Shadow State Read online

  SHADOW STATE

  A gripping spy thriller full of twists

  DEREK THOMPSON

  First published 2016

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  Derek Thompson asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ©Derek Thompson

  Please join our mailing list for free kindle crime thriller, detective, mystery, and romance books and new releases.

  http://www.joffebooks.com/contact/

  There is a glossary of British slang and a character list in the back of this book.

  ALSO BY DEREK THOMPSON

  This is the fourth book in the series featuring Thomas Bladen

  Get the first three now!

  BOOK 1: STANDPOINT

  The woman he's always loved is in danger

  Thomas Bladen works in surveillance for a shadowy unit of the British government. During a routine operation, he sees a shooting which exposes a world of corruption and danger. When his on-again, off-again girlfriend Miranda is drawn into the conspiracy, Thomas must decide who he can trust to help him save her life

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/

  http://www.amazon.com/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/

  BOOK 2: LINE OF SIGHT

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/

  http://www.amazon.com/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/

  A young woman lies dead at an army base. Was it really an accident?

  When Amy Johanson is killed during a weapons test, Thomas and his partner Karl are determined to get to the bottom of it. They must protect Amy's friend Jess, the only witness they have, who plays a dangerous game of seduction and lies. Meanwhile, Thomas’s girlfriend Miranda and her family are once again put in the firing line.

  Can Thomas get justice for Amy, solve the mystery of Karl’s past, and decide who he can really trust?

  BOOK 3: CAUSE & EFFECT

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/CAUSE-EFFECT-thriller-wont-want-ebook/dp/B016J62PYM/

  http://www.amazon.com/CAUSE-EFFECT-thriller-wont-want-ebook/dp/B016J62PYM/

  A random attack on a child and a clinical assassination thrust Thomas Bladen into a dark conspiracy

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  THE THOMAS BLADEN SERIES

  Glossary of British Slang Terms

  Characters and Notes

  My thanks to:

  Jasper Joffe, Anne Derges, Warren Stevenson, Sarah Campbell and Clive Aplin.

  Author’s Note

  I know what you're thinking — this is a Brexit book, right? Wrong. Shadow State is set in 2004, a significant year for the European Union. Ten countries joined the EU that year, redrawing the map of Europe that had existed since the end of World War II. Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Poland, Slovakia and Slovenia joined an expanded EU.

  The Shadow State of this book's title — which also features in Standpoint, Line of Sight and Cause & Effect — has its origins in Winston Churchill's 1946 speech in Zurich, in which he proposed a United States of Europe. That historical fact was the starting point for the Spy Chaser series, which is of course fiction.

  Prologue

  Stephen Heick smoothed his suit and closed the door of the safe, returning his PSA-25 pistol to darkness. At five minutes to nine he left his hotel room and joined the slipstream of human traffic downstairs. A tap of his lapel — the enamelled eagle pin was still in place — and he headed along the Thames. Sometimes he liked to see how quickly he could identify a courier as they approached. On darker days, he wondered whether today would be the day of his undoing. He picked up the pace, reassuring himself that murder on the streets wasn’t their style, not in such a public space. And besides, he was still useful to them, he had connections.

  The South Bank heaved with families and tourists and coach parties, bustling beside the Thames for their ‘culture fix,’ as his British friends liked to put it. Give him Washington DC any day, but London had its charms too, along with the risks.

  He spotted the courier straight away — fresh-faced and earnest — an eagle pin high on his suit. They smiled in unison and he thought again how absurd this game was, as they exchanged pleasantries and an envelope slipped into his pocket. He walked on, switching smartly to the right so he could use a tour party as cover. Now he circled round and watched as the head bobbed away through the crowd.

  Heick had gone barely twenty yards when he heard a scream. He kept on walking. Forty years in the service had smoothed his conscience to marble. As he grabbed a copy of USA Today he thanked the girl at the kiosk and pondered her accent. The Balkans, maybe? He smiled and she smiled right back, unable to tell that he had removed the eagle pin behind the newspaper. Now he could breathe easier.

  When he got to Jubilee Park he picked up a coffee and found a prominent picnic table to survey the perimeter. He dropped his paper so he could bend down and check behind him. Clear as a prairie. He lifted the envelope from his pocket and felt along the wax seal. It gave way, revealing a plain business card with one word, handwritten in capitals: CHARLEMAGNE.

  He stared at the card for a few seconds, suddenly aware that he was holding his breath. It was time to cash in his insurance policy and make a call.

  “It’s Stephen Heick. I need you to do something for me.”

