He towers over Megan as they shake hands. He has short dark hair, blue eyes, looks like he has been hewn from granite. Then it comes to her. He’s the guy from the TV news appeals. From Kylie Lock’s press conference. She guesses Jimmy has already told him about her. ‘You’d better come inside. We can talk better there.’ They follow into the cottage. And once the door is closed, Jimmy fills in some of the gaps. ‘Josh has been retained by Caitlyn’s mother to find her.’
‘And return her safely,’ adds Goran.
‘I know,’ Megan says. ‘You’re some kind of bounty hunter cum private eye, right?’
‘Rescue and return operative,’ he says. ‘I have two decades’ experience in what is the US equivalent of your SAS. Only better.’ He cracks a Hollywood grin. ‘Ma’am, I think we’re kindred spirits. Seems you and I are both being kept out of the loop. It’s why Jimmy here came to me.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ she confesses.
‘With due respect, ma’am, I think you probably know more than most.’
‘Meaning?’
‘From the intelligence that I’ve gathered — and believe me, I’ve gathered a lot — your local police, the FBI guys, I think they’re giving too much credence to this theory that Caitlyn’s been kidnapped by an organised gang and is being held in France somewhere.’ He nods towards Jimmy. ‘I think you and Jim are much more likely to be on the right trail, ma’am.’
She can’t help but interrupt. ‘Josh, you’re going to drive me crazy calling me ma’am. Megan will do.’
‘Megan,’ he says, through a whiter-than-white smile. ‘In my experience if you kidnap someone and take them abroad, you leave traces. Driving’s the easiest option. But you do that and you have to dodge a whole lot of surveillance cameras. You got to buy ferry or train tickets, without being seen or recognised. These days that’s impossible. You flee the country, you leave signs. But in this case the Feds, your British police and my operatives, they’ve come up with zip. You know why? Because the perps never left the country. They’re still here. Still local.’
Megan agrees. But there are still loose ends. ‘What about the recordings of Caitlyn?’
He shrugs. ‘Not necessarily what they seem. Be easy enough to have made the recordings of Caitlyn here and then had a guy catch the Eurostar from London and play an edited tape down a French phone line. Point of contact proves nothing.’
‘Except that the kidnappers are well organised,’ adds Jimmy.
‘You can bet on that,’ says Goran. ‘These guys are very well organised. Part of the reason I think they’ve set up camp right in the middle of that military no-go zone.’
‘Imber is owned and patrolled by UK forces,’ says Megan. ‘It’s impossible for anyone to go in and out of there without clearance.’
Goran grins. ‘Not at all. You have working farms nearby and there’s a public footpath thirty miles long that runs around the firing ranges. Besides, the military have the dumbest guards alive. Believe me, I’ve worked with them most of my life.’
Megan smiles. ‘So do you think you could work out a way to get in?’
‘I’m ahead of you. I’m taking a surveillance team out there tonight. Zero one hundred hours to be precise. You want in?’
PART FIVE
Little Imber on the Downe,
Seven miles from any Towne,
Sheep bleats the unly sound,
Life twer sweet with ne’er a vrown,
Oh let us bide on Imber Downe.’
143
The black Ford Transit that rolls south from Devizes down the deserted A360 bears the green letters ‘ATE’ and a fluttering red flag. Beneath the official logo of the Army Training Estate are the words ‘Specialist Scientific Research Unit’.
The van’s six occupants wear high-visibility rainproof jackets emblazoned with the same crest. They carry in their pockets laminated ID cards and official authorisation to conduct a nocturnal wildlife survey in and around the IRPP, the Imber Range Perimeter Path, that skirts the live-firing area.
Megan looks around at the team and can’t help but be impressed. ‘It’s amazing what you can pull together when you are chasing a potential pay cheque of ten million dollars.’
‘Indeed it is,’ says Josh Goran, sat in the back on a flip-down seat opposite her. ‘Take a bow, Troy my boy.’
Troy Lynton looks up from the submarine glow of his laptop screen and gives a modest smile.
‘Troy’s our cyber king,’ explains Goran. ‘The world’s best hacker, forger and fixer. Give him a little time and there’s nowhere in the virtual world he can’t access and nothing he can’t steal or alter.’
Megan and Jimmy are crammed in the back with the two Americans. The driver is a man called Jay, who appears to be English. The front passenger is Luc, a former Dutch soldier who has been working with the crew for the past two years.
‘Right now there are no major military manoeuvres planned at Imber, so troop numbers are minimal,’ says Goran. ‘Most guys will be lying back at barracks or bedding locals. We should be able to move around without restriction.’
Half an hour later, the van’s headlights illuminate a warning sign: LIVE FIRING RANGE CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC: KEEP OUT.
The Transit trundles slowly on, then pulls over in front of a deserted farmhouse. Jay guides the vehicle up behind it, out of sight of the main road.
‘Okay,’ says Goran. ‘Let’s move.’
They grab backpacks and quickly spread in different directions. Goran has equipped them all with two-way radios, compasses, night-vision goggles, flashlights and, for the sake of the cover story, cameras and clipboards. Lynton has also briefed them on Imber’s stone curlews, roe deer and badgers.
They move silently past shells of buildings, windowless and doorless brick hulks more reminiscent of Kosovo than Wiltshire. Once-beautiful thatched roofs have been replaced with rusted corrugated iron. Wildflower gardens have become mud pits, churned by the caterpillar tracks of tanks. Sprouting in the darkness, they see a red-and-yellow sign declaring, DANGER: UNEXPLODED MILITARY DEBRIS.
Jimmy and Megan stick to the instructions Goran has given them and methodically work their way through the ruins of Imber. English Jay does the same along a northern stretch towards Littleton Down, while Goran scouts the outer parts of West Lavington Down and Lynton works east through Summer Down.
They search for three hours. And find nothing.
As they regroup, Goran lays out a map on the bonnet of the van and jabs a finger south of Imber. ‘This here is the very heart of the firing range. The military call it the danger zone. We’ve barely been in it. So far, we’ve just skirted the outer areas.’
Jay glances at the topography. He’s still catching his breath. ‘It would take all day to drive around that amount of land, let alone walk it and search it.’
No one argues with him.
‘So now we have to make a decision,’ says Goran. ‘It’ll be sunrise any minute. If we carry on, there’s a high risk of being stopped and no longer any documented excuse for us being here.’
‘We need another cover,’ says Lynton. ‘We simply swap the nocturnal survey for a daytime one. It’s Sunday. No one is likely to call ATE and check. But I have to get near a computer and printer to change our papers and pin down some details.’
Goran looks at his watch. ‘Zero four hundred hours. I say we pull out of here before we’re seen. We grab a few hours’ sleep while Troy creates the new documents. Regroup at midday, return and work until nightfall.’