Glen R Stansfield

CHAPTER ONE

The first Gulf war decided it for him. He loved driving but the thought of being shot at or bombed didn't exactly excite him; and the heat, relentless, shrivelling-the-hair-up-your-nostrils heat. Not to mention all that sand; it got everywhere, food, eyes, mouth and other orifices he didn't care to mention. When it got into your clothes as it inevitably did, then it chafed the skin, especially your groin where it seemed to congregate the most.

How anyone would choose to live in that, he had no idea. To top it all, they expected him to drive wearing an NBC suit. No one knew whether Saddam would use chemical weapons or not and the Army were taking no chances. Your own personal sauna inside a sun-heated oven - lovely.

Driving tank transporters placed him in a good position to get a job when he came out. As soon as potential employers discovered his previous driving experience, they knew they had a competent driver on their hands. Her Majesty generally prefers her equipment to arrive in one piece and the Army trained him well to ensure it did so.

A pity Junction 26 Diner was closed at this time of day. A cuppa would go down a treat right now, and it was getting close to his compulsory rest break. The delay in loading at Southampton gave him barely enough time to push on to South Mimms Services for a compulsory fifteen-minute break. Soulless place compared to Junction 26, still, beggars can't be choosers.

He let out a yawn, stretching his neck first to one side, then the other. Neck and shoulders always bore the brunt of driving. He couldn't imagine what it had been like in the old days; no power steering or brakes. Brute strength would be needed to just keep the truck on the road. Those guys must have had necks like tree trunks.

He missed listening to Janice Long and Alex Lester on the After-Midnight show; cost cutting apparently. Now the night program consisted of rehashed daytime radio repeated through the night, but occasionally a real gem would come on and cause him to turn up the volume. He pressed the button on the steering wheel and the sound of 10cc's 'I'm Not in Love' filled the cab.

~§~

They were certainly banging out the golden oldies tonight. It was definitely not Money for Nothing in this job and as for chicks, they didn't come free or otherwise.

He glanced in his mirrors then back to the road in front. Instinctively he pressed hard on the brakes, the cab dipping sharply as he did so. The scantily clad young woman caught in the beam of his headlamps waved her arms wildly, signalling him to stop. He was trying but a forty-tonne truck does not stop in a matter of metres. In desperation, he swung the wheel to the right, but he feared it was too late.

This part of the motorway had no hard shoulder. The nearside lane being so close to the crash barrier had given him little time to react.

He felt sick as he looked in his nearside mirror. The woman silhouetted in the headlamps of the following vehicles, lay motionless next to the barrier as the truck shuddered to a halt in a cloud of blue tyre smoke, straddling the first and second lanes of the motorway.

~§~

At the far end of the room, the double doors opened, and two men entered. Michael Strong, looking as good as ever, led the pair. Even as the thought occurred, Helene suppressed it. She was learning to cope and be more circumspect with her relationships. He was strictly 'work' and she intended for it to remain that way. Besides, she already had someone in her sights.

Her attention turned to the second man and her heart dropped; Chief Superintendent Brandon, her nemesis in the Met; the man who told her to find another line of work — that women had no place as detectives, and especially women of colour - only that wasn't quite the way he worded it.

She rolled her eyes and must have let out a low groan causing the man sitting next to her to turn and stare. Brandon caught her eye, grinned and winked at her.

Really? What the hell was going on?

After a brief discussion with Strong, Brandon signalled for Helene to join him. Without a word, he ushered her through the double doors and out of the room. Wondering if her career had ended before it started, she watched Brandon as he closed the doors behind them.

He turned, a smile on his face. She stood defiantly with her arms crossed defensively in front of her. She did not like this man and she had no qualms about showing it, even if it meant she would be seeking employment elsewhere.

'Helene, I owe you an explanation.'

He paused, lowered his head for a moment, then looked up into her eyes.

'And an apology for pushing you so hard in your last post. I recommended you for this position, but I couldn't be sure you would be interested, given your dedication to the Met. You are the best, and we need the best here. The only way I could see to steer you towards this job was by making you uncomfortable in MIT. I really do apologise and hope you can forgive me. If there had been any other way ...'

Helene's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'So, you are part of this now?'