  Chapter 1

  Thomas Bladen considered himself a patient man — a natural for the Surveillance Support Unit. If you waited long enough, and kept your nerve, the targets revealed their secrets. The same held true for the people around him, but he thought of himself as a closed book.

  Whatever the assignment — Customs, Accident Investigation, Welfare cheats or the military — the SSU were simply the hired help. He’d always preferred it that way, but months spent in the warm bosom of the Benefits Investigation Team had finally started to get on his tits. Thankfully, like all good things, even bad assignments came to an end.

  As his sidekick, Karl McNeill, had been quick to point out, there had been no leaving drink or collection for them. Flush and go, as Karl put
it — another day in the life of the SSU. The BIT had bid them adieu on the Friday and now, Monday morning, that could mean only two things: a team review and finding out who was the next lucky winner.

  Christine Gerrard had stipulated an eight-thirty start — boss’s prerogative. Thomas was on Liverpool Street station concourse at eight, camera in hand, looking for . . . Well, just looking. The camera lens didn’t keep office hours.

  He watched the wheeler-dealers and desk jockeys stream out towards the city and the scent of money. And while he still didn’t subscribe wholeheartedly to the ‘Gospel of Karl’, with its pan-European Shadow State pulling invisible strings, he’d seen enough now to admit there was some truth in it. Every minute of every day a battle of numbers and influence raged on, a shifting sandbank of allegiances and conflicts played out in secret. Despite knowing that, Thomas was content to remain on the sidelines — a reservist in Karl’s intelligence war, to be called up when required.

  Two moody skylines and a deliberately out-of-focus crowd shot later, he walked the short distance to the SSU’s London East location — a nondescript, concrete, plain-clothes block. He spotted one of his MI5 colleagues from the first floor ahead of him, and deliberately avoided sharing the lift. What was it with MI5 and their aversion to stairs?

  It was eight-twenty when he swiped in on the second floor. No sign of Karl — the lazy bastard — and the office in darkness, like a surprise party. He flicked on the lights and glanced along the two rows of desks. Beyond them, even Christine’s room was empty.

  She wasn’t far behind him, bustling through with a bag in one hand and a rucksack in the other. As she passed he suddenly recalled that smile in different circumstances, long ago.

  “I won’t keep you.” She unlocked her office and set its strip lights humming.

  He freed a laptop from his desk drawer and caught up on paperwork. Karl and Ann Crossley — the fourth musketeer — arrived together, trading playful insults. Karl’s Belfast brogue sounded brazen against Ann’s polished Cambridge tones, where only a hint of Cardiff slipped through.

  They both acknowledged Thomas when he turned round. Karl winked. Thomas shook his head. He had lost track of whether Karl and Ann were genuinely on good terms, or if the other departments they each reported to had called for greater cooperation. Maybe he’d bring that up in the team review.

  Christine called them in at eight-thirty on the dot. She followed her agenda meticulously — on paper as in life. An hour and fifteen of assignment feedback, expenses sign-offs and lessons learned, and even Christine seemed to be losing the will to live. He clocked her checking her watch for the second time.

  “Okay, let’s take a few minutes. Thomas, would you like to get the coffees? My treat.”

  A £20 note wafted before him. He wrote the orders on a slip of paper and left them to it, certain that a conversation of a different kind would start up once he closed the door. He smiled to himself. Best let them get on with it. Wheels within wheels.

  * * *

  Outside, London had lost none of its urban charm. Yorkshire might have been his native land but the capital was home now. Despite Dick Whittington’s promises, he’d found that the streets weren’t paved with gold. Based on his surveillance experience they were more likely to be covered in vomit and syringes. Nevertheless, the great city’s appeal shone through — resilient and unbowed — like the wrong woman at the right time.

  As he strolled along Bishopsgate, taking in the scenery at the firm’s expense, a dark sedan drove past and slowed up ahead of him. He kept walking, noting the tinted windows, the number plate and a lack of consideration for the Highway Code. The car’s hazard lights started flashing. Out of habit he checked the side road across the street — the logical escape route on foot. The car didn’t move. As he drew level, the passenger window descended.

  “Thomas Bladen?”

  He took it to be rhetorical. There were two men in the front and a woman in the back. Her door swung open. He stepped aside to let her out and she held the door for him.

  “Mr Bladen, will you come with us please?”

  A smarter man might have walked away. Thomas had always favoured instinct over smarts.

  “Who’s us?”

  “Everything will be explained when we get there.”

  He got in, expecting her to follow, but she kept hold of the door.

  “I’ll need your pass, please. It will be returned to you.”

