Critical Coercion

CHAPTER ONE

A black taxicab drew up outside number 8, Herbert Crescent, London, a Victorian terraced house situated in one of the capital's most desirable areas of Knightsbridge, just a stone’s throw from Sloane Street, and behind Harrods Store.

A suntanned middle-aged man, wearing a light beige two-piece suit, alighted from the rear of the cab.

Placing his khaki canvas messenger bag on the ground, he removed his wallet from his back trouser pocket and peeled off several notes to pay the driver. Gesturing him to keep the change, he retrieved his bag and headed up the four steeply raked concrete steps to the black painted entrance door with a CCTV security camera above. He pressed the doorbell. A loudspeaker crackled into life. A barely audible female voice answered.

‘Can I help you?’

‘My name is Carlton, Ben Carlton. I phoned earlier – I’m expected,’ he replied in his distinctive Australian drawl.

There was a short pause, followed by the sound of an automatic door-opening buzzer, and a metallic click.

‘Please come in Mr Carlton, and welcome back,’ the voice announced through the loudspeaker.

Watching some thirty yards away in Hans Place, from the driving seat of his illegally parked Range Rover, Fane lowered his newspaper. An involuntary smile relaxed his tense facial muscles as he observed his old buddy Ben entering the Special Forces Club – the venue for their hastily arranged lunchtime meeting. Ben had come straight from the airport, having just flown in from Dubai. He was flying back this evening.

Withstanding the urge to rush out and join him, he lingered a little longer, carefully scanning the area through the dark tinted car windows to satisfy himself that Ben hadn’t been followed.

Fane and Ben’s relationship went back a long way. They had served together in the Special Air Services on a number of operations, ending up imprisoned in the Wintoto Hell camp on a mission that went badly wrong in Somalia.

Escaping that hell-hole after a daring daytime SAS helicopter rescue by their army colleagues, they had spent several months recuperating from their ordeal, subsequently leaving the Army and going their separate ways. They had always kept in contact.

Fane had retrained as a probation officer. Ben – a British-born Australian – had worked for an Arab oil billionaire, initially as a helicopter pilot, then as captain on one of his luxury power yachts.

Re-establishing their current working relationship came about almost by chance when Fane had become involved in a quest to find the ‘King’s Egg’ – a fabulous Fabergé Egg that had belonged to the deposed King Farouk of Egypt, ultimately leading to uncovering other secrets of the deceased king’s lost fortune.

That escapade became a life-changing venture in its own right for both men. Fane’s financial reward was substantial, and he now operated his own business that had developed into an international organisation providing security and close protection to high profile foreign diplomats, politicians, the glitterati, and all those in-between who could afford his services.

Ben’s world had moved on from captaining rich men’s gin palaces, and was now mired in mystery and intrigue centred in the Middle East, and the oil rich Arab states.

Fane leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger-side glove compartment. He removed a disabled driver parking permit, and placed it on the dashboard.

He was an extremely fit fifty-two year old, and worked hard to keep it that way. As someone who frequently needed to find parking places in a hurry, the permit was just one of the perks allowed him by the powers that be. One of his other company cars – an armour-plated S-Class Mercedes Benz limo – was fitted with officially approved 350CD, Corps Diplomatique plates, used when working with overseas diplomats, and other occasions when CD plates were an invaluable tool of his trade.

Locking the car, he glanced around in a well-practised manner.

His highly tuned 20/20 vision was picking up on anything untoward – a person loitering in a doorway – a curtain moving behind an open window – a solo occupant sitting in a parked car; he appraised all these apparently commonplace events, looking for the pieces that might not fit comfortably in life’s everyday jigsaw.

Today he could relax; the area looked ‘clean.’ The meeting at the club had been classified as code red, and, in Fane’s business, security doesn’t come higher than that.

The Special Forces Club was familiar territory for Fane – he used it whenever he was in London with time to spare.

