Rivers of Blood: Steve Regan Undercover Cop Thrillers, #3

By Stephen Bentley

Another Gripping Fast-Paced Thriller in the Steve Regan Undercover Cop Thriller Series  - Original-Concept Crime Fiction Based on a True Undercover Cop Story

 

There's only one thing more dangerous than becoming a confidential informant and that's being an undercover cop. They have something in common - living on the edge.

 

Steve Regan is still undercover working for the same UK secret government department. He sets off on what he thinks is a last assignment: seconded to the Australian Feds posing as a hit man hired to assassinate a liberal Australian politician. 

 

The Australian murder plot leads to the discovery of a frightening far-reaching white supremacist conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United Kingdom. The plotters include nobility, politicians, and high-ranking police officers. 

 

Regan reluctantly agrees to infiltrate a London CID department in order to gather evidence against the cops, as it is suspected some of the detectives are involved in sporadic racially motivated attacks as part of the plot's grand design. 

 

Regan's undercover infiltration is the most dangerous and audacious assignment he has faced. 

 

Will he succeed? Or will this dangerous game endanger someone close to him? 

 

Who will survive and who will die? 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hendry Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386064053

Stephen Bentley

Stephen Bentley is a former British police Detective Sergeant, pioneering Operation Julie undercover detective, and barrister. He now writes in the true crime and crime fiction genres and contributes occasionally to Huffington Post UK on undercover policing, and mental health issues. He is possibly best known for his bestselling Operation Julie memoir and as co-author of Operation George: A Gripping True Crime Story of an Audacious Undercover Sting. Stephen is a member of the UK's Society of Authors and the Crime Writers' Association. His website may be found at www.stephenbentley.info where you may subscribe to his newsletter. Stephen also writes crime fiction in the Undercover Legends series as part of a writing team under the pen name of David Le Courageux. You can listen to Stephen talking about his Operation Julie undercover days on the BBC Radio 4 Life Changing programme/podcast.

Book preview

Foreword

ON 20 APRIL 1968, BRITISH Member of Parliament Enoch Powell addressed a meeting of the Conservative Political Centre in Birmingham, England, United Kingdom. His speech strongly criticised mass immigration, especially Commonwealth immigration to the United Kingdom and the proposed Race Relations Bill. It became known as the Rivers of Blood speech, although Powell always referred to it as the Birmingham speech.

The expression rivers of blood did not appear in the speech but is an allusion to a line from Virgil’s Aeneid which he quoted: as I look ahead, I am filled with foreboding; like the Roman, I seem to see ‘the River Tiber foaming with much blood’.

The speech caused a political storm, making Powell one of the most talked about and divisive politicians in the country, and leading to his controversial dismissal from the Shadow Cabinet by Conservative Party leader Edward Heath. According to most accounts, the popularity of Powell’s perspective on immigration may have played a decisive factor in the Conservatives’ surprise victory in the 1970 general election, and he became one of the most persistent rebels opposing the subsequent Heath government.

Source: Wikipedia

Prologue

MID-1980’S MELBOURNE, Australia

STANDING TALL AT SIX-feet-five-inches, the man with the swastika tattoo sweated, his nerves jangling. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he dialled the number, checking the street to see if anyone was watching.

Before the second ring, a man’s voice answered, Melbourne Help Desk.

It’s me, Brad. I’ll do it.

Where are you calling from?

Payphone, like you told me.

Good. What made you change your mind?

Psycho Pat. He needs taking out. Man, this Aryan Supremacy thing is wrong. It’s nuts.

Right, okay. Do nothing. I’ll contact you. Don’t call me until I meet with you, got it?

The line went dead. Brad stepped outside the booth on to the street. Reflecting on the day’s events, he was unsure what was worse, calling the Federal Police or the bloody slaughter he had witnessed a short time ago. He puked for the second time that day.

There’s only one thing more dangerous than becoming a confidential informant and that’s being an undercover cop, he thought. They have something in common. They live dangerously.

Few men are all bad, fewer are all good. Bad guys can be good. Brad knew he’d been a bad guy but what he had seen earlier was too much. It was evil.

Hearing the hostage’s screams, witnessing the terrible things Pat was inflicting on the dude, made him throw up. It was the first time he thought someone had to stop Pat.

Pat was the forty-year-old leader of a right-wing racist group known as the Aryan Supremacy. Pat hated many things, but most of all he hated anyone who wasn’t white skinned.