  He started a list on his mental chalkboard. 1: They knew him by name. 2: They were expecting him. 3: They knew his SSU pass had an inbuilt tracker.

  It was all done with precision. As soon as he’d handed over his ID card the door slammed shut, locked, and the car pulled away. He nearly clapped.

  The front passenger turned round.

  “This shouldn’t take long. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  He played the hand he’d been dealt and stayed calm. They dressed well, in suits too good for any agency he knew. Nice car. He took a breath and thought about it. This hardly counted as abduction. Not like the time when he and Karl had been drugged and thrown in the back of a van. Ergo — to use one of Christine’s words — these people were in a similar line of work and they wanted something.

  London merged around him in a tinted wonderland as the driver fed through the one-way system and doubled back into the City, arriving in the banking district.

  “Here we are, Thomas — safe and sound.”

  He placed the voice midway between reassuring and businesslike. The car idled on double-yellows outside a glass and steel monolith, a monument to commerce. He got out and gazed up at the building. ‘Artesian Shield Investments’ glistened above the revolving glass door.

  His new friend guided him up the polished steps and had him sign in, for fuck’s sake — the suit on reception handing him a visitor’s pass. All very slick and he didn’t buy it for a moment.

  The waiting room was too plush to be an interrogation room. He figured it was wired for sound and vision, so he sat comfortably and plundered the boiled sweets in a bowl. He considered texting Karl to update him. Then again, what could he expect Karl to do about it? No, he was here by request, more or less, and he’d handle it himself for now.

  A glossy ASI brochure yielded few clues. Aside from the greed-is-good spiel he noted they had offices in London, Geneva, Washington and Hong Kong. Karl had been to Geneva a few months back and the UN had a headquarters there. He smiled at his own efforts to join the dots and make a familiar shape.

  Minutes ticked away. Moving to the door he heard phones ringing and the background chatter of a call centre. He wondered what might happen if he went walkabout but he never got the chance to find out. Once he’d turned the handle and eased it back he heard muffled footsteps and found himself face to face with the front passenger from the car.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Is there anything I can get you?”

  An explanation would be nice. There was no trace of irony in the voice so he paid him the same compliment.

  “Sure.” He passed over the twenty with the three-coffee list. “You can get these delivered.” He didn’t bother writing down the address, certain they knew it.

  His host glanced at the list and smiled. “Not a problem — I’ll pass this on. Meanwhile, how about I get you a coffee? How do you like it?”

  “Bitter, and with a muffin.”

  “Coming right up.”

  The accent was British but the inflection was mid-Atlantic. Interesting.

  One coffee and a muffin later — blueberry, no less — he was back to wondering what the game was. Well, he knew about the game, but this was a new development: polite abduction by appointment.

  He tried the door again and ventured into the mezzanine corridor. Someone on the floor below caught his eye and picked up the phone. He turned left and started walking, away from the main stairs.

  As he reached the lifts, a man in his late fifties emerged. Another nice suit — pale grey, made to measure.
Business must have been good.

  “Mr Bladen — Thomas? Sorry to have kept you. Stephen Heick.” He proffered a hand. “I was unavoidably detained.”

  “I know just how you feel.”

  The suit didn’t rise to the bait. “Let’s take a walk.”

  By now he had the accent pegged to US East Coast. Not the brashness of Miranda’s Brooklyn bar manager, Sheryl. These were the softer tones of New England. What troubled him were the eyes.

  The suit smiled, as if reading his mind. “You spotted the McNeill family resemblance?” He tilted the ID card. “It’s an interesting story. We can talk in my office.”

  “As long as we make a detour on the way.”

  At least Heick hadn’t followed him to the urinal. He took a leak, ran his hands under the tap and dried them carefully. A quick check of his mobile phone showed no contact from either Karl or Christine. As if he normally disappeared on the coffee run.

  He did his thinking double-time. Karl had only mentioned McNeill senior — that is, Heick — once, when Karl's father made an appearance at his mother's funeral in Belfast. Karl hadn’t spoken about him before or since, so he figured a happy family reunion wasn’t on the cards.

  Heick took Thomas down a floor and through the hi-tech call centre where traders — if that’s what they were — watched fluctuating share prices. Half the workers sat transfixed by their screens, while the rest were busy transcribing from headphones. Heick offered no explanation, although Thomas knew he was making a point so he paid close attention.

  They took another lift up to the third floor.

  “Come on in. Take a seat. Another coffee, Thomas?”

  The office was large enough to house an additional table and chairs, overlooking part of the city with the Thames slithering behind. Thomas made a play of noticing the three clocks on the wall, showing the local time in London, New York and Hong Kong.