References to human trafficking and modern day slavery in this chapter, folks, but nothing explicit or graphic.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mycroft Holmes stepped from the vintage lift, pulled the folding metal door closed and strolled along the corridor toward his office. Entering the anti-room, he was surprised to find his PA, Anthea Smith, sitting at her desk.

'Oh, good morning, my dear! I wasn't expecting to see you, so early this morning,' he declared.

Anthea returned his greeting with a smile.

'I thought I'd write up my report of last night's operation and get my debriefing over and done, since I'm off on annual leave from tomorrow,' she replied.

'Of course,' Mycroft nodded. Anthea had chosen to take her annual leave to coincide with his honeymoon so that she didn't have to put up with working under his deputy. The last time that had happened, things had not gone well.

'I'll bring you your morning tea, sir' said Anthea, beginning to rise form her desk but Mycroft extended his hand and said,

'No, please. You finish your report. I can make my own tea and one for you, too. Then we'll get your debriefing out of the way and you can be done for the day.'

Mycroft continued on, into his office, deposited his briefcase and umbrella then retraced his steps down the corridor to the little staff kitchen where he busied himself making a pot of his favourite morning tea and setting up a tray for two. By the time he returned, Anthea was standing at the printer, watching her report emerge one sheet at a time from the machine. Gathering all the sheets together, she followed her boss into his office and they both sat down in the green leather wing chairs.

As the tea brewed, Mycroft leafed through Anthea's report. He was already au fait with the events of the early hours of that morning, having been brought up to speed earlier by Agent Osman, but once the beverage was poured and the china cup and saucer in his hand, he settled back to hear Anthea's first-hand account, from her point of view.

'As soon as the true nature of the consignment became obvious, the priority for the operation changed from one of arrest to one of rescue and it was immediately apparent that the original plan of action was inappropriate,' Anthea began. 'The safety of the women was paramount but it couldn't be guaranteed in the presence of the tanker driver.'

'Why so?' Mycroft asked.

'His attitude to the women was aggressive and abusive,' Anthea explained. 'I had the advantage of night vision goggles so could see clearly in the dark but for the women climbing out of the tanker, it would have been virtually pitch black, out in the car park. The tanker driver, who was wearing a head torch, was yelling at the women and, as each one emerged from the inspection hatch, he pushed them towards the ladder at the back of the vehicle, showing absolutely no consideration for their lack of vision or any concern for their safety, despite the fact that they were shouting and screaming, obviously panicking.'

'In what language?' Mycroft enquired, assuming quite rightly that the women were not British.

'Predominantly Russian but I discerned some Chechen and also some Crimean Tatar,' Anthea replied and Mycroft nodded, inviting her to continue her account.

'So, I instructed the Special Ops Unit to sit tight until the tanker driver was at a safe distance from the women.'

'How did you intend to achieve that?' Mycroft interjected again.

'I determined that, if the tanker departed the scene first, it could be tracked using the on-board tracker and stopped by a road block some distance away. If the van carrying the women departed first, it could be tracked using Needham's phone and intercepted en route to the safe house and the tanker and its driver could be detained in the car park.'

'So, you didn't consider Needham to be a threat to the women?'

'No, sir, I did not. Needham, to give him his due, seemed as surprised as I was at the nature of the cargo. He was shocked. And, although he had no head torch either, he did assist the women as they came down the ladder and directed them quite courteously toward the van.'

'Very well,' Mycroft nodded. 'Please, do continue.'

'The tanker driver was in no mood to hang around. As soon as the last woman was out of the vehicle, he jumped back in the cab and flew the coop. He nearly took out a lamp post executing a three-point turn, he was in such a hurry. But Agent Osman was on the case. As soon as we knew which route the tanker was taking, he organised a road block through the local police and they pulled him after four miles. The driver was arrested and the tanker impounded. It's being examined by Home Office Forensic scientists, as we speak.'

'And the women? What happened to them?'

Anthea sipped her tea, took a breath and said,

'Well, sir, we have been referring to them as 'women' but in actual fact…'

As the red tail lights of the tanker disappeared into the night and the dull roar of the engine receded with it, Bryan Needham sat at the wheel of the Transit van in a sort of stupor, wondering what the hell he had got himself into. When he volunteered for this jolly jaunt, he'd imagined the booty to be a load of illegally imported cigarettes or booze, some Class A drugs, perhaps, maybe even guns…but women? That was the last thing he'd expected. And he was beginning to realise that he'd bitten off a whole lot more than he was inclined to chew. People trafficking was not an activity he had ever imagined featuring on his Bucket List.

His normally rather torpid thought processes were doing their version of racing, reviewing what his options might be – other than actually carrying out the task he had been assigned. He was petrified at the prospect of letting the 'big boys' down but even more afraid of the possible consequences of being involved in the transport of illegal immigrants.

His brain was not really up to this task. The toughest decision he usually had to make was whether to go for a piss before or after downing his next pint of beer. So he continued to sit motionless in the darkened cab of the Transit van, wearing a dazed expression that nobody could see…

Nobody, that is, but the members of the Special Ops unit who were in the process of surrounding the van, guns held at the ready, pointing straight at driver. The first hint the target had that anything might be amiss was when the car park lights suddenly burst into life and flooded the scene with bright illumination.

Bryan Needham looked around at the circle of figures all dressed from head to toe in black, looking as menacing as it was possible to look, and chose to surrender. Raising both hands to somewhere up near his ears, he starred at the man – or woman, it was impossible to tell – standing just three feet in front of his windscreen and gave an inane grin.

Without warning, the driver's side door was wrenched open and a gruff voice ordered him to get out of the cab, keeping his hands in plain sight. Needham was more than happy to comply. Being busted here at the rendezvous point was the best possible scenario, so far as he was concerned. He could declare, in all honesty, that he had no idea of the nature of the cargo until they began to climb out of the inspection hatch, and he would happily tell all he knew about the rest of the gang – which was precious little, in fact – in exchange for a shortened term in an open prison where his erstwhile chums were very unlikely to pop up any time soon.

Needham slithered awkwardly out of the cab, manoeuvring his over-weight body with some difficulty, without the use of his hands which were still hovering up around his ears. As soon as both his feet were on the ground, a powerful hand grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and pushed him up against the side of the van.

'Awright! Awright! I ain't pacckin'!' he squarked.

'Shut up!' was the curt response. And he did.

Needham stood submissively while the Special Ops officer patted him down very thoroughly, removing his phone, wallet and a pack of cigarettes. Then, having been spun back around to face his assailant, he was dragged across the tarmac towards a large black minibus that had driven into the car park whilst he was otherwise occupied, being frisked. He was pushed up the steps into the vehicle and shoved along to the back of the bus. The officer stood opposite him, in the narrow gap between the seats, holding his assault rifle aimed at Needham's chest, and growled,

'Take your clothes off!'

Anthea Smith stepped through the door of the station Ticket Hall cum Waiting Room and walked to the back of the white van, ignoring what was going on with Needham in the black bus. She asked the two officers standing behind the van to lower their weapons so as not to alarm the occupants of the vehicle, whom she knew were already pretty alarmed.

Before opening the rear doors, she called out,

' Дамы, я имею в виду вы никакого вреда. Вы совершенно безопасно, мы здесь для того, чтобы спасти вас.'

She then nodded to one of the officers who slowly, carefully, opened the van doors revealing the women inside. They were all huddled together on the bare metal floor, nine dishevelled individuals with gaunt faces and round, fearful eyes. They looked from Anthea to the two Special Ops officers standing either side of her and then back to Anthea.

'Кто-нибудь говорит Английский?' she asked, firmly but calmly, holding up both hands in a reassuring gesture.

There was a brief pause and then one of the women raised a tentative hand and said,

'I do, madame.'

Anthea smiled with relief. She had just about exhausted her rusty Russian. There hadn't been much call for it in the Middle East and 'Ladies, I mean you no harm. You're perfectly safe, we are here to rescue you,' and 'Does anyone speak English?' was about all she could cobble together from her distant memories of A-level Modern Languages - and she couldn't be completely sure she had gotten that right.

'What's your name?' she asked the spokesperson.

'Darya', the young woman answered.

'Darya, my name is Anthea,' she said gently. 'Please tell your friends that they are safe now. We are going to take good care of you all.'

With the assistance of six of the SO officers, Anthea escorted the women to the station waiting room, where it was warm and dry and there were comfortable chairs to sit on. It was here that she got her first really good look at them and it was immediately obvious that at least three of the group were barely into their teens – fifteen years old at best – and the oldest was probably only twenty-five.

Darya confirmed that they'd had nothing to eat or drink for several hours, and they were all showing signs of dehydration. Anthea was concerned they might be hypothermic,too, after their terrifying ordeal inside that tanker, not to mention in danger of going into shock, so she instructed the SO operatives to boost their blood sugar, keep them warm and keep them calm. She then got onto the Emergency Services and summoned paramedics to the scene, whilst the SO officers raided the station vending machines to supply the ladies with snacks and drinks.

Meanwhile, out in the car park, the other half of the SO unit was boarding the white van with one of their number, having exchanged outer garments with Bryan Needham, about to fulfil his mission by driving to the safe house, in order to apprehend whoever might be there, waiting to receive the trafficked women. Needham had very helpfully input the address and post code of the safe house to his phone navigation app, so locating it would not be a problem. As soon as they were all on board, the van departed.

'And that part of the operation was successfully completed?' asked Mycroft.

'Yes, sir,' Anthea confirmed. 'The local police rendezvoused with the team at the location and were able to assist the SO unit in securing the house. All the occupants were taken into custody and the house is being forensically examined now. Several laptops, smart phones and tablets have been removed for analysis. Essex Police are dealing with that side of things and rounding up the rest of the gang.'

'And the females?'

'They were all taken to a local hospital to be checked over. Social Services and the immigration authorities are dealing with them. I understand that some of the ladies have chosen to claim asylum here, on the grounds that if they return to their home countries they will be vulnerable to revenge attacks by the traffickers who sent them here. The younger ones just want to go back to their families.'

'Assuming that it wasn't their own families who sold them to the traffickers,' Mycroft posited, with a frown.

'It would appear not,' Anthea replied. 'The girls' families thought they were coming to the UK legitimately, as students, to attend an English Language school. Their parents, it seems, registered the girls through a fake online agency and paid the fees and travel costs up front.'

Unusually for him, Mycroft was quite taken aback by Anthea's revelations. It would seem that, quite inadvertently, he had stumbled across a major people trafficking and modern day slavery operation. All thanks to Bryan Needham and his homophobic tendencies.

'And our dear friend, Mr Needham?' Mycroft asked.

'In the custody of Essex Police and being extremely helpful, by all accounts.'

'Well, my dear,' said Mycroft, with a satisfied smile, 'I relish reading your written report. Take yourself home, now, and catch up on your sleep. As you know, I won't be in the office tomorrow but I look forward to welcoming you and Inspector Lestrade to my home on Saturday.'

Yes, this little caper had been successfully wrapped up just in time for Mycroft and Arthur's Big Day.

ooOoo

Yes, folks, we're nearly there! Gotta wedding to plan!