James Acton 01 - The Protocol (16 page)

“Yes, sir, late this afternoon. I took his bags in from a taxi and waited with him while he checked in. Then he said he was at the wrong hotel and rushed out. I followed him with the bags and put them in a taxi for him. Then he left.”

“He said he was in the wrong hotel?” asked Chaney.

“Yes, sir, quite strange if I do say so, sir.”

Reading turned to the desk clerk. “Can you confirm if a Mr. Serge Savard had a reservation here today?”

She punched a few keys on her computer and nodded. “Yes, Inspector, he had a reservation for the next three nights, booked a fortnight ago.” She hit a few more keys. “It looks like the check-in process began and then was stopped for some reason. The agent who was on duty is on break now. Do you want me to get him?” Reading nodded and she rushed off.

He turned back to the porter. “Was there anything else unusual about his behavior that you can think of?”

The porter thought for a moment. “Well, I thought it kind of odd that he left his friend here.”

Reading stopped. “His friend? You mean he wasn’t alone?”

“No, sir, he came with someone else, an American, I believe,” explained the porter. “He asked where the toilets were and then went off in that direction,” he said, pointing toward the bathrooms. “It was then that the gentleman in the photograph left.”

The concierge approached with another in tow. Before she had a chance to speak, Reading cut her off. “Do you have security cameras here?” She nodded. “We’ll need to see the tapes from this afternoon immediately.”

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

“Complete success, Proconsul. Nobody will ever know we were there. Our inside man will wipe the tapes showing our presence.”

“Very good, Centurion,” said the Proconsul, looking at one of the team member cameras showing an image of the mission commander. The operation at the British Museum had been monitored by the council through camera feeds from their agents’ headgear, and had gone like clockwork. “Move the item to its secondary site and await further instructions.”

“Yes, Proconsul, we are on our way—”

The view from the camera shifted unexpectedly as the team leader lost his footing. Shouts of confusion rang out as the truck swerved wildly, tossing men in the back of the truck around. They were all abruptly thrown forward as the vehicle screeched to a stop.

“What is going on there?” yelled the Proconsul. He hit a button in front of him and the view split to all of the different camera angles available.

“I’m not sure, Proconsul,” was the reply. “What the hell is going on up there?” the Centurion shouted into his mike to the driver. There was no answer. The camera showed the commander getting up and approaching the back doors to the truck. He was about to open them when they exploded outward. Three men standing in jeans and plaid shirts with balaclavas over their faces rained gunfire into the truck.

In the Triarii chamber the onlookers watched, stunned, as each camera view either went dead or dropped to the floor. The entire scene unfolded in less than a minute. Then there was silence.

Dawson climbed into the back of the truck and looked around, his gaze landing on a bag he thought might contain what they were looking for. Stepping over the bodies, he approached the rear. When one of the occupants to his right moaned, Dawson put a bullet in his chest. He opened the bag and looked inside.
Excellent.
His men had set up surveillance on the Triarii Headquarters when they first arrived, and when they reported the vehicle leaving, he had ordered it followed. This had proven a wise move. He took the bag and left the truck. His men jumped into the two SUV’s they had arrived in and left in opposite directions. They would meet up later after switching their vehicles and clothing to confuse London’s cameras.

“What the hell just happened?” asked one of the council members.

“We’ve been betrayed,” said another. “How else could they know what we were planning and when?”

“Who would kill our men so coldly?”

“We know who,” said the Proconsul, leaning back in his chair. He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray on the table in front of him, the taste no longer pleasing him. All eyes were now on him. “We’ve known this day could come when the one who betrayed us once would betray us again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did you see their equipment?” asked another. “They had to be Special Forces. Those outfits were for the benefit of the cameras on the street.”

“There is one way to know for sure,” said the Proconsul. “Get me our friend in Washington.”

