Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  She ran harder for the last quarter of a mile—he best not get himself killed.

  44

  Connor drove towards George Follet’s dojo, and with an ETA of five minutes, began mentally preparing to apply the ‘find the burn quick and stay in it long for maximum results’ theory to his fight training

  It had been almost a week since he had dropped the intel folder on Dixon’s lap. Another shipment of Van Der Saar’s product wasn’t due for two weeks yet. The contact Ciara had ‘developed’ hadn’t got back to her yet, and she would be the one dealing with that anyway. In the meantime, all Connor could do was to keep his skills sharp.

  Keeping sharp included many things. He’d wake at a quarter to six in the morning to either run, strength train or walk. This morning he had practised his clean and press. He had based much of his strength training recently around this movement. To his mind it hit almost everything in the one lift; the initial pull for the hamstrings and glutes, the second pull for the traps and calves, the front squat for the legs, and the press for the shoulders and triceps. This way he wasn’t spending hours in the gym—hack away at the unessential—as Bruce Lee would say.

  Then he would study the files that Jamie would send him pertaining to organisations and characters, either criminal or terrorist. Any trends or significant changes in that world would be noted. When in his agent training, it had been impressed upon him that for information to be logged into his long-term memory it had to be recalled at intervals until it stuck there. He was taught to recall it after ten minutes of first learning it, then after twenty-four hours, a week and finally upon the three month recall it would be logged into the long-term memory forever. Connor remembered a time when in Afghanistan, he had won a bet with Sticky, his mate in one of the other sections in the troop, that he could memorise all the capital cities of the world in a week. Using a technique learnt through personal study, he had managed the feat, only to forget the vast majority when returning from R&R.

  Around mid-day, Connor would visit the gun ranges or killing houses that were on the MI6 remit throughout the country. Connor remembered the first time he called in at one had made him feel a bit ‘Bond-like’. Just turn up, have your security card scanned, the range controller would ask ‘Personal weapon or one from the armoury, sir?’. There were no names, no droning safety briefs, just rounds down the range and feedback from the guy in the computer console. Connor had put down thousands of rounds in these killing-houses, firing a multitude of weapons from every reasonable position he could think of. Bruce had told him to emphasise the initial snapshot upon drawing his pistol—that if he had to punch out the pistol with two hands, while rolling his shoulders forward, to get an accurate shot off, then he’d be increasing his chances of being shot dead. Sniping skills acquired when he was in the Marines were kept sharp too. Connor would practice with assault rifles, but Bruce had told him to keep his main effort on improving his pistol use, given his plain clothes role.

  That had been a general theme of Bruce’s advice; that a man only had so much time and energy stores per day. He had told him, that a man had a maximum of four hours concentrated effort in him between full periods of sleep. With that in mind, he told Connor he would be wise adhering to Pareto’s principle. It stated that twenty percent of the investment is responsible for eighty percent of the results obtained. Connor had seen this early on in his boxing; keeping his chin tucked, not telegraphing his punching and keeping one hand stuck to his face as the other punched probably contributed eighty percent of the reason why he had never been knocked down in seventy-one amateur boxing matches. The slipping, ducking, shoulder rolls, footwork and physical preparation taking care of the remaining twenty percent.

  He pulled in and parked outside the gym. George Follet had been a legend back at the beginning of the millennium in the Japanese fight promotions of Pancrase and Pride, being one of very few Brits to do so. He had been beating up Connor for nearly eighteen months now, ever since the younger man began his training to become an agent for The Project.

  Bruce had all The Project agents doing MMA training as opposed to Krav Maga because—‘if you resemble Jason Bourne in a fight an onlooker might suspect you’ve had specialist training with a government agency. This fits the cover more efficiently.’

  Now in his early forties, George’s squat frame was still laden with a dense muscularity that was even stronger than it looked. He was a technical magician too with a seemingly balletic athleticism. Although Connor had lately been faring better in their sparring matches, it was always brutal. With George being one of the ‘old school’, Connor had once asked him, ‘So, don’t you believe in flow sparring, to preserve a fighter’s body?’

  George had answered, ‘Yes, I think it’s a good thing. Back in my day, we’d always go at it hard, and I think a lot of us left the best of ourselves in the dojo. I used to tone it down in the last two weeks of a fight. That said, you need some ‘hard’ sparring to prepare you, give you confidence and to let you know what works and what doesn’t. Now, you can save your flow sparring for the other gyms, but when you train with me, we go at it, understand?’

  Connor began to climb the stairs to the top floor dojo with George’s words in his ears and thought to himself—it’s an hour and a half of pain, then you can have a coffee and a brownie.

  Jamie was glad to see Ben Shaw’s face on the large screen.

  “How you doing Paddington?” said Ben. ‘Paddington’ was a nickname Ben had given Jamie in college in reference to the fictional bear from Peru.

  “I am OK, gracias.”

  “So my old friend. What did you want to speak to me about? To rub it in that I need a workshop, and you merely need a laptop with which to do you work?”

  “You should have picked your area of expertise better.”

  “Maybe there’s no picking. Maybe I had a calling?”

