by Ted Denton
TIGHT
LIES
TIGHT
LIES
TED DENTON
urbanepublications.com
First published in Great Britain in 2019
by Urbane Publications Ltd
Unit E3 The Premier Centre Abbey Park Romsey SO51 9DG
Copyright © Ted Denton, 2019
The moral right of Ted Denton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author takes no responsibility for the validity of factual research conducted during the writing of this book. Please note that there is no insinuation that the British Government and its officers nor the PGA European Golf Tour, its employees, players, caddies, sponsors or agents are in any way or have ever been corrupt. There is no deliberate intention to relate Russian criminality to the oil and gas industry, to sport or to politics except for solely creative purposes. References to the companies Rio Tinto and British Petroleum are only used to add corporate authenticity within the book around the subject of the oil and gas and mining industries and there is no insinuation that they are or ever have been involved in any political or commercial corruption. Rublex Corporation is an entirely fictional entity with no reference to any existing or previous organisation.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-911583-76-9
MOBI 978-1-911583-77-6
Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan
Cover by The Invisible Man
Printed and bound by 4edge UK
urbanepublications.com
Contents
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The author acknowledges and is grateful for the copyright usage of and references to the lyrics of Bob Dylan (Copyright © 1974 by Ram’s Horn Music; renewed 2002 by Ram’s Horn Music).
For ‘the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong’.
For MJP. Always.
For the brave members of the British Armed Forces who deliberately put themselves in harm’s way to try and help make our world a safer place.
…and for a once in a lifetime dog…
Definitions:
In the sport of golf, a ‘tight lie’ is deemed to be the position (or lie) in which one’s ball has come to rest either upon bare dirt, very short grass, or where there is very little grass beneath the ball. This often makes the connection between the club head and golf ball harder to strike cleanly and therefore the outcome of the intended shot is harder to execute with accuracy.
Tight – (adjective): difficult to deal with or get out of; experiencing a feeling of constriction.
Lie – (noun): a resting position; a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; a falsehood.
Chapter 1
USA. LOS ANGELES. BELL. 1400 HRS.
Occupying the back corner of some piece of shit dive of a bar and nursing a chipped half-tumbler of bourbon. I sat alone chewing on the end of a splintered match. The place was a dark rancid hole. To tell the truth I looked just about bad enough to fit right in. Hell, the regulars hadn’t even looked twice at me with my three day old stubble, dirty oil-stained checked shirt. None of the usual lingering stares at the thick angry white scar that scores its way up from my neck, petering out across my left cheek.
I scanned the bar at leisure. An old scab-ridden whore, skin wrinkled and ravaged from too much sun and cigarette smoke, was staggering on skinny legs encased in tattered, torn pantyhose. She wobbled between two time-worn tough looking men, labourers or mechanics with nothing waiting for them at home most likely, sitting on solitary barstools, connected only by discarded shot glasses and a near-empty tequila bottle. She was bothering them for drinks, hoping to turn a quick trick in the filthy alleyway behind the building.
The whole desperate scene was played out in front of an ox of a man who was lazily tending the bar. Heavily set with broad rounded shoulders, his long greasy black hair hung down to a massive protruding stomach. He wore an ironically cheerful short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, fashion which appeared starkly out of sync with both the dismal surroundings and his pockmarked, humourless face. The shirt stretched over his massive arms, unbuttoned to the navel, displaying a mat of tangled hair covering his bulky torso. The side of his neck and chest was covered in intricate green and blue patterned tattoos and to cap it all off he was missing most of his front teeth. He wouldn’t be making front page of the local tourist board’s promotional brochure anytime soon.
I took a swallow of bourbon. Chased it with a couple of painkillers. Savoured the burn as the scene played out in front of me. The whore cackling with laughter. Two spindly, decrepit drunks squabbling at a table to the side of the bar. They began to scrabble at each other, knocking down chairs as they tore at their shirts and faces with grubby fingernails, spilling glasses and drinks as they went. A pretty pitiful sight. But nobody seemed to notice. Ox nonchalantly surveyed the saloon bar with not so much as a raised eyebrow, polishing a grimy looking glass with a dirty rag. Above him hung what looked like an oversized pickaxe handle mounted upon two nails. The scrawl of a thick black marker pen beneath simply read ‘The Peacemaker’. I smiled to myself. My time spent within the murkier elements of the British armed forces had instilled in me a twisted appreciation of a man who took pride in his work.
The heavy door banged open. A stream of light flooded the bar room as a couple entered. My focus heightened. A rat-faced man with sinewy arms led the way, his blonde ponytail trailing down a leather waistcoat threaded with silver chains. He dragged a young Mexican girl by her upper arm. She was petite and, in tight denim Daisy Duke cut-offs, ankle cowboy boots, and midriff revealing tank top, certainly cute to look at.