He was expected; the staff at reception recognised him from the CCTV monitor in the lobby office. No sooner had he pressed the door alarm system, the buzzer sounded and the door opened straight into the main foyer. After he entered, the door closed behind him.

‘Nice to see you again Fane.’

A thirty-something woman with short, neatly coiffured hair and wearing a light grey trouser suit, greeted him warmly as he made his way to her desk in the far left corner of the reception area.

He answered to Fane, his surname. Very few people knew his Christian name.

‘Hello Alex, nice to be here again. Has Ben Carlton checked in yet?’ he asked, knowing full well he had.

‘Yes, about ten minutes ago. He’s in the bar upstairs. He is expecting you.’

Fane quickly made for the elegant dark oak staircase, leading to the first floor bar and dining room.

The wall of the staircase was graphic testament to the original founding members – famous resistance fighters of the Second World War, about whom many books had been written, and whose heroic deeds were now the stuff of legends. Their photographs adorned the staircase.

Fane felt a great sense of pride to be a member of this most exclusive of London clubs, whose membership qualifications took no account of money, rank or status, just that members ‘have distinguished themselves in exploits, or occupations of a particularly hazardous nature of a kind likely to receive the approbation of members of the club.’

The club was formed after the Second World War for members of the Special Operations Executive – SOE. Membership was later extended to other resistance outfits – the Special Air Service, the Special Boat Squadron, also to members of Commonwealth and European clubs who uphold the principles of freedom, and to holders of high gallantry medals.

He paused at the top of the stairs, as he always did, turned, and gave an almost imperceptive little bow of his head in acknowledgement of the memory of those adorning the wall.

‘Fane you old Pommy bastard – what the hell kept you?’

Ben, wearing an ear-to-ear smile, and with a pint of beer to hand, greeted him in his typical irreverent Aussie manner. Beaming with pleasure upon seeing his buddy, Fane warmly shook his hand and placed his other arm around his shoulder.

‘You know me from old Ben – always late for a good party. How’s that lovely wife of yours?’

‘She’s good mate – sends all her love, wanted to come over with me, but the trip is too short this time, says she’ll be coming to London in a few months, and hopes to catch up with you and Charlotte then.’

Fane gave a faint smile and a self-conscious nod, at the same time averting his gaze from Ben.

Ben realised he’d unintentionally touched a raw nerve.

‘Sorry mate – things are still pretty difficult to come to terms with I guess.’

Ben was referring to the death of Sami – Fane’s wife – three years ago. She was killed when an open-top safari vehicle overturned when she was on a photographic assignment in the Masai Mara game reserve in Kenya. They had been devoted to each other, and married shortly after their daughter Charlotte was born twenty-three years ago.

‘Yeah, its been tough. Most of the time it’s okay; it’s when I’m with people we were close to, and who’d been part of our lives; then it hits home.’

Fane shrugged his shoulders.

‘Sorry – shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve got much to be thankful for, especially Charlotte. She’s a great kid and I’m so proud of her. When she’s around, Sami’s not far away.

Both men spontaneously grabbed each other in a bonding man hug.

‘Come on, enough of this crap, we’ve got a beer or two to swallow, and things to chew over. Let’s find a quiet table and have lunch,’ Fane announced cheerily, breaking the sombre mood.

The small dining room was functional, in a masculine understated way. The decor hadn’t changed much over the years; perhaps that was the way the majority of members wanted it. There was space for about ten tables, mostly providing seating for two people – more when pushed together.

Fane recognised the grey haired elderly woman entertaining her party of three as a much-revered original member of the SOE. Not many of those left now, and she must be well into her nineties, but still in full charge of events and ably holding court on her table of wide-eyed guests.

Two other tables were occupied; one with a couple of middle-aged men engaged in muted conversation, the other with an elderly male sitting in a slumped position, reading a newspaper.

Fane had booked a corner table; he took a seat that overlooked the rest of the diners. Ben had his back to them.

