The Enemy

Chapter 4

Edward

He bit into the beef jerky he'd been holding for the past hour and gnawed. In this cold, it had nearly frozen. He spit it out and leaned against the half-wall overlooking the Thames, taking some of the pressure off of his legs. It was the end of his fourth week spending the whole night outside, and it had been a while since he'd done a stakeout. It hadn't been since he'd first moved into his second Frankfurt flat three years ago. The smell of urine pervaded his nostrils. He caught movement from his left and stood to turn, facing London's iconic river and tugging down his hat lower over his forehead. The London Eye was illuminated even at this hour. He heard the drunk bunch of uni students swerve away from him, putting the commemorative wall for the Battle of Britain between them, a now common happening on his nightly haunt. He shook himself. London. English, even if spoken in pissed slurs. He closed his eyes. It was foreign to be home.

He and Lukas were residing in an AirBNB about ten blocks from here under an alias, and Dartmouth had slowly recorded the pattern of events occurring every night outside of the Met's new headquarters. He turned back to face it. It was stately and modern and manned by two armed guards. He tugged up the collar of his coat to protect his neck from the icy river wind.

The sidewalk around the structure was protected by several black iron pylons and the building was further blocked by a thick concrete wall. Situated in a nice, centralized, and well-lit neighborhood, he hadn't seen any criminal activity aside from bums relieving themselves on the pavement. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary and extremely secure, much to his dismay.

There was only one oddity that marked the three quarters point of his watch every night, even weekends. He found himself counting down the hours to this moment if only to distract himself from the fact that he still hadn't figured out how to gain access to the interior to hack into the Met's computer system. But maybe, this deviation could be the key.

His phone alarm vibrated signaling four AM. If Big Ben hadn't been under repair, he could've depended on the chimes the Met was so close. He moved closer to the Battle of Britain wall for cover. He didn't want to risk alerting the person or scaring her off. At first, he didn't know what to make of it. Just some copper coming in for night shift? But this was Met Headquarters. An investigator? An informant?But, that didn't seem to be the case. Judging from the guards' reaction, she was important, yet there was also something amiss. They were reluctant to look at her. Strange.

It took him a week to figure out she was female. She would show completely covered up in a hat, scarf, and large wool jacket that was clearly meant for a man. Each night the guards would turn their heads and step away from the door. Sometimes, she avoided them altogether and took the side entrance gained with key card access. She never spoke to them or anyone else.

It was the appearance of a blonde ponytail that exposed her as a woman. Normally, her scarf reached over her hat, but one night it had slipped down. She'd been finishing a smoke and walking more brusquely than usual, the hair protruding out of her hat and moving with her steps. Dartmouth had taken a step back. A woman. The early morning visitor was a woman.

Now, just like all of those other nights, her figure rounded the corner. Her shoulders were slumped and her body was rigid. She was smoking tonight, something he assumed meant she was more jittery than usual. Other than her being Caucasian and having blonde hair, he couldn't make out anything else about her. She would stay inside until six am and then leave by the side door. One morning, he'd been restless enough to track her departure and followed her at a healthy distance until she disappeared down a tube entrance.

Tonight, she approached the guards. She stamped out her smoke and, showing more life than he'd since witnessed, gave them a salute. He furrowed his brow. She entered the building, and he pounded a fist against the commemorative relief. Maybe he could wait outside the tube stop one night, follow her to the Met, and then force her to get him in when she used the side entrance. He pushed back and turned towards the Thames. He had to assume she carried a weapon. He would have to carry his own as well. The sharp wind picked up again. He'd been training in self-defense for years, always looking over his shoulder. He rubbed at his beard; it had grown in since he'd arrived in London. On his night watches, he left his glasses back at the AirBNB. He frowned. The only answer may be to use her.

Splitting the night's stillness, a piercing squeal of tires sounded in the air. A standard police car shot out of the side garage and skidded out onto the Victoria Embankment. The driver righted the car and paused, fussing around with something on its chest. Her chest. He leaned closer, even taking a step out of his cover. It was her. She set her hands back on the wheel and sped away.

Barking orders carried across the street from the guards' radios. One of them began yelling back, but Edward couldn't make out the words. Sirens, in the distance, began to chorus from different directions. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was happening. Something big. Another squeal. Another car, this time a larger model, peeled out onto the street. It was newer and driven by a man he didn't recognize. The man stopped and shouted at the guards. Dartmouth got himself back behind cover. The car sped away.

The guards were outside for another minute before one motioned to the other. They ran into the building. Dartmouth emerged from his hiding spot. They were gone. He couldn't believe it. For the first time in thirty days, the guards were gone. He waited another full five minutes just to be sure.

Holy shit.

Adrenaline fired through him. It was now or never as it appeared that the entire city's police force was occupied. He double-checked his pocket for the hacking device. In order to gain the access he needed, he would have to locate the central hard drive containing some of the Met's most classified material: covert informants and those under witness protection. Dartmouth's own witness protection officer would've arrived at his Frankfurt flat for his monthly check-in two days ago. The trail of breadcrumbs indicating that he'd taken a spontaneous trip to South Africa should buy him about a week's worth of time. It would take them about that long to realize it was bullshit.

Dartmouth walked slowly along the pavement, crossing to the far side of the street and keeping his head down. There were cameras covering every inch of the building, so the only question was how much of him they would capture. He supposed that being believed-dead had its upside in this circumstance. He approached the main entrance with a cautious pace and reached the once-guarded glass doors. The inside lobby was minimally lit and empty. He pulled on a handle. It opened. He walked in with his head low. There was a large reception area, police memorabilia on the walls, and a hall leading to lifts in the back. The glow of a computer screen illuminated the reception desk area. Dartmouth moved towards the screen. It was password protected, but he gained access within thirty seconds. He searched through the hard drive's contents. Directory. Directory. Where was the IT and forensic data center located? He removed his gloved fingers from the keyboard. Fuck. The information wasn't on here. He stepped away. Maybe law enforcement was getting smarter than he'd thought.

This could mean it would take him hours to find what he was looking for. He moved back to the computer. Locker rooms and the training area were on the third basement level. He opted for the stairs and took out the keycard he'd pulled off of someone two weeks ago. He entered the male locker room and found a locker open. Again, he'd stumbled on an odd bit of luck. He threw his own hat and coat into the bin. He had on a white, button up shirt, gloves, grey trousers, and black dress shoes. He pulled on a blue coat with the word "POLICE" emblazoned on the back followed by a matching cap. He closed the locker. He moved to the mirror to make sure nothing looked awry. Edward blinked. He had a light brown beard, the still-unfamiliar dark eyes, and wore a police jacket. He no longer recognized himself. There was no way anyone else would.

He exited the locker room and set his jaw with determination. He didn't care how long it took or how much danger he was in. He was going to hack into the Met, and he was going to find out once and for all if his mother was alive or dead.