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nbsp; She squirmed in his rough grasp. He threw her down at a nearby table and gestured to the barkeep for service. Ox duly appeared with two bottles of beer, still soaked from the cool of the fridge. He set them on the table. Retreated. The blond man took a long swig of beer and, in one motion before swallowing, sparked a Marlboro Red from a battered Zippo lighter and inhaled. This was plainly not an establishment which concerned itself with pandering to the ubiquitous American anti-smoking laws. He reached across the table and grabbed a fistful of the young girl’s hair. She was sixteen at the most but with a whole lot of living in those pretty brown eyes. He pulled her forward across the table and kissed her roughly on the mouth. His bony hand thrust itself down the front of her tank top. He laughed and pushed her back into her chair, a tiny crumpled and frightened mess trying to play the grown up woman.
I watched, grinding my teeth in anger. Through force of habit, I traced my thumbnail down the deep scar on my face. Etching slowly. Scoring it deeper. Partly seeking reassurance from the familiar contours, partly working it to ensure its permanence as my defining mark. I drained my glass, sat back, breathing deeply to retain control. I studied the bar. No one else had seemed to take a blind bit of notice. Another biker mistreating some lowly slut— just part of the fabric of the place. I closed my eyes in resignation. The fickle lens of my mind’s eye transported me so vividly to my service within the Regiment. A time where respect was earned through action and deed. A life governed by a much-needed structure which had, at that time, brought order to my worthless life. There was a time, way back, when the name Captain Tom Hunter, youngest commander of A Troop based out of Hereford and indeed of any of the four squadrons of 22nd Special Air Service Regiment of the Regular Army, had been spoken with pride, even held up as an example of excellence for fellow soldiers to emulate.
How things had changed.
A fist slamming into a table and the sound of a shattering glass brought me round. I looked up and the blond biker had the little Latina girl by the arm again and was forcing her to her knees under the table. She was sobbing. He leant back chuckling, one hand on his beer and the other on the top of her head as she reluctantly busied herself with attempting to pleasure him. After a fashion, he moved to hold his drink over the girl’s bobbing head and proceeded to pour splashes of beer pattering down over her. The sound jarred me. A painful memory, not buried deep enough, came bubbling over. That was enough.
I rose slowly and surveyed the bar, scanning for threats. The rest of the punters continued about their business. Ox was leaning forward, meaty forearms resting on the bar, smirking and enjoying the show.
I staggered across the bar in feigned inebriation, as if solely intending on ordering yet another drink. Approaching the Target, I took two quick steps forward and kicked the edge of the table hard and purposefully into the chest of the unsuspecting biker. The force smashed him backwards off his chair, onto the floor. I flew after him and, pushing the girl aside, stamped on the knee joint of his flailing leg. I pulled the table off, held it up and over him. Shouted at the girl to stand up. He screamed out in pain, hands groping hopelessly at the shattered kneecap. Going nowhere fast. Without pause I slammed the table’s sharp edge downward into his windpipe.
I looked up to see the huge bartender, moving faster than his corpulent body belied, wielding The Peacemaker in both hands and smashing it down towards my head. I dived sideways as the bat collided with the table, cracking the top in two. Momentum slid me into a table of three older guys with long greasy grey hair wearing tasselled leather jackets.
One of the men pulled me off the floor by my hair and hit me in the temple hard, scrambling my senses. The Ox was coming for more, swinging The Peacemaker with gusto like he was batting out the ninth inning for the Dodgers. I stooped and, reaching into my boot, pulled out the eight-inch hunting knife strapped inside. I thrust out wildly into the armpit of my mature assailant and twisted. It was enough to free me from his grip and I lurched forward again pulling out my Beretta.
‘Stay the fuck where you are!’ I shouted in general at the bar, spinning and pointing the gun towards the motley crew assembled at ringside. ‘Nobody fucking move and we are out of here. If so much as a fucking finger reaches for a gun I swear I will shoot it the fuck off.’
Ox stood still. Breathing heavily, sweat pouring off his fat acne-scarred face. His expression contorted with rage. The Peacemaker rested still in his double-handed grip, making him look like an oversized tennis player. All he needed was a headband. ‘You’ve fucking killed him, man,’ he howled, glancing at the biker sprawled on the floor of the bar. ‘He’s not moving. You’re dead, you son of a bitch. I’ll lose my licence. I promise you are fucking finished, punk.’
I backed up slowly, covering the bar evenly with the barrel of the Beretta as I moved. I reached the young girl who was crying and shaking. ‘You cool?’ I said, briefly glancing into her mascara streaked face. She nodded. Taking her wrist I continued to edge backward together until we reached the door. We piled through into the sunlight; behind us a cacophony of cursing and shouting.