Mich, the barman, came over and handed them a menu card. He acted as both barman and waiter – the club was not over-endowed financially, and staffing was an expensive commodity. Mich had been working at the club since moving to London many years ago, and was a member in his own right, having been a Polish freedom fighter.

‘Can I get you gentleman a drink?’ he asked, with just a hint of accent.

‘Two pints of best bitter please Mich,’ Fane said. ‘You’ll have another, I take it, Ben?’

‘Well why not? You can be such a persuasive bastard when you try.’ He smiled mockingly, before downing the remainder of his first pint then handing his glass to the barman.

‘The special today is a chicken casserole,’ Mich informed. ‘It’s very good – my wife cooked it.’

‘Sounds fine by me, what about you Ben?’

‘Sure thing mate, let’s go for it – with plenty of chips, I don’t often get the chance to have chips these days.’

The barman smiled, and left.

Ben glanced around the room before facing Fane, then, leaning confidingly toward him, spoke in a lowered voice.

'You fixed up a place for us to talk after lunch?’

Fane nodded. 'Yes, it's somewhere near the airport – convenient for your departure tonight – and totally secure and clean, just as you suggested.’

'Good, we'll do our serious talking then. In the meantime let's do some catch up – it's a while since we had a good yabber,’ Ben said, leaning back in his chair. 'Tell me, what's Charlotte been up to since she left university?'

Fane's face broadened into a contented smile.

'Doesn't take after her mother and father I'm afraid, Ben. She's gone into politics, working as a political researcher here in London, sharing an office in the Houses of Parliament as part of the team for the Minister of State in the Home Office. She loves it. The downside is I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like since she returned to live in London, but she occasionally spends the weekend at the Suffolk house – usually with a group of friends. She’s been there more frequently then I have of late.’

Fane’s voice tailed off in a way that solicited the question why.

‘Something you can talk about?’ Ben queried after a brief silence.

'Life’s been bloody manic recently – routine stuff working mainly with African oil billionaire politicians, who have a penchant for spending their ill-gotten gains enjoying the European high life in London, Paris or Rome. Keeping them, and their caravans of hangers-on, safe from potential assassins’ bullets, or car bombs, can be challenging for my guys, but it pays well.’ Fane gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. ‘So what’s been happening with you then?’

Ben took a long studied pause, resting his chin on his clasped hands, before answering.

‘I sit behind a big fat desk, surrounded by an array of telephones, computers, and CCTV monitors, with a bunch of earnest-looking people in attendance, all cocooned in air-conditioned offices overlooking Dubai airport. For the most part I’m watching people come and go, or I’m coming and going myself.’

He looked at Fane, lowered his chin, and gave a slight raise of the eyebrows, indicating that that was all he was saying for the time being.

Both men knew each other well enough to understand that each had their reasons for not going into detail about their working lives in public, no matter how secure their current venue might be.

‘And Katrina – how is she?’ Fane asked, steering the question into less contentious areas.

‘She’s really well and very busy; spends most of her time in Rome. She doesn’t enjoy the restrictions of being a female living in a United Arab Emirates state, so we spend a lot of time apart these days, but we talk daily on the phone. She runs the conference side of the business, always coming up with new ideas, organising international events, ensuring protocols are being adhered to, and so on. Diplomacy is just up her street, as you can well imagine.’

Katrina was the main beneficiary from the proceeds of the missing horde of Farouk’s treasure that both Fane and Ben had been instrumental in recovering some twenty-four years ago.

She and Ben had become very close after that escapade, and were married three years later in a lavish ceremony off Cannes, on board the luxury superyacht that Ben was captaining at the time. Fane was best man, Sami was matron of honour, and two-year-old Charlotte was a bridesmaid.

When news both of Katrina’s inheritance from King Farouk’s missing fortune, and that she was the adored love child of the King, became public knowledge, she was in demand as a celebrity socialite, seen at all the best parties, and became the darling of gossip columns.