  “Maybe you got good at it, and then it became your calling.”

  Shaw just laughed. “Seriously. Are you OK?”

  “I am, I…ahem…just want you to be sure before helping us like this. It is a dangerous game, Ben.”

  Jamie thought about past events revolving around the Russian Bratva.

  “I know, my old friend,” said Ben, with no hint of bravado, “but if these people you’re after are who you say they are, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t help you.”

  Jamie’s smile was tinged with worry. “Just be careful OK.”

  “Trying to look out for me, amigo?”

  “I am simply trying to return the favour,” said Jamie, thinking of their college days.

  “I’ll take the necessary precautions.”

  The conversation wound up ten minutes after they had shared some anecdotes and engaged in more playful ribbing.

  The window illuminated the dojo mats with patches of light. There were framed pictures bolted on the walls of MMA Legends, fight posters and quotes. Connor looked up at a picture of Follet with Pride legend Fedor Emelianenko, as he went into his warm-up routine of shrimping and bridging.

  “Think he was the greatest ever George?”

  “It’s hard to say. Things move on.”

  “How good was he though?”

  “Amazing. He was so gifted and analytical. He was so far ahead of his time. I was there at the Yokohama arena when he sat in Nogueira’s guard and punished him for the whole fight, and,” George’s voice sounded about as animated as Connor had heard it, “then he gets in with Mirko—Mirko ‘Cro Cop’—at the, I think it was, yes it was the Osaka-jo Hall. Mirko was a K1 star, and I thought Fedor would be shooting from the changing rooms for the take-down. Although his take-downs were more throws and trips—he was a Sambo champion. Anyway, that was an awesome fight, and Fedor holds his own standing up. When Cro Cop went with his high left—” George then executed his version, with Connor being envious of his flexibility, “the kick that knocked out so many, Fedor would scythe his right leg underneath. Ernesto Hoost had taught him that. B
eing able to hammer a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu wizard while in his guard, and deal with the most feared kickboxer in MMA was quite a thing.”

  “But you’re not sure if he’s the best?” asked Connor, curious but already regretting stoking George’s fight passions up.

  “Well, you have Jon Jones chucking about Olympic wrestlers and tearing up Shogun Rua, and the little one—Mighty Mouse—suplexing guys into armbars,” said George. “Anyway, less talking, let’s get this done. We’ll use the cage.”

  The usual remit was that they sparred for a while then—at a time of George’s choosing—he’d stop and instruct Connor on where he went wrong.

  The overhead lights flickered as Connor climbed into the cage. Both he and George wore white MMA sparring gloves. Connor wore green shorts while George sported grey Vale Tudo style shorts.

  The younger man bit into his gumshield while obeying his rule of giving himself no more than two reminders—watch his takedowns whenever you stop moving laterally, and watch his faking takedowns to strike.

  When George signalled to begin, they moved around one another like a cobra and a mongoose.

  Connor started off with jabs, being wary of a counter right over the top or leg kick. George avoided them with shifts of his head. He made what Connor thought was a dive for his legs but instead sprang forward with an upwards elbow.

  Connor ducked, avoiding it, while simultaneously firing a jab. It caught the more experienced man in the face. This was the first time Connor had drawn first blood in any of their matches. He fought not to get overexcited, then thought—now he’s going to be fucked off.

  George moved closer to him, feinting aggressively before firing the leg kicks Connor hated. He abhorred them because despite the adrenaline they were still painful to check. He disciplined himself to do it anyway, knowing that to take them to the thighs would be worse. He whipped in his own kicks, being surprised to catch George with a couple of them. This encouraged him to throw more until reality struck.

  George shot in as Connor was retracting his leg, pulverising through his lower body. He attempted to sprawl while cross-facing George, but the older man had timed it too well. Connor realised that he had allowed him to land those leg kicks so he would commit himself—fucking old fox.

  The former marine landed within a foot of the cage and immediately scooted back. He raked his forearm across George’s face and grasped the older man’s wrist. Placing his feet flush against the cage, Connor forced himself upright before bolting forward to escape being pinned against it.

  The martial arts veteran executed a jumping, spinning kick and his shin smashed Connor’s forearms into his head, staggering him off balance against the cage. The older man shot in, picked him up and slammed him back onto the canvas.

  George squatted over him, raining punches down. Connor accepted a couple of them, darting one of his arms around a thickly muscled thigh, before using it as leverage to escape under and behind George. He drove his shoulder into the back of the leg with all his might, rewarding him with George toppling forward.

  Connor scrambled onto George’s back. He punched his arm around the neck, and his predatory instincts soared—I am going to choke the fuck out of him.

  Just then, George reared up before whipping forward gripping the noose like arm—Connor hadn’t managed to get his ‘hooks in’ in time and was thrown forward onto his back. The former Pride standout spun his body around trapping the arm between his legs.

  Connor turned his wrist against George’s gripping hands, pushed his arse off the floor, and manoeuvred his body away. His elbow slipped past George’s groin. He turned onto his knees despite his instructor still having a grip of his wrist. He already knew he’d made a mistake.