Fleet Street, London

Dawson and his men parked their SUV in an alleyway and climbed out. Two of his men opened a manhole cover, then they all descended into the London storm drainage system. They walked several hundred feet before Dawson looked up at the next access point. Climbing the metal rungs, he tentatively pushed the manhole cover up and carefully surveyed the surroundings. Seeing everything was clear, he pushed it aside and looked up.

A vehicle was parked directly overhead. He climbed up a few more rungs, then knocked on the bottom. An access door opened and Smitty looked down at him.

“Pardon me, sir, but do you have a reservation?” he asked in a fake British accent.

“Yes, it’s under Hugh, Mr. Fuck Hugh,” said Dawson, handing him the bag. Smitty smiled and took it then grabbed his commander’s hand, pulling him into the truck. The cube van, as it turned out to be, had benches on either side. The second team, led by Red, was already there. The rest of the men rapidly exited the drainage system. Soon the manhole cover was replaced, the hatch closed and the truck on its way out of the city. A quick detour into some woods and their chopper would take them back to base.
Nothing but a routine exercise.

Dawson considered himself a moral man. He had killed for his country before. Many times before. He had even been forced to kill civilians occasionally, but they were never innocent bystanders. They had been in his way, sheltering a target, lying to him, whatever. They were always guilty of something. He had tortured targets for information. This was the first mission, however, where he had killed innocent civilians in cold blood. Tortured an innocent man whom he knew was now dead. His morality was being challenged, but every time he started to feel guilty about what he was doing, he remembered what Control had told him when he was assigned to the mission.

“The skull is actually a top-secret crystal, part of the Structural Amorphous Metals project that was stolen from a DARPA lab several months ago. It is moldable, making it very unique. For transport it had been molded into a skull, much like one on display at the Smithsonian, to hide its true nature. It was stolen during transit by a radical skull-worshipping cult who believe it is one of the real crystal skulls. This is a new form of crystal that has incredible military applications. There is not a government on this planet that would not kill to get their hands on it.”

“Why a skull?” he had asked.

“A bad joke by one of the scientists that obviously backfired,” was the reply.

It had sounded like complete bullshit to him at the time. Then he had received orders to steal another skull. Now it seemed his bullshit-meter had been correct. It made no sense to him and he wasn’t buying it.
And seven more are dead because of it.
He shook his head and sighed.

“Problem, B.D?” asked Red quietly. He was sitting directly across from him at the back of the truck. Dawson knew Red could tell this mission was eating at him. It was eating at all of them. He rarely gave any sign of his true feelings in front of his men, but Red could read him like a book.

Dawson shook his head. “No, just tired.”

Red nodded. “You and me both.”

Dawson could tell he wasn't convinced.

The Dorchester, Park Lane, London

“That’s him there,” said Chaney, pointing to the video monitor at the Frenchman in the lobby. “And that must be the man he arrived with.” Again he pointed to the screen, this time at a man carrying shopping bags and heading toward the bathrooms. A couple of moments later the Frenchman scurried toward the doors.

“Okay, show me the entrance camera for a few minutes before so we can see how they arrived,” ordered Reading.

“No problem, mon,” said the security technician, a black man with a thick Jamaican accent and dreadlocks tucked into a Rastafarian Tam hat. He punched up a different camera view and time code.

“There they are.” Reading pointed at the two men entering the building. “Back it up.” The image reversed and they saw the men exiting a cab. “Stop it there. Zoom in on the taxi, I want the number.” The image froze and the tech zoomed in on the top of the cab. “Got that?” Reading asked Chaney.

“Yes, sir,” he replied as he jotted down the cab number and company name. “I’ll call right now and find out where the pickup took place.” He went to the other side of the room to place a call from his cell phone.

“Okay, now move it forward inside the lobby and see if we can spot our mystery man leaving.”

The tech laughed. “Mystery Mon, yaw, gud name for eem!”

Reading grabbed the back of his chair and swung the startled tech around to face him. “This man is wanted for questioning in the brutal murder of someone earlier today, so you will excuse me if I fail to see the humor!” Reading glared at the cowering tech.

