Chapter 12

 

Milton did not have a clue what was in store for him as the taxi dropped him off in front of the main doors of Expatriatedotcom.

It was just before midday and the sun was high in the sky. Milton curved his hand over his eyebrows to block its powerful rays from his eyes. He would at some point have to buy some sunglasses, he concluded.

The reception was unmanned, so he pressed the red button on the desk as the small sign instructed and sat close to the entrance door. Within seconds the big double doors opened and JT came barging through.

“Hi John, welcome to Expatriatedotcom,” he said.

The pair shook hands and JT guided Milton through the doors and into the huge warehouse. He was met by shelves stacked with cardboard boxes of all sizes stretching right up to the ceiling. The warehouse appeared to be divided into numbered rows and he could see that the rows stretched to about 50 feet to the far wall.

This struck Milton as strange. From the outside he could see that the warehouse was at least 150 feet long but there appeared to be a segregating wall. He put it down to the company not requiring the full space and had simply hired the floor space required.

“I am the shift foreman this afternoon,” JT explained to Milton, who had counted around 20 men busily working. All of them looked athletic and were aged between 25 and 40.

Everybody seemed friendly enough. JT introduced him to the staff as he walked past them and they replied with a handshake or a nod of the head and a smile.

“Expatriatedotcom was set up in 1996 by Carson,” JT went on. “It got in at the right time. The Internet boom had begun and we just climbed on board the gravy train.

“What we provide is the cheapest patriotic stuff anywhere in the world. We ship out tens of thousands of national flags, t-shirts, mugs, caps … you name it and we’ll see what we can do.

“In the run-up to the Millennium we were shipping it as soon as we received it. Every country in the world wanted to show its patriotism and we provided the cheapest solution. We were sending 10,000 flags at a time out to countries as diverse as the UK and Uzbekistan. We even received an order from the City of London for its Union Jack buntings!

“Things are obviously a little quieter these days, but we still make a living and Carson has looked after us all. He has never released a single employee despite the downturn.

“He has given you a job, not because we are busy but because he likes you. You’ll be on special duties in no time!”

Milton was alerted.

“Special duties?” he asked.

“All in due time. But let’s just say you are working for one of the most powerful firms in the world!”

A chill went down Milton’s back. He knew he was in the thick of it now.

“So where’s Carson?” asked Milton.

“He’s away for a few days securing some contracts overseas. He should be back after the weekend.”

JT explained to Milton what his job entailed. It was pretty mundane stuff. Basically, someone made an order over the Internet, the office processed it and a ‘picker’ - which was his job - took the order sheet, made it up on a cage and dropped it into the delivery bay. It was there that the order would be packed and dispatched by whichever way the orderer requested.

His shift was to be five hours, five days per week.

The work wasn’t taxing and it allowed his mind to wander.

Milton just could not work it out. There must have been 20 men in that warehouse during his shift. Twenty men earning a minimum of 20 grand each. That comes to 400,000 pounds per year. Captain Ali had informed Waite last week that some 50 men were sponsored by the company. That would mean at least one million on wages alone.

Milton then looked at the vehicles in the car park through one of the large warehouse windows and concluded that some would have to be on considerably more than that to be able to afford the expensive sports cars and four-wheel drives he could see.

While people were busy moving around the warehouse, there seemed very few orders actually being filled.

JT said there had been boom years in the late ’90s, but surely it is bad business to be retaining such a large staff if there’s so little work and, more importantly, such little income coming in?

Milton enjoyed his work and managed to grab the odd word with his new colleagues who seemed pleasant enough.

Then a huge noise, like an air raid siren, sounded and everyone in the warehouse headed off in the same direction.

“What’s happening, mate?” asked Milton, stopping a burly man with whom he had earlier exchanged pleasantries.

“Time for you to go home, new boy. That’s the end of your day,” he replied.

The five hours had passed by relatively quickly and Milton walked towards the staff room to wash up and grab his things.

Strangely, though, he found himself going against the pedestrian traffic flow. All the other workers were walking away from the staff room and towards the back of the building where the segregating wall stood.

He turned and peered from behind one of the rows of merchandise to see them heading towards a door, which was opened by the big figure of Lenny. Within seconds they had disappeared.

Milton, fearing he was missing out on something, scurried towards the door, which was pulled shut by Lenny after the last man walked through it.

“Sorry, John, not for you yet. Your day is over. Get yourself home and we’ll see you on Sunday. Have a nice weekend,” said Lenny with a wink as he stood in front of the door.

“No worries, Lenny, I just thought I was missing out on something,” said Milton as he turned and walked through the derelict warehouse to the staff room.

He washed, grabbed his small bag, exited through the side door and got into a waiting taxi.

On his return to the hotel, Milton poured his thoughts onto paper and started to piece things together.

A few days earlier, when he was staking out the warehouse from Gopal’s pick-up, he remembered seeing the employees walking in with sports bags shortly before midday. These were obviously the boys who had been on his shift. He had also seen men leave the building after 3.00 p.m. That was strange, so Milton drew up a wild theory.

Captain Ali had said some 50 men were sponsored by the company. What if they were split into two shifts, the first from 7.00 a.m. til midday and the second from 12.00 noon to 5.00 p.m? The men who worked the morning shift would then spend two or three hours doing something else in that segregated part of the warehouse and the same with the afternoon shift. If that were the case, then the men that Milton worked with on that day would depart the warehouse at 8.00 p.m.

He moved swiftly down to the taxi rank outside the hotel and returned to the warehouse. He was dropped off some distance away and maneuvered in the shadows towards it, close enough to view the side exit from where the workers departed.

Sure enough, just after 8.00 p.m. his colleagues from that afternoon started to file out, clutching their sports bags and in seemingly good spirits. Their jovial mood made it look as if they had just been playing five-a-side football. They had obviously done some sort of exercise that they enjoyed. They filtered out into the car park and dispersed in their collection of expensive motors.

Milton was convinced that whatever was going on in that segregated part of the warehouse was somehow linked to the wave of terror witnessed at England football matches across Europe.

A break-in was out of the question right now. The building was well guarded and he had not had time yet to find a way in. He was not willing to risk compromising his position just yet.

He had to get in there and there was an easier way of doing it.