Terminal Guidance. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the spot here, let’s forget it. Last thing I’d do is ask for—”
“It’s not that,” Henning said. “Past couple of weeks we’ve had a few ops go bad. Mainly surveillance. Everything okay until the suspects just cut and run. Left us high and dry. Looks like we have someone tipping our subjects off, so they’ve broken away before we could catch them in the act. I figure we have someone in the department letting our subjects know we’ve been watching them. On their payroll.”
“It’s been known to happen,” McCarter said.
“What bothers me is the thought that a tipoff might turn nasty one day and someone in our team gets hurt.”
“Any thoughts on who might be the mole?”
Henning hunched his shoulders. “I have my suspicions. I’m running this on my own until I get it pinned down. Nothing strong enough to point the official finger. If I show my hand too soon the bastard could cover his tracks and vanish.”
“When you read those names I gave you,” McCarter said, “it meant something.”
“Yeah. The names are allied to the ops we were scuppered over.”
“Your mole could be working for them?”
Henning nodded. “Let me check them out. Get you some local info on them. If these blokes are the ones involved in these suspected attacks, we have to make the effort.”
“Thanks, Greg.”
“And I suppose you want the info ASAP, if not sooner?”
McCarter swallowed his beer. “Not trying to put any pressure on, mate, but yes. I told you about a bomb plot. What I didn’t mention was it looks like they could be nuclear devices.”
HENNING ARRIVED at the hotel in the early evening. The desk called McCarter’s room and the Phoenix Force trio joined the cop in the lounge bar. Once drinks had been delivered, the group settled down to listen to what Henning had to tell them.
“I’ve been calling in favors like they’re going out of fashion,” the cop said. He raised his glass to McCarter. “My God, Jack, you owe me bloody big.”
McCarter simply grinned at him. “Stop being a drama queen, Gregory.”
“How do you blokes put up with him?”
“We have to,” James said. “He signs our expenses slips.”
“I guessed it would be something like that.” Henning reached into his coat, took out a folded sheaf of papers and handed them to McCarter. “According to my sources, Samman Prem is a man of many parts. He runs a business based here in the city. He also has a storage facility on Tilbury docks. Bloke called Saeeda Hussein owns the company. Runs freighters from there. Prem has cargo and container ships coming and going, supplied by Hussein,”
“Ties in with what our initial searches came up with,” McCarter said. “We’re on the same track.”
“Surveillance has Rahman and this Umer Qazi spotted at Prem’s head office in the East End during their last visit. Looking really cozy.”
McCarter grunted. “Makes you wonder what kind of deal they were cooking up.”
“Could be anything. Legit or otherwise. The East End is pretty upmarket these days, Jack. It isn’t all cobbled streets and back-to-back houses. A thriving multicultural scene now.”
“So Rahman and Qazi wouldn’t look out of place,” Hawkins observed.
“They’d fit right in.”
“Right,” McCarter said. “Looks like we need to make a visit to Tilbury. Go shake Prem up a bit.”
Tilbury Docks
LYING ON THE NORTH SIDE of the River Thames, the Tilbury docks complex was the third largest container port in the U.K. Oceangoing vessels carried a constant flow of goods to and from destinations around the globe. Warehouses and storage units lined the length of the facility and vast compounds of metal containers dominated the area.
The ID cards obtained for them by Greg Henning had got them inside the perimeter fence and the security-manned main gate. McCarter’s story for the guard detail had them down as making a check on the quality of the service being provided. The Briton had spun a plausible yarn to the guy on the gate, praising him for his alertness at checking them out.
“That’s what we’re here for, mate. Just observing how people do their job. You know how it is these days. All to do with statistics. But they never ask blokes like you, the ones who have to do the work.”
“Too right,” the security guard said. “They sit in those nice warm offices pressing bleedin’ buttons, and reckon they’ve done a good day’s work.”
“Lazy sods,” McCarter declared. “Don’t let on I said that.” He checked out the man’s name tag. “Listen, George, we shouldn’t be here long. Can we park over there? If we need to walk about I’ll come and check with you first. You’re the bloke in charge.”
George puffed up with pride. “You take your time. I could make you and your mates a nice hot cuppa later.”
“That would great, George. Appreciate the thought.”
George waved them through, watching as McCarter drove to the parking area.
“Charm the birds off the trees,” James said.
“Got to give the man his due,” Hawkins agreed.
“Watch and learn, my children,” McCarter said, grinning.
From their position they could see the warehouses belonging to Saeeda Hussein’s firm. The company name was evident on many of the stacked metal containers in view.
“Hope we don’t have to check out every damn box on this dock,” Hawkins said.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” McCarter replied. “This is a bit of a long shot, so we need to stay sharp.”
“‘’T’was ever thus,’” James said.
“Say what?” Hawkins asked.
“He’s showing off his classical side,” McCarter said. “Shakespeare used it in Twelfth Night.”
“English, please.”
“Sort of this is how it always is,” James explained.
“So why not damn well say so?” Hawkins asked.
“He just wants us to know he once read a book,” McCarter said lightly.
“Oh, Mr. Smarty Ass,” Hawkins grunted.
“There, you figured him out,” McCarter said.
James’s laugh was cut short when he leaned forward to check out someone he’d seen. “Hey, isn’t that our buddy Samman Prem?”
“It is,” Hawkins confirmed.
The man had emerged from the warehouse and was standing on the edge of the dock, staring out across the water. A minute later another man appeared. He joined Prem and they fell into an intense conversation. It was Saeeda Hussein, easily identified from the photographs Phoenix Force had studied.
James picked up the zoom-lens digital camera they had brought along. From his position in the passenger seat next to McCarter he had a clear and unobstructed view. He raised the device, focused in and ran off a number of speed shots.
“Get a good photo?” McCarter asked.
“Prize-winning,” James said.
“More for the party,” McCarter said.
Another man, tall and thin, with long dark hair that reached his shoulders, came into view. When he joined the others he stood listening to the conversation. James took more photos.
The