Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

Ethan Steyn laughed. “Good, you remembered my plan well.”

  The enormous South African always made him nervous, but Dixon tried to hide it, “Remember. No one is to harm Reed or his girlfriend. I don’t need the grief from that lot up north.”

  “However, as this is the last assignment for a while, he could be seen as a loose end. I will decide what is to happen to him.”

  Dixon was about to open his mouth to protest but caught Steyn’s stare and thought better of it.

  53

  Jamie had felt an excitement at the prospect of seeing Bruce that he hadn’t before. He realised he had to get away from the isolation of this yacht as soon as possible. He would put it up for sale, and accept the first reasonable offer.

  Bruce had sent the signal, and Jamie began nearing the port of Barcelona after a half hour sail. He had let the relevant authorities know he was coming into port. Having to allow an outside agency know of the ship’s movements had always set his nerves alight. Not even Spain’s new legislation regarding superyachts and tax loopholes had made him feel any happier about the fact that if another entity knew of his yacht’s movements, then the enemy could access it.

  He saw Bruce ahead at one of the berth’s and felt calmer. The Scot was wearing sandals, cargo shorts, a cream shirt and sunglasses. He had a paper bag in his hand.

  After Jamie moored, Bruce climbed on board, shook his hand and then gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. It was too subtle to an onlooker, but Jamie knew it was Bruce’s way of showing sympathy.

  “I think you should sell this boat, Jamie,” said Bruce.

  “Yes, I had been thinking the same thing,”

  “Let’s go below, and you can make me a café sin leche. I brought some sushi,” said Bruce holding the paper bag.

  Jamie trundled down the stairs with him and put the space age looking kettle on boil, which it did within seconds. He made the coffees—black for Bruce and a creamy, white with sugar for himself. Bruce had laid out sushi on plates, surprising Jamie with picking the correct cabinet they were in the first time. They sat across from one another.

  “What was the outcome of your meeting with the head man?” asked Jamie.

  “He told me that Schwimmer is affiliated with the CIA. Asherson Group Incorporated supplied them some of their security equipment, including cyber.”

  “I told you about this.”

  “He relented and gave me some of the principles names,” said Bruce.

  “Why would be we be in need of this?” asked Jamie, “Surely we are not going to kill members of the CIA?”

  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  The passing lampposts threw shadows across Connor’s and Ciara’s faces. He drove the transit van, always being aware of the team in the back. He remembered taking a scolding as a marine from the instructor at the military driving school in Leconsfield, ‘I bet you wouldn’t rag this lorry around quite as much if your marine pals were in the back would ya. They’d fill you in’.

  “You OK?” Connor asked Ciara, as she seemed pensive to him. They were not far away now.

  “Yes—well—it’s the unknown, but it’ll be over soon, one way or another.”

  “What people do to others for money,” Connor said, almost to himself.

  “What people do to others for all sorts of reasons,” she said before looking at him. “You like this, don’t you?”

  “Like what?”

  “This part. The chance to even the score, the chance to hurt people.”

  He rubbed his cheek. “I am too focused to notice my feelings in the run-up. I do like it if I manage to subdue them alive, then I can provide a bit of justice, so to speak.”

  “Does it ever spill over? That feeling? I mean what if someone is merely annoying you, or do they have to be ‘evil’?”

  “No one is a hundred percent ‘evil’ in my eyes—even Hitler had a Missus—but I do think some are beyond hope. I never do things out of pure spite. Remember the lad who went for me in sparring? He just thought I was someone he could have his way with, and if I had let him off, he’d have done that to the next person and the next. He won’t now, will he.”

  “Do you think we’ll make it through this?”

  “We’re as well prepared as we can be. The rest is in the lap of the Gods.”

  He caught sight of her clasping her hands together. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.

  They drove on in silence until they reached the gates of the mansion. Only the thrum of the engine disturbed the night’s silence.

  The monitor crackled. “Yes?”

  “Four packages that need signing for,” said Connor.

  The gates concertinaed back revealing a gravel path leading to the mansion around fifty yards away. Immaculately trimmed hedges surrounded the area like giant voyeurs. A ring of flowers circled a marble fountain with a pathway to the far right, lit softly with Victorian lamps.

  “Posh eh,” said Connor softly.

  “I can’t admire it knowing how it was paid for.”

  A cage the size of four bus shelters lay in the far corner of the lawn with a white Doberman Pinscher prowling inside it.

  By the front entrance to the grand manor were three suited men. They were stocky, between fifteen to seventeen-stone carrying little bodyfat—like high level back row rugby players not long retired. Two had dark hair; one’s was short, one’s was long, and one was bald. The bulges at their hips indicated they were armed with handguns. Connor fleetingly imagined running them over.

  Instead, he slowed the van and stopped with his window level before winding it down.

  “Alright lads,” Connor said.

  The short-haired one stepped forward and barked, “They in there?”

  Connor’s eyes narrowed a little. “Why wouldn’t they be you stupid fucking cunt?”

  The surprise appeared on the burly henchman’s face. “You what?”

  “You heard what I said you fucking troglodyte—unless you’re deaf as well as fat. You start forgetting your manners again, and I’ll remind you of ‘em by knocking the fuck out of you in front of your girlfriends.”

  “Ahem, I don’t—what do you mean?”

  “I said, ‘Alright lads’, and you ignored the greeting, now ask me if I am alright back or you can explain to Mr Dixon why he hasn’t received his packages.”

  The man shifted uneasily, began to turn to the other two before stopping himself. Eventually, he said, “Errr, are you alright?”

  Connor’s tone changed to one of friendliness. “Not too bad mate, thank you for asking. What do you want to happen with the packages in the back?”

  The man looked at him for a second before answering, “Mr Dixon would like you to offload them around the back. There will be another team of three waiting for you err…Mr Reed.”

  “No problem.”

  As Connor wound the window, Ciara asked inquiringly, “Was that necessary?”

  Connor frowned as he answered. “Of course it was. If he’s going to be that rude with me, then he’ll be that rude with everyone. He’s a classic ‘I take kindness for weakness’ type. See how meek he was after being told off? Fuckin’ bully.”

  He made a conscious effort not to grip the steering wheel as tightly as he was. He had been genuinely riled at the henchman’s initial attitude but also that with the three men around the back, he and Ciara were now out-numbered at least seven to two.

  He curved the van around to the rear which opened to reveal acres of meadow land, with various buildings stapled down the righthand side.

  Three men were stood on the porch, of similar build to the ones in front with one being distinctively huge with a shock of blonde hair. Connor could tell by his and the body language of the other men that he was the leader. He took his hand away from his ear and approached the vehicle.

  “The first bloke will have radioed this lot. Watch the difference in attitude now,” Connor said to Ciara, as he wound down the window. “Alright lads?”
<