Raynor peered towards the end of the long reception area looking for a corridor.
‘The other is for the residents who live on the higher floors. Make sure you use the right lift. It will take you to fifty-seven, but you won’t be entering through the main reception, so you’ll have to find your own way once there. The lift code is one-zero-zero-three.’
‘Sweetheart, you’re a life saver. Sure you don’t want that drink?’
‘Tempting as it is, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, but thanks.’
‘Anytime. Look after yourself.’
Raynor walked the length of the reception area putting on his crash helmet as he did so. He turned onto the corridor with the elevators. A stainless steel panel next to each set of doors detailing the floors it serviced.
Heading to the doors for the lift that serviced only the hotel, hoping the code was the same for both, Raynor keyed the code and waited for a sign that it had worked. A split-second later a faint whir of a motor could be heard, moving parts in the shaft behind the door, and a red downward-pointing arrow was illuminated above the door. He smiled behind his visor then removed a tablet computer from his bag. He tapped an icon and a schematic of the building appeared.
Raynor manipulated the schematic, spinning and zooming it on-screen until he found his location within the building. He tapped an icon depicting a CCTV camera, then hovered a finger over the icon representing the camera in the corridor where he would emerge, another finger hovered over the icon representing the camera in the elevator he was just about to enter.
A bell chimed, announcing the arrival of the lift. He tapped the icon for the lift camera and the doors slid open. Once inside and the doors had closed, a tap of the second icon froze the image on the camera of his destination floor.
Sam followed Mickey into his office. It was more like a corporate server room. A free-standing air conditioning unit was positioned in the corner of the room where it gave a continuous unbroken hum, like a meditating monk with lungs that could hold a lifetime’s worth of air.
A couple of tall racks lined one wall of the room containing servers, switches, network storage and no end of boxes with flashing lights that Sam was clueless about with regard to their usage.
The longest wall was where Mickey’s workstation was situated. It was huge. Two shelves housed six flat-screen monitors, another monitor stood on the desk area with a keyboard situated in front of it. Under-desk shelving, just above floor level, allowed for another couple of desktop computers to be stowed.
‘Jesus, Mickey, Every time I come in here there’s more stuff.’ Sam gazed around the room in awe. ‘But mate, you’ve put monitors in front of the windows, there’s no natural light.’
‘Yeah, I know, but it was the only place the desk would fit.’
Mickey sat in a large reclining leather chair, Sam took the smaller office chair next to it. Mickey tapped a few keys, entered a password and the monitors came to life.
Mickey turned to Sam, a serious expression on his face.
‘I’m not joking, Sam, some of this stuff is pretty horrific.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m a big boy, I’m sure I can handle it.’
‘Okay, so where do we start?’
‘At the beginning, of course. The birth of the Special Covert Unit.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Raynor quickly removed his helmet and leather jacket, revealing a shirt and tie beneath. He had to hurry. To stop the lift would be to sound an alarm. He pulled off his motorcycle boots and leather trousers, and quickly slid on a pair of black cotton trousers and black slip-on shoes that he’d taken from his rucksack, along with a black leather document wallet.
Standing on tip-toes, he prodded the access tile in the roof of the elevator. It lifted and he passed his rucksack, leathers and helmet through it, onto the roof of the lift. He had another helmet stowed on his bike along with more leathers. No space for more boots, though, so he’d have to ride in slip-ons for the rest of the day.
Raynor smiled at the confusion he’d cause when the footage was reviewed. CCTV would show a leather-clad courier entering the lift, but the lift camera wouldn’t show anything.
The fifty-second floor corridor camera wouldn’t show a thing, nor would the resident’s elevator camera when he switched lifts. The first camera that would pick him up would be in the offices of Culpepper Fostervold, where he’d appear as an office worker. When he’d done what he came to do, he’d leave through the main entrance, like everybody else.
Mickey tapped a few more keys a file explorer window appeared on the huge central monitor. He stood and motioned for Sam to take his seat, which he duly did. Sam took the mouse and started absently rolling over the vast list of documents displayed on the massive monitor in front of him.
‘They’re chronological.’ Mickey explained. ‘Just start at the beginning.’
Sam double clicked the first document in the list; none of them had real names, merely a timestamp, presumably of when the file was created, and a six letter code, in this case MOD-SCU.
The file opened and Sam started reading.
In October 1962, the world held its collective breath when a thirteen-day standoff between the United States of America and the Soviet Union took the world to the brink of nuclear war — The Cuban Missile Crisis.
When an American U2 spy plane pilot spotted what he thought was a Soviet nuclear missile being assembled in Cuba, he reported it back to his superiors. The chain of command was promptly rattled to the point that the then president, John F Kennedy, ordered a naval blockade to be created, stopping the Soviets from transporting more weapons to their communist allies. It was a tense time for every man, woman and child on the planet as everybody waited for what was considered to be the obvious conclusion — Mutually Assured Destruction.
After a tense period of negotiations, the Soviet Union agreed to remove its missiles from Cuban soil with the assurance that the USA would guarantee it would not invade Cuba, like it had attempted to only a year earlier with the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, and also to remove some of its nuclear arsenal from Western Europe and Turkey. An agreement was reached. The crisis ended. The world sighed in relief.
In February 1963 in the wake of the crisis, the British Ministry of Defence, without authority or knowledge of the Prime Minister of the day — Harold Macmillan — formed the first Special Covert Unit — SCU1. Not a single British Prime Minister since has known of its existence.
Using soldiers who’d almost, but not quite managed to attain the extremely high standards expected in order to be awarded a position within the SAS, SCU1 consisted of the second best. All good soldiers in their own way, but not the best. Some may have lacked the physical fitness required, while others may not quite have the right psychiatric qualities, or the right attitude towards authority, but it didn’t matter.
The soldiers were expected to willingly sign up for a five year tour with the squad. Their old lives would be erased. They would receive new identities. They were told that they probably wouldn’t survive the five year period. They were told that if captured, the British government would deny all knowledge of their existence. In fact, the Prime Minister could, under oath, claim that he had never heard of these soldiers, and was never aware of any of their operations. They were also told that once their five years were up they could retire on a full military salary and receive a full pension at retirement age. Quite a nice prospect for your average thirty to forty year old squaddie who’d narrowly missed out on his dream of joining Britain's elite unit.