At the same time, a second team would be needed to observe and monitor the house where the bug was to be planted. Two to four players would watch the street to ensure that the entry and departure was unobserved. Finally, a further team of three would actually perform the break-in and plant the bugs.
Even then, the circumstances may not be suitable to permit an entry on the first, second, or even the fifth attempt. Perhaps the street was too busy, perhaps the mark was too close to the house, or more likely, the lock refused to yield to the lock pick at the first attempt. The apparently simple task of planting a bug in a mark’s house could require a team of sixteen people, and take several days. The Wrecking Crew may charge a considerable fee for its services, but they had a flawless record of achievement — until now.
With a snort of disgust, The Fixer dropped the report on the table, pointed at Becka, and barked a single word.
“Explain.”
Becka leaned back in her chair and raised her palms in the international sign of innocence.
“Hey Boss, it wasn’t my fault the guy offed himself, I did just what you asked.”
She carried on talking rather too quickly, counting off the points on her fingers as The Fixer continued to stare at her unblinkingly.
“OK. First, I got close enough to this guy, Rathbone, so that I could get remote access to his smart phone. It was ridiculously easy — some people are so careless. I sat at the back of the bar where he was having a meal with some guy. I had my laptop set up to scan for Wi-Fi requests and within seconds his house name popped up. Most people make that mistake, calling their home Wi-Fi network something obvious. As I said, some people are stupid. Then I created a clone of his home Wi-Fi, logged him in, and enjoyed a drink as his phone backed up all of his data onto my laptop.
“It took me a day to sort through the data. His phone yielded all of his bank information, mail, diary, and his password; we got lucky there, he used the same password throughout. Then using his bank details, Helen was able to make payments to a cloned credit card that she had already used to create accounts at some of the least reputable porn sites.”
The Fixer gave Helen a small nod of acknowledgement and a smile, which was politely returned.
“A couple of days later he was back at the same bar again and I was able to upload a good chunk of our own kiddie porn collection to a hidden folder on his phone, I also added a new history and some interesting bookmarks to his browser, and disabled the privacy settings. The next time he synced that phone to his laptop, all of those pictures, videos, and settings were copied across.
“Later that week, I used one of our sleeper agents to plant the fake report about Rathbone in Afghanistan; you may recall that our guy is a file clerk with the Ministry of Defense. He’s still involved in his little gun running operation; it’s quite profitable, so he was more than willing to help. Once I had called the police and given an anonymous tip about Rathbone accessing child porn, the whole project grew legs of its own.”
Becka raised her hands a little higher this time, to emphasize the point.
“My work was exemplary, perfect in every detail. No fault here…. He wasn’t even due to be arrested until next week, so it wasn’t my fault that he got cancer and blew his head off!”
She sat back and folded her arms with a huff worthy of a disgruntled teenager.
“OK, Becka,” The Fixer conceded after a long pause. “Good work as always. You can relax.”
He gave her a brief smile, and rotated his uncomfortably direct gaze towards the opposite side of the table.
“Peter? Tell me about the surveillance; any problems?”
“No, nothing Boss,” Peter shook his head firmly. “It all went like clockwork. I brought in a team of watchers from way south of London, all unrecognizable. As usual, I added one local guy to help with the geography. He had never met Rathbone and didn’t know him, so he couldn’t have been recognized either. We were clean.”
“Norris here dug into his data bank and got us a good deal of tracking history from Rathbone’s cell phone, his credit card, and a radio frequency chip — I think it was from his shoes?”
He looked at Norris Halpin, who nodded to indicate that the information was indeed correct. Peter continued.
“So we knew at the outset where he was likely to go. That made it easy to plan ahead. The surveillance was textbook. The guy was as regular as clockwork, so regular it was boring; Christ, he even took a dump at the same time every day. There is no way that he made us…. NO WAY!”
He rubbed his face in frustration.
“As you know, we started our operation as soon as he arrived back from his trip to America. Since then he was never out of our sight, except for when he was in his home, and the three times that he went into the House of Commons, where even we couldn’t follow — not without special passes. Anyway, thanks to Becka, we knew from his diary that he was meeting with the current Member of Parliament for his local constituency. She’s an independent MP who is retiring before the next election. We believe he was trying to win her support for his campaign. Our brief was just to watch and report; up to the moment that he stuck the gun in his mouth, everything seemed in order. It’s all in my report.”
The Fixer slowly flicked through the pages before him for a second time, the uncomfortable silence was emphasized by the rhythmic tapping of his pen on the table. Finally, he closed the report, folded his fingers together, and gave his team a wide smile.
“OK. For the time being we will file his death under ‘Shit happens’, but it still seems a little odd. Let’s find out what we can about this guy Stone — but off the books please, I don’t want the client to know we have any doubts about this suicide.”
He pushed the report to one side and subtly changed his posture to one that was less threatening.
“We all need to get back to our desks, so let’s quickly summaries the progress on our other live projects. Item one, Harry Harrington and the planning application for Whitewater farm. Sorry Peter, back to you again — any progress?”
This time Peter White sat forward and spoke with an air of excitement.
“Yes Boss, we got a result there. My people were able to keep tabs on this Alan Merry, the Councilor from Reading. We got photos of his family, wife, grandkids, and his new girlfriend — it was the usual stuff. I used one of our London girls to give him a few afternoons of unforgettable pleasure; the poor guy never saw it coming. Then I caught up with him at a bar to deliver the message, ‘Vote for Whitewater farm or else’, and he folded up like a cheap stepladder. Job done… case closed. Incidentally, I’ve put this Alan Merry character into the sleeper file — he may be useful again.”
“Well done, Peter,” The Fixer nodded with a smile. “Please thank your team for their excellent work.”
Peter smiled back proudly. “Thanks, Boss.”
“Right then, item number two.” The Fixer paused for a moment, his lips drawn tight in obvious anger. “Last month Becka received information from her source in GCHQ that someone had searched for, accessed, and copied files relating to our work. Obviously, any leak of this information would pose a considerable risk to us all. Our usual operative was already engaged in other duties so, given the need for urgency in this matter, I immediately dispatched Kitten and Bunny to solve the problem.”
The Fixer looked over his shoulder and gave his two massive bodyguards a tight smile, which was met with an almost imperceptible nod. When Kitten spoke in heavily accented English, his voice had an unnaturally high pitched, almost girlish, quality, brought on by years of steroid misuse. He read his report, slowly and carefully, from a folded sheet of paper that he had removed from his jacket pocket.