  George rose with him, lassoing the arm with his vice-like leg before turning over onto his knees. Knowing what was about to happen, Connor attempted to roll forward only to find that his Senpai had anticipated this by grasping his hip and dragging him sideways off his knees. Now he was trapped face down onto the mat by the taut Omoplata. He was powerless, but couldn’t tap yet as George hadn’t applied any pressure yet. An image from the film ‘Kill Bill’ flashed in his mind; Beatrix Kiddo’s first meeting with her master Pai Mei had ended with her trapped in a wrist lock with him threatening to snap her arm off.

  George spoke, “You’re getting better, I’ll give you that. You’re still rushing between positions, and I am catching you between the transitions.”

  He applied the pressure and Connor tapped.

  Connor was already thinking about the next training session he was to have with him, tomorrow evening.

  45

  Philip Norton sat shaking, “What if they know, or suspect, or—”

  The voice of the girl he once knew as ‘Cytheria’ cut across him, “The only way they will suspect is if you tell them, we are not asking you to ask any specific questions. We’re asking you to attend the meeting just as you would have before our, errrm, liaison. The ring will do the rest.”

  This had been the first time he had seen her since that night in the hotel room. And while the memory of it was still vivid, it had seemed like a long time ago. He had remembered her last words of, ‘If you talk to anyone about this, we will know. And then everyone will know what you like to do in your spare time’. He had believed her and not breathed a word.

  Norton reached down to touch the ring, and she said sharply, “Stop playing with it.”

  Again they were in a London hotel room. She sat on the leather chair opposite and again he was on the bed. And again she was dominating him, although figuratively this time. And again, he took pleasure in it, although it was being over-ridden by his fear.

  His travel clock sounded louder than usual. Each tick ratcheting the time of his meeting closer—click, click, click.

  “Why isn’t your boss here?”

  “Why would he be?”

  “To reassure me that this is a government thing, and not some woman playing games.”

  “Now, now Philip. It’s not very nice referring to me as ‘some woman’, is it—not after what we shared.”

  “What can I call you then? Because your name isn’t Cytheria now is it?”

  When she didn’t answer, he continued, “And what we shared? You have ruined my fucking life.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger, and he felt a bolt of adrenaline. He’d never seen eyes like that before. Her voice cut through him,

  “Your life was already ruined. Your self-loathing was eating you alive—we’ve seen the medical reports, Philip. What I am offering is redemption. So stop playing the fucking victim. It’s the biggest turn off ever. Tomorrow, you’re going to do this, not for your wife, children or reputation. You’re going to do this to save yourself. You understand?”

  Philip nodded after a moment—he did, completely.

  The next evening, Sarah sat with her Uncle Bruce within the vast, grandiose space of the Royal Opera house. From the outside, it had been dazzling as the yellow light shining out of the pure white structure through its monolithic pillars. Against the dark blue of the night sky, it was highlighted majestically. The inside was no less enchanting, as she looked around at the red, white and gold of the cavernous hall. People began to trickle in now. She had done a little research on the play ‘Tosca’ that they were about to watch, aware that it would be performed in Italian. The internet had said it was a tale of love, betrayal and murderous passion. It seemed surreal to be in a place like this. Just six months ago she had been chuckling along with her flatmates the night before her final exams while watching ‘Still Game’.

  She had left the University of Stirling with a degree in social work, back in September, before moving down to London, after being offered a well-paying position with the Westminster City council. Both she and Bruce had been busy, so this was only the fourth time they had met since she had moved down.

  She had been a little taken back when he had suggested the opera. Her former SAS, all around manly man of an uncle taking he
r to the opera seemed strange. It was a million miles away from their native Glasgow.

  Her mum had told her stories about her brother. She said that although his accent had simmered down, and his wardrobe and mode of transport had upgraded, he was still the same person underneath—that warm-hearted but fearsome protector.

  In fact, she had meant to ask him something,

  “Bruce.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t happen to remember Richard, Millie’s ex-boyfriend?”

  Millie was her younger sister.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Mind the time he said to Millie he was married an’ that’s why they broke up.”

  Bruce shrugged.

  “Aye well, he was in the paper recently. In the jail fer dealing.”

  “Sounds like Millie had a lucky escape then.”

  “Well aye, but I was talking to my friend Lorna the nurse, who knows him well. Last time she sees him, was when he was wheeled into the infirmary with a snapped ankle, a fractured jaw and bruising to his kidney.”

  “Sounds like his wife is a firey one,” he said, looking away. “Did you know this play is over a hundred years old?”

  Sarah ignored him. “Funny that. Like I say, Lorna, knows him very well, and knows he’s not, and never has been married.”

  Bruce didn’t say anything.

  “It was right around the time you took him to go game shooting or beating, whatever they called it.”

  Her uncle turned to her and smiled. “Look, aside from the fact that you, your mother and sister mean more to me than anything in this world, you’re all women—people—who make this world a better place. Your dad is no longer with us, but you’ve got me. I might not always be around, but you only need a hand out of the water when you’re struggling to swim. That fud, for want of a better word, would have been the ruination of her. And I won’t let that happen to any of my girls. Understand?”