“Sorry, sir,” replied the tech in perfect English without a hint of his Jamaican accent. “I didn’t know.” He switched the camera view back and played the image at double time. A few minutes later they saw the same man with the shopping bags heading toward the doors. The tech switched the view to the entrance and they watched as he got in a cab. “Would you like the taxi number, sir?” he asked, looking up at Reading sheepishly. Reading nodded. The tech zoomed in on the cab number and Reading jotted it down.

“Can you give me a printout of his face?”

“Yes, sir.” He backed up the image frame by frame, looking for a good face shot. When he found one he zoomed in on it and hit a button. It appeared in the printer tray moments later. Swiveling in his chair, he grabbed the photographic paper off the tray and spun back toward Reading. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you.” Reading looked intently at the picture.
Who are you?

Chaney flipped his phone closed and turned to Reading. “Got a hit on the taxi, guv. They were picked up at Heathrow.”

“Okay, tell them we’re on our way and to have the video tape ready,” said Reading, striding toward the door. He tore the other cab number off his pad and handed it to Chaney. “And find out where this one went.”

Heathrow Airport, London

Chaney pulled the car up in front of the administration building of Heathrow airport. He and Reading climbed out and headed toward the entrance. They both took a moment and looked up at the never-ending flow of planes landing and taking off. The smell of jet fuel filled the air from the over one thousand flights per day Heathrow handled. They flashed their warrant cards at the guard who had been about to protest they couldn’t park where they did, and entered the building. As they approached the reception desk, a man called to them.

“DCI Reading and DI Chaney?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Reading, “and you are?”

“Jeffrey Tilson. I was told by The Chief to escort you to the security center. I’ll need you to sign here,” he said, motioning to an electronic pad on the reception desk, “and then stand here for your picture to be taken.” Chaney signed the pad and stood for his picture, Reading followed. A moment later the guard at the reception desk handed them two laminated security passes with VISITOR emblazoned across them.

“These must be visible at all times and you must have an escort at all times. We have over sixty-eight thousand employees and can’t recognize everyone!” he said laughing. Chaney nodded as he clipped it on his shirt pocket.

“This way, gentlemen,” said Tilson as he trotted toward an open elevator. He held the door open for Reading and Chaney, and waved off a few people who tried to board. Swiping his security card through a card reader, he punched a code and hit the button for
B3
. An LED readout scrolled
“Restricted Access. Doors Will Not Open Again Until Level B3”
as the elevator began its descent.

When the doors opened again they were met with glaring artificial lights and two heavily armed guards who inspected their cards. They swiped them and continued, every swipe stored in a central database allowing movements of any employee to be tracked. Tilson led them down the long corridor and into a glass walled room filled with hundreds of monitors being watched by just as many personnel. Leading them over to a side office, he knocked on a door that read Chief of Security.

“Enter!” a voice boomed from the other side.

Tilson opened the door and the three men entered. A large, well-built man in his fifties rose from behind his glass and chrome desk and approached them with a polite smile.

“DCI Reading, DI Chaney, may I present Mr. Arthur Pleasance.”

“A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” Pleasance extended his hand first to Reading then to Chaney. “Have a seat please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “Do you have time for tea?”

Chaney was about to answer no, when Reading interrupted. “There’s always time for a cuppa.” Pleasance nodded to Tilson who left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Do you have the tapes ready for us?” asked Reading.

“Yes, I do. I had my people pull the footage for the entrance where you said the taxi picked him up and our facial recognition software matched someone to the photo of your man that you sent us.” He hit a few keys on the keyboard and nodded toward the large screen on the wall. “Here are your two subjects getting into the taxi.”

“That’s them all right,” said Chaney, nodding in agreement.

“Can you back it up and see where they came from?” asked Reading. Pleasance nodded and tapped some keys. The footage showed the men exiting the cab, unloading their bags, then walking backward toward the entrance of the airport. He switched views again and they traced the men back to a bathroom where the image showed them exiting together.