'I've been part of it since the outset, but I'm still employed by the Met. You probably already know this but before I came to SCD, I was with SO17 and the rest of the departments that followed. I got to meet people in high places, people I wouldn't normally be able to reach, and gained access to some interesting information. So, when this group was first mooted, the powers-that-be knew I could speak to the right people. It will all become clear once you hear what we have to say.'

He gestured towards the doors.

'Perhaps we should go back in and start the briefing. Michael can explain how this is going to work in far more detail than I can. It's his baby and by the way, he is one sharp cookie.'

Helene cocked her head on one side.

'Who exactly are these "powers-that-be," sir?'

Brandon shook his head.

'That, I'm afraid I can't tell you. Just suffice to say you are still in the employ of the UK government, although they will deny it if ever challenged.'

She studied his eyes for a few moments.

'There's something I need to say.'

Brandon gestured for her to continue.

'You are an absolute bastard.' After a pause of several seconds, she added, 'sir.'

Brandon let out a loud laugh.

'I suppose I deserve that and believe you me, you're not the first to say it. I wouldn't expect any less from you, Helene. You always played it straight and said it straight. Those are qualities I very much admire in a person. I really am sorry I had to treat you the way I did, but I desperately wanted you running the ops side of this. So, are we good?'

Helene smiled, a "welcome aboard the flight" smile.

'We'll see.'

Brandon laughed again.

'Not what I expected to hear.'

'And what exactly did you expect to hear after putting me through hell these past few months? "Oh certainly, sir. All is rosy in the garden." That isn't how it works.'

'No. I expected you to say, "fuck you" after what I did, so there's hope after all.'

She couldn't help but giggle at that. Not the response she expected either.

They returned to the room: all eyes turning to watch as she returned to her seat, wondering why she had been singled out for a private chat. As she took her place, she glanced at the others. They would be her responsibility from now on.

Strong took up his position at one of the two remaining seats at the table: Brandon taking the final one to his right. Now with the room's attention back on him, Strong addressed the newly assembled team.

'Ladies and gentlemen, you all know my name by now and my position as the head of this project, which from now on will be known as the Invidia Syndicate. As most of you don't know each other, I will start the introductions with Detective Chief Superintendent Brandon, who is not officially part of the team. He will however provide us with the information on our targets, as well as some key personnel, some of whom are already here.

'Now, as already said, I am head of the project, but operationally you will report to Detective Chief Inspector Helene MacKay.'

Strong held his hand out towards Helene.

'You will notice I addressed her by her former rank in the Met Police. This is because you will all retain the ranks you had achieved in whatever service you came from, although some of you are civilians and will effectively remain so. For the non-civilians, you will show as being on secondment to the National Crime Agency. Your salary, however, will not be the same as your former ranks. This is a specialist team, and your pay will reflect that. I can assure you no one will lose out.

'Helene is in charge because essentially this is police work, and she has the finest clear up rate not only in the Met but in the whole of Europe. Her detecting skills are second to none and trust me, we are going to need that with what we are intending to do.

'Make no mistake, this is a war against crime and the people who undertake criminal activities, a war, which I am sad to say, we are not winning, but that is why we are all here. I will say now, we are not an anti-terrorist unit as such, but if for operational reasons it would be beneficial for us to continue with an operation, rather than hand it over to one of the anti-terrorist groups, then we will do so. That decision will not be ours to make and will come from the highest level. Helene will still carry a warrant card, as will any other members of the group who carried them before; there will be occasions when we must appear to be a branch of the police force.'

Strong took a sip of water before continuing.

'We will have a more informal get-together this evening, when I expect you to become better acquainted with each other, so here's a quick introduction of the rest of you.'

Strong moved clockwise around the table introducing each of the members of the team. An innocuous couple Helene had noted a few moments ago, were introduced as the best undercover operatives at HM Customs and Revenue. The blonde girl to the left of them turned out to be a geek; a computer hacker going by the handle, 0rchid. In common with many hackers, she substituted a numeral for one of the letters in her online identity. She had achieved something most considered to be almost impossible, hacking into the government communications centre, GCHQ. That took Helene totally by surprise and she would need to hear that particular story from the beginning.

