place her at the driver’s door.

The expression on Norakov’s face was worth seeing, especially when he raised his hands up to defend himself. When the business end of the suppressor touched the driver’s window it left the bullets less than an arm’s length to travel.

‘Phutt! Phutt!’ Two holes appeared in the gangster’s forehead close together, despite the fingers that the bullets had to pass through.

Ashley slipped her weapon back into the low shoulder holster and walked back towards her car. She stopped at the back of the Ford where she pulled on latex gloves and flipped the tailgate up, effectively blocking the view of inside the car. Ashley got into the passenger seat of the Ford. Two minutes later after a search of the glovebox and the corpse, she left with two passports and four credit cards.

Ashley grabbed a handful of dirt spat on it and spread it over her rear number plate, obscuring most of the lettering. Armed with a one-gallon can of fuel from her car, she went along to the nearside of the Ford and opened both doors. Every ounce of the accelerant was used, pouring it over the upholstery and the dead man. The plastic fuel can joined the corpse in the front.

Before she returned to her car, Ashley kept her head slightly bowed as she watched for a gap in the passing traffic. She leant inside the Ford, turned on the ignition and depressed the cigarette lighter.

Ten seconds later, as Ashley accelerated away from the lay-by, she glanced in her rear-view to see the white Ford engulfed in flame. “Such a waste of a nice car.” A click on the satnav device caused her to look down at the centre console. The red dot had disappeared and the map enlarged to display the location of the blue dot.

“Junction of Church Street and Castle Street … okay.” Ashley selected her husband’s number and hit speed dial.

* * *

Ashley made one last check of her satnav phone before entering the cafe. She paused when closing the door as if preventing the door from slamming but in those few seconds she assessed how many customers were seated, and where the toilets were situated.

She sat with her back to a wall, a healthy habit she’d once been told by a colleague. “Ah’ pot ay’ tea, please, darlin’,” she said in a broad Glasgow accent, which was as far removed from her Oxford accent as the two cities were from each other.

The woman sitting alone reading a magazine was good at blending in, but not as good as the woman who spotted her in a slow and casual look around. Of the seven customers, four were men and apart from herself and the target there was a woman in her winter years.

Ashley’s mobile phone buzzed. She lifted it from her shoulder bag, cancelled the timer, pretended to listen to the device and looked around the cafe, sensing the gaze of the attractive auburn-haired woman sitting two tables distant. The operative looked straight at her target, squinted and nodded.

“I think I have,” Ashley said in a conversational tone and nodded again. “I’ll ask her … bye.” She put away her phone.

“One pot of tea.”

“Yerr a darlin’ … thanks very much.” Ashley didn’t touch the cup or the pot, but stood and took two paces to reach Lolita. “Excuse me, are you waitin’ fur Peter Grainger?”

“Why … who are you?”

“Ah’ve goat a message fae ‘im.” She briefly held a finger to her lips and nodded towards the short corridor at the back where the toilets were signed. Ashley turned, went straight to the Ladies room and went inside. She quickly checked that all three cubicles were empty.

The door opened a few seconds later and Lolita stepped in, reaching inside her jacket. “Who are you and what is this about?” When she brought her hand out from her jacket she was holding a bone-handled knife. A gleaming four-inch blade glinted briefly and before waiting for a response Lolita threw it underarm at her adversary.

Ashley ducked left and raised her left hand simultaneously deflecting the weapon from her throat with her palm. “Naughty, naughty.” A cut hand was better than a blade in the neck.

Lolita ran forward and aimed a kick with the two-inch bone blade which protruded from the toe of her shoe. The rapid and confident movement left her unbalanced because of the recently washed floor tiles so she grasped a washbasin and turned slightly to take another kick.

Ashley had side-stepped the kick, and as she brought her right hand up there was a reflection from a slim silver blade. She made no effort to slash or stab which so often went wrong and created a struggle. Ashley used the other woman’s momentum against her and thrust the knife straight into the neck, severing the trafficker’s jugular artery on the way to her throat.

Lolita’s eyes opened wide in disbelief before the smooth metal was twisted and withdrawn. She grabbed at her injury as she coughed up blood for the final few seconds of her worthless life. Lolita collapsed to the tiled floor in an untidy heap.

Ashley’s left hand stung, but she had kept it squeezed tight to stem any flow of blood from her palm. She squatted beside the dead woman to wiped her blade on her jacket and then thrust her weapon under the door as a wedge. A rapid, painful rinse with warm water was sufficient and then she padded the injury with toilet tissue before making a fist. She used toilet tissue to wipe her adversary’s weapon and turned the blade over in the victim’s blood.

When satisfied all was ready, Ashley lifted her knife from beneath the door, sliced through the strap of Lolita’s small shoulder bag and took it with her, dropping her own knife inside. The weapon left behind would be a useful decoy when the forensics department discovered the only prints were those of the victim.  

Ashley produced a note which was more than enough for her tea and handed it to the woman at the counter. “Ah’m feelin’ a wee bit sick.” She dashed out of the cafe. Ten yards from the cafe, Ashley turned a corner, glanced over her shoulder and then removed her blonde wig and black-framed glasses. She tucked the extra shoulder bag under her jacket and walked to the car park.

When safely in her car she wrapped a hanky around the blood-stained tissue in her slashed hand. Ashley lifted out her phone and hit speed-dial for Mark. “Two evening meals cancelled.”

“Thanks for the call.”

* * *

Ashley arrived home, showered, applied a large plaster to her left palm and changed into her baggy tracksuit. She’d been back in Canterbury for less than an hour when she heard her husband come up the stairs.

“Hello love,” Gerald leant over and kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t know about you, but we’ve had an exciting day in Dover. Oh, before I forget, Peter is really grateful for the heads-up about that possible compromising situation.”

Ashley lifted her coffee … the first since her meeting with Mark in mid-morning. “Tell me more … was all the excitement in the Dover Immigration Department?”

“No, thankfully, it wasn’t at our place, the action was in or near Dover. A couple of miles from the port where the main road starts to descend, some foreign guy set himself on fire in his car.”

“How do you know he was foreign?”

“It was a rental car and he was a Croatian or Serb or something according to the passport he’d used for the rental.” Gerald shook his head slowly. “And then in the afternoon some crazy Scottish woman stabbed a European woman to death in a cafe toilet and stole her handbag.”

“Not a great day for European visitors then?”

“Well, the woman who runs the cafe said she recognised the Scottish woman’s accent and she was a blonde who wore glasses. She didn’t know what the other woman was, but said she was one of those Slavic sounding types.”

“Who was it said it was boring working down in Dover, eh?”

“We did have our share of glory. Not one, but two container lorries came in from Zeebrugge in Belgium with twenty immigrants in each. The people were sick, but thankfully alive.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“I was deflecting a throwing knife during a fight with a desperate people trafficker.” She lifted her letter opener. “And please don’t ask how many people have been killed with this.”

Gerald laughed and stared at the laptop screen. “You haven’t done anything since I left … that’s the same opening sentence.”

“Oh, I’ve done plenty. There was a secret meeting between two MI5 agents and—”

“Please tell me you’ve done more than that, Ashley.”

“Gerald, love, I had one of those days. I saved some important documents and burned a few others. You know when you have the chance to affect something that’s working well, but you don’t save it. On top of everything else I had to cancel a couple of Czechs.”

The End

Taken from Shadow: and other stories.