Having white skin didn’t always guarantee immunity from Pat’s hate. He hated all white liberal politicians.

Brad was one of the thirty group members summoned to Pat’s industrial warehouse unit in the outskirts of Melbourne. Pat had ordered their attendance to witness an execution.

Aaron, the victim, was a young man, twenty years old. His crime, besides having brown skin, was to date a white girl. His punishment at Pat’s hands was torture followed by a slow painful death.

Tied down and stripped naked, Aaron screamed every time the hair drier, turned up to full heat, was introduced to his most sensitive parts; his armpits, followed by the soles of his feet, finally his groin. His screams were drowned out by the sound of Pat’s favourite heavy metal band.

Pat’s knife soon got to work too, dismembering body parts until he got bored and finally plunged the blade through Aaron’s heart. The fatal wound ended two hours of torture.

Eyes maniacal, hands bloodied, shirt drenched with Aaron’s blood, Pat paused to gather his breath then yelled, White is might. White is right!

Brad shuddered. Pat, now calm as if nothing had happened, said, Carter will be next. Fucking liberal asshole. He jabbed the bloody knife towards his gathered group. The Aryan Supremacy will take over. Not just here but also in the UK and the States.

One of his group, a loyal supporter, spoke up, How’s that going to happen?

Glad you asked, my friend. It’s already started. London cops are beating up niggers. They killed one. Sooner or later, the blacks and Pakis will retaliate. That’s what we want. It will happen here too.

That was the moment Brad resolved to stop Pat, and with that, stop the Aryan Supremacy.

Brad knew the risk he was taking by talking to his handler at the Australian Federal Police in Melbourne, the same cop who had been trying to turn him into a CI for the past two years. He was aware of his fate if Pat discovered he was snitching. Nevertheless, he made that call from the payphone. He had no idea what he had set in motion.

Brit Hitman

TWO WEEKS LATER, ENGLAND

TWO LONG HAUL FLIGHTS within four days? I asked.

Yes, Steve. It’s better and safer for you to get into Australia, do what needs to be done, then get out again, Graham, my boss, said.

So, run that by me again. How come they asked for me? ‘They’ were the Australian Federal Police in Melbourne.

You can blame your wife for that. Orn told her old boss how good you are at undercover work. He took notice because she was also a top undercover in that outfit, as you know, Graham said.

I did know. Orn was born in Thailand but raised in Australia. Before I married Orn, I knew her from an undercover assignment in Thailand. She was so good, I didn’t know she was an Australian federal undercover agent until I got back to the DOCS HQ in London. She saved my life out there and nearly got killed herself. She did lose an eye but survived. She is still beautiful. We got married six months after I returned to the UK. Now, we work together at DOCS. Oh, and we have twins. A boy, Marco and a girl, Mae. We also have a charming, beautiful daughter, Kamon, from Orn’s previous marriage.

My thoughts focussed back to the conversation.

But why can’t they use one of their own? I asked.

They need someone good who is genuinely from out of the country. Not from Australia. It’s simply too risky to insert one of their own.

I see. They would rather have a Pom with his neck on the chopping block?

Graham laughed. Probably, was all he said.

There was more to it than that. Graham knew it, and so did I. This was a politically sensitive assignment. Not for me or Graham. Not for the mob I worked for: a UK secret government department known as DOCS, or Destroy Organised Crime Syndicates, to give it its full ‘christening’ name. It was sensitive for the Australian government but only if it all went tits-up.

There was a white supremacist faction in Australia with plans to assassinate a Melbourne politician. His ideas and agenda were far too liberal for the faction. They decided to terminate him. First, they approached some of the Melbourne mafia. There were plenty of local hitmen for hire, but they all baulked at this one – too much heat was the usual response. Now, they had decided to engage someone from overseas. What they didn’t know was the gang member who was going to introduce me as the Brit hitman was a paid informant.

Graham had one parting shot before we finished the briefing. Steve, one more thing.

Yes? I said.

How old are you now?

Thirty-nine. Why?

Soon be time to think about plans. You can’t keep going on these dangerous assignments forever. You have a young family now. You have a delightful wife. Your life has changed.

You got anything in mind? I said.

No specifics, but what about training undercovers for a few years before you go into pipe and slippers mode? You can take a nice pension at fifty, you know.