‘Who are you? Where are we going? What the hell is going on? You killed my boyfriend asshole,’ she cried, tears streaming down her pretty face.
‘Listen, I don’t know how the fuck a nice girl like you got caught up in this shit but from where I was sitting it didn’t look like you were having much fun. Your parents hired me to get you away from that bastard. It’s a done deal. My car’s down the next street. You’re coming with me and we’ve gotta run. NOW!’
We turned the corner on the block as a throng of people rushed out onto the street behind us, followed by the throaty punch of gunned motorbike engines. I was practically dragging the girl off her feet and, by the time we reached the car, she was missing a boot. The beaten-up rusting red jalopy was specifically picked for this job so as not to stand out in this low rent gang-infested neighbourhood in Bell, the predominantly Hispanic suburb of Los Angeles. Right then I wished I’d gone for speed over style.
I ripped open the unlocked car door and pushed the skinny brown girl onto the seat. Jumped into the driver seat and turned the ignition. On the second time of asking it spluttered into life. As it backfired I shouted across, ‘Consuela—there’s a blonde wig in the bag at your feet. Put in on now.’
‘What? Like no way. This is all just so fucked man.’ Her tiny fists were balled up tight in her lap. I could swear she was pouting.
‘Connie, put the fucking wig on now.’ I urgently swivelled my neck around me checking the streets. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. We’re dead if they catch up with us. Do it now!’
Scowling, she pulled on the wig. It was thick and heavy with platinum blonde curls. I threw on a baseball cap and sunglasses kept ready in the dash box. Rolling down the window halfway, I stuck my elbow out and casually slid the vehicle into the road. We weren’t going to outrun anyone in this thing— we’d have to bluff our way clear. We approached the intersection. A screech of tyres and two leather clad bikers pulled out sharply, skidding into the path of a fast moving blue Ford pickup truck running in the opposite direction. One of the hogs bailed onto its side in the effort to stop and slid under the wheels of the truck, the rider’s leg trapped underneath. Its driver, fully moustached and mulletted and wearing the obligatory checked flannel shirt, threw open his door shouting and gesticulating wildly at the pair. The fallen biker rose to his feet and wiped his bloodied mouth on the back of his hand. As if watching some carefully rehearsed synchronised dance move, he pulled out his handgun at the identical moment his wing man and mirror image did so too. They started to pump holes in the side panelling of the sky blue Ford, tearing the metal apart.
This was the perfect opportunity for us to slip away unnoticed, so I threw the jalopy in reverse and backed up down the street. Spun the vehicle in a neat skid, flipped into a side street, and put my foot down, leaving nothing but dust behind us.
We drove for twenty clear minutes on the freeway out of town, most of which s
aw Connie sitting with the blonde wig on her lap and a sorry pout across that cherubic face. I punched some numbers into my cell phone. ‘Mr Rodriguez, I’ve got your daughter. She’s safe and well,’ I said, grinning over at Connie. The girl’s instant response was to wrinkle up her nose and dart her little pink tongue out at me. ‘We’re ready to make the drop as arranged, Mr Rodriguez. See you in an hour.’
Chapter 2
SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR: DAY ONE.
Daniel splashed cold water on his face and exhaled. He ran wet fingers back through his floppy blond hair. Looking in the mirror, he straightened his collar and forced a smile. This was it. He was finally taking control of things for himself. The door was opening to a new world of infinite possibility.
He took in the opulence of the cavernous washroom nestled inside the lobby of the Bayfield Mandarin Hotel. What he saw was a classic example in traditional Spanish finery and the unmitigated deployment of wealth: gold plated mirrors, marble tops adorned with carefully folded pristine woollen washcloths, glass bottles of exotic looking oils and thick white creams. The setting only served to exaggerate the long distance he already felt from Sheffield and the life he’d grown up in. The home town from which he had left early that very same morning, amidst a depressing swirl of cold, gloomy drizzle.
The meeting had taken place only five weeks ago now. It was hard to believe he was actually here. Daniel had been working as an intern in a small publishing house in Sheffield—a business still clinging to the fading success of the single celebrated author they had ever been lucky enough to represent. The Ego, as he was referred to somewhat churlishly, had delivered them a bestseller, a clever and well-regarded spy thriller. The book was a well-researched, technical and refreshing view on modern espionage. For its time. That The Ego hadn’t yet managed to deliver the much vaunted and over-promised sequel meant that things had moved on with the subject matter. There were doubts, from those that knew him, whether he would be able to keep up. It was the cause of serious consternation and turmoil amongst the partners in the business. The significant advance he had already been paid was having a deleterious effect on company cash flow and the whole situation snagged intemperately on an increasingly fractious and frayed working atmosphere. If Daniel had been asked to sum up his working environment in just one word he may well have selected toxic as the descriptor.