She turned her celebrity status into fronting a successful conference and hospitality empire, and now was rarely seen at social gatherings unrelated to her business interests – much to Ben’s relief. He never enjoyed making small talk within the moneyed societal world of, as he put it, The Botox brigade of false tits and eyelashes, and the tediously egotistic fat men with money-bags under their eyes.

Mich came to the table with two heaped platefuls of chicken casserole, supplemented by a large bowl of chips and another of mixed vegetables.

‘Is there anything else I can get you gentlemen?’ he asked.

They both replied in the negative. He then left them to their meal.

* * *

They pulled their coat collars up on exiting the Club as protection against snow flurries, which swirled around in the bitingly cold wind – a feature of this year’s record-breaking long winter. There was scant evidence of any springtime flowers in the neatly kept Hans Place Gardens, alongside where Fane had parked his car.

Both men got in.

Fane started the engine.

‘Where are we going mate?’ Ben asked.

‘To a caravan site alongside Gatwick airport – it’s nice and handy for your departure this evening. One of my men drove my command vehicle there this morning.’

‘Your command vehicle!’ Ben queried.

‘Yes – a modified motorhome. This one’s a bit special – should suit today’s purposes just fine.

The Friday afternoon traffic heading out of the city was heavy, making the journey to Crawley frustratingly slow.

The lunchtime catch-up conversation had exhausted their supply of social chitchat. Ben’s jet lag caught up with him, and he nodded off during one of the conversation lulls.

Fane muted the sound on the satnav, but kept the display on for road traffic updates – he didn’t need it for directions, he was as familiar with this route as he was with the back of his own hand.

It was past 4pm when they turned into the Gatwick Caravan Club site in Crawley.

Fane’s driver had already given him the swipe card to raise the automatic barrier onto the site. He swiped the machine. It lifted at the same time as Ben suddenly woke up with a start.

‘Are we here?’ he queried sleepily, his words almost drowned out by the roar of a jet taking off, signalling their closeness to the runway.

‘Yep; that’s the command vehicle on the left, just past the warden’s bungalow.’

Fane parked alongside the long, highly polished, white and cream vehicle, with the word Hymer written on the side. A television satellite dome was attached to the roof, together with an external radio antenna, and a roof box.

His driver had connected up the electricity and water supply. Fane double-checked the connections while surreptitiously doing an external inspection both around, and under, the vehicle.

He tapped in the six-digit code on the deadlock keypad, and pressed the entry button. An audible click from the door locks followed.

A waft of hot air hit him as he opened the door – the heating had been switched on.

‘Come in,’ he beckoned, turning on the lighting – the blinds inside the vehicle had been drawn closed.

The interior seemed much smaller than the impression given from the outside. Domestic seating, a kitchen unit, a toilet and a rear bedroom filled most of the internal space.

The front seats in the curtained-off driver’s cab had been swivelled inboard to form a seating area around a table. There were head-height cupboards throughout the living area.

‘Nice bit of kit you’ve got here,’ Ben remarked as he glanced around the van.

Fane opened two overhead cupboards to reveal an array of electronic gizmos. Ben immediately recognised them as transmitters and receivers linked to a computer server.

‘This is the heart of the command vehicle. From here we can transmit and receive encoded radio, television, Internet and phone signals from anywhere in the world via our satellite dish.

Ben went outside and looked at the dish on the roof.

‘It’s a whole lot smaller than the bloody great dome I had on Libby Bee,’ Ben remarked, referring to the gin palace he captained for the Arabs.

‘This vehicle is totally self sufficient for up to two weeks at a time,’ Fane continued as Ben returned inside.

‘We have a six kilowatt diesel generator on board – enough juice to run this kit without site power.’

He walked to the rear of the van and opened the bedroom door to reveal a large double bed, built transversely across the back and raised to hip height.