Only two members were known to her, one whom she knew on both personal and professional levels; Harry Fielding. He would be responsible for the training of the field operatives. The other, a journalist: Nicky Rolands. Quite why there would be a journalist on the team, she had no idea. The last thing they would want was publicity.

She looked forward to the evening, getting to know the others and hear their stories. The credentials of the assembled personnel made her certain she made the right decision to leave the Met and join the team. This would be her chance to make a difference.

CHAPTER TWO

'Chen Investments. How may I be of assistance?'

An immaculately dressed receptionist smiled as she answered the call. The caller may not be able to see her smile but would almost certainly hear it in her voice. That was company policy; polite, courteous and smiling.

'Certainly sir, I'll put you through.'

Words emblazoned in gold and red on the marble fronted reception desk confirmed the identity of the company. A variety of potted plants dotted the reception area along with several, excessively comfortable and undoubtedly expensive, white-leather sofas. Clients entering these offices had no doubt they were in the presence of a successful business; their investments in the hands of people capable of growing their wealth.

Several corridors snaked out from the central atrium; the curved form only hinting at what lay beyond. Feng Shui lived here and cared not a jot who knew. Each corridor contained a number of offices secreted behind solid wooden doors: no open plan spaces in this company. Anyone doing business with Chen Investments expected their dealings to be private. They were not disappointed. A handful of offices benefitted from access to a private elevator reserved for those clients for whom ultimate discretion was of the utmost importance.

Directly behind the reception desk a final corridor led diagonally away towards the corner of the building; an abundance of artwork and a lack of doorways set it apart from the rest. At the far end of this portal and stationed at a smaller, less ostentatious desk another immaculately presented secretary served as a guardian for the inner sanctum. Behind the solitary solid teak door and occupying a significant portion of the corner of the building lay the office of the founder and CEO of the company, Chen Man-Long.

Through a panoramic window and behind a highly polished walnut desk lay a spectacular view of Victoria Harbour, Kowloon and what used to be Kai Tak Airport, long since turned over to the developers. The magnificent vista and location in Hong Kong Central, the heart of the financial district, were the deciding factors for the occupation of this suite of offices by Chen Investments.

But today, the view held no interest for the man sitting with his head in his hands. He could not suppress the sob; this could not be happening to him. For his entire life in stockbroking his investments had been on the nail. The company he founded, the reason they occupied these offices, his reputation, all built on sound investments; a fabulous home with landscaped garden - an expensive luxury in land-strapped Hong Kong - his own car a Range Rover Autobiography, a BMW M6 convertible for his wife and an S class Mercedes for the driver to take his daughter to one of Hong Kong's finest schools each day, all of this stemmed from his ability to read the markets.

Of course, like most Chinese he wished for a son, a son who would inherit this wealth and carry on the family business but complications in pregnancy put paid to that so Kun remained his only child; a child he loved dearly even though not the son he longed for.

In two-thousand-and-seven, Chen, like many others invested a substantial amount of his own personal wealth in what looked to be a low-risk, relatively high-yield investment, Australian mortgages. Then came the global financial crash. Funds the world over suffered, mortgage defaults went to a record high and the fund into which he gambled their future and that of several of his prestigious clients became frozen.

That was bad enough, their money locked-up out of reach but the news that reached him this morning, that the investment firm had gone into receivership did not bode well at all. If lucky, they would be offered a few cents on the dollar, but from what he gathered from his contacts in Australia investors would be lucky indeed if they saw a single cent.

He must act fast, take a few chances to build their remaining money into a reasonable nest egg. They still owned the house so that would be safe but unless he took some action soon their lifestyle would plummet and Kun would go to a state school, something he wished to avoid at all costs. His daughter would have the best and one day she would make him proud.

In Chinese culture, one of the worst things that can happen is loss of face; mianzi. The concept of mianzi appears complex to a foreigner and is nuanced in many ways that is difficult to understand for someone who has not grown up with the idea of "face". The Chinese idiom summed it up; men can't live without face; trees can't live without bark.

As with many people when backed into a corner, Chen felt a prickle of fear, one that interfered with his usually methodical and analytical brain. Not only was their future at stake, but more importantly his mianzi. He had never been a gambler but driven by his desire to right the wrongs he had done, he began to scour the market for some of the riskier investments he wouldn't normally touch but desperate times warrant desperate measures.