Sounds like a plan to me. It would be nice to enjoy life. You’re a long time dead. God, I sound like my dad. I also thought, Yes, he’s right. I’ve been a selfish bastard most of my life. Doing what I want. No consideration for anyone else. I have Orn and the kids to think about. Yeah, it sounds like a plan to me. Training for a few years, then perhaps fall in with Orn’s dream to open an orphanage in Thailand.

I heard Graham’s voice again, jolting me out of my thoughts. How old are the twins now?

Five. Marco’s going to be a bruiser. Big lad and boisterous. Mae is the quiet one. She’ll be a looker like her mother.

Long-Haul

IT WAS THE USUAL BORING long-haul flight to Australia. I did manage to sleep a while but mostly I was thinking about what lay ahead. It was always the unknown that scared me most. Put me in place, let me do my thing and I was fine. The nerves disappeared like snowflakes in hell. You know why? I get into role, like a method actor on stage. Except I’m not acting. I really do believe I am who I say I am. Good job. If I didn’t, I’d be dead.

I was also a little worried about the covert recording device in my pocket. It was secreted inside a cigarette lighter, sealed in by a laser beam. New technology, Jack had reassured me. Jack was our gadget man who used to work with GCHQ before joining us full-time.

When I first heard I was expected to wear a wire, I had objected. The ones I knew about were the size of half a house brick. It had to be taped to your skin to secure it. They were useless, you may as well have a sign on your forehead: ‘I’m a Cop.’

When Jack showed me this new type I thought, Wow! – that’s more like it. We tested it in the DOCS HQ a few times. It worked. All I had to do was press a small button on the base of the lighter. It was then voice-activated. All the conversations were recorded on to a small card also laser sealed inside the lighter. Damn clever, these Chinese. It was light years ahead of anything the police had. Then again, DOCS was light years ahead in everything we did compared with the fuzz.

Time to buckle up. The flight will be landing in forty minutes. That’s what the announcement said, and it did with the gentlest of bumps as the wheels touched down. I had said my usual ‘Hail Mary’ on the descent, as I do on take-off since someone told me they are the two most dangerous parts of flying. The ‘Hail Mary’ was habit now. I hope my mother doesn’t hear me say that. Since I have known Orn, I think I am leaning towards Buddhism rather than Catholicism.

The plane stopped and everyone released their seat belts. I got up from my seat and retrieved my carry-on bag. I was travelling light so no suitcase for me in the hold. All passengers disembarked. Next was immigration, so I showed my passport. The one in the name of Steve Regan. That’s not my real name and neither is Ryan. Steve Ryan is the name I used in Thailand.

Now in hitman mode, when the immigration guy stared at my photo and then at me, I was thinking, Stay cool. I fixed his look with one of my own. Not too long or aggressive as I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

Business or pleasure, sir? he said.

My back story was all set. I was there for a short ‘pleasure’ trip to see an old friend who was sick. Mr. Immigration noted my return flight was set for three days from the date of arrival.

Quick for pleasure? he inquired.

Yes. I explained the reasons as per my back story. It convinced him. He didn’t answer but stamped my passport with the arrival approval. I walked through customs unhindered.

Outside the international terminal I mingled with the throngs. I was wearing my trademark Aviators but by prior arrangement, I was also wearing a baseball cap, a Washington Redskins cap, and a sweatshirt with ‘GAP’ emblazoned on the front. I had on my faded blue denim jeans and dragged my bright-red wheeled carry-on bag behind me. That’s what they were on the look-out for. Someone answering my description.

I had been waiting for about five minutes and just finished a cigarette when a large black car pulled up at the kerb. The passenger window powered down and the passenger simply said, Regan?

Yes, I said.

The front passenger got out and opened the rear passenger door. I got in. He took my bag and placed it into the boot. Then he returned to the front passenger seat. Turning around, he grinned and said, Welcome to Australia. I’m Kenny and the driver’s Wally.

Good to meet you, I said.

We’ll drive to the safe house and have a chat there.

Right, I said, thinking, Funny how it’s called a chat. I hope it’s more than that. It’s my life at stake here.

I had no need to worry. These guys were good. They had both been with the Aussie Feds for years. Both knew Orn and we exchanged a few pleasantries. I dismissed all thoughts of her and asked the agents not to mention her again. They understood. I was in the role, or soon would be. I needed no distractions.

The safe house was a short drive from the airport in the