‘Under the bed is what the makers call a garage; we keep a Honda Silverwing motorcycle and sidecar there. It’s secured to an electric ramp and slides out at the rear of the vehicle, more convenient to use when the main vehicle is ensconced on site. My driver used it today to return to our workshop’.

Fane walked back through the van, opening and closing cupboards to reveal more electronics and office equipment – a complete self-contained office.

‘It was fitted out to my specifications, and virtually everything needed to run my security business is duplicated here,’ he said while taking out two beers from the refrigerator.

‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable.’

He slid a beer across the table, and motioned Ben to sit at one of the leather upholstered chairs around the table. He sat opposite on the swivelled inward facing captain’s chair.

‘We’re working in collaboration with a Swedish mobile communication outfit. Our company is one of several being used as a test bed for their security program developments, which will ultimately mean all this inbuilt stuff will be obsolete in a couple of years, all replaced by a single mobile phone,’ he said, gesturing around the van with a sweep of his arm.

Fane took a phone from his pocket. It was wafer thin with a screen marginally larger than those currently available on most smart phones. He pressed his index finger against the top right of the touch pad, leaving it there for a second or two as a blue light scanned his fingerprint. A small live picture of his face appeared with two crosses superimposed. He aligned the crosses, one over each eye, and pressed a keypad button to activate the eyeball identification code.

A video picture appeared showing an office with people working behind desks.

He showed the mobile phone to Ben.

‘That’s my office in Addlestone. I can also get the picture on that screen,’ he said, pointing to the inbuilt TV in the command vehicle.

Fane rolled his finger around the touch pad, zooming into a television set on his Addlestone office wall. His face, in big close-up, appeared on the TV.

‘Don’t worry guys, I’m only demonstrating our new toy,’ he announced to those in the office.

‘Sandra, can you check if the flight to Dubai, out of Gatwick tonight, is on time please?’ he asked.

Immediately the picture on the phone changed to that of a thirty-something woman working at her desktop computer.

‘Yes, Boss. The 2115 Emirates flight from Gatwick to Dubai is on schedule.’

‘Thanks Sandra – glad to see you safely back from Malawi.’

Switching off the phone he turned to Ben, who’d been watching the demonstration intently.

‘All our company mobile phones use single-use encryption keys AES-256 cryptographic cipher, protecting all our users from being hacked wherever they are in the world. Only the caller and the person being called know the key, and they are destroyed when the call is ended. It’s as secure as it can be.’

He turned the phone off and put it back into his pocket.

Swivelling in his seat, he flicked a switch on the driver’s console. A video screen on the dashboard sprang into life, showing four live camera views taken from each external quarter of the vehicle.

‘ I don’t think we’ll be disturbed here, but just in case, we can keep an eye on what’s going on outside,’ Fane said reassuringly, turning back to Ben.

‘If you’re happy we’ll now get down to business.’

Ben retrieved his messenger bag from the floor and placed it on the table.

‘I’ve got one or two gizmos of my own;’ he said producing a Samsung tablet and another small zipped leather wallet from within the bag.

‘Can you disable all your electronic goodies in the van mate?’ he asked.

‘You want me to do that now?’ Fane queried, raising his eyebrows.

‘Afraid so, turn off all your mobile phones as well,’ he said authoritatively, unzipping the wallet.

He took out a silver coloured device resembling a small cigarette case. Opening the lid, a row of blinking LED lights was revealed. Fane recognised it as an anti-bugging device.

‘Okay; turn everything off now!’ he instructed, while rotating a volume control on the side. A high-pitched note emanated from the gadget. He switched the volume back to low.

Fane swung around in his chair and pushed a button beneath the vehicle’s dashboard. All the lights went out.

The number of flashing LED lights on the bug detector reduced to two.

‘Now your mobile phones Fane,’ he said as a no-nonsense command rather than a request.

Fane took two phones from his pockets and placed them on the table – they were already switched off. Ben put his mobile on the table – that too was switched off.

‘Still got one LED alight – I’ll turn the range down a bit; might be something to do with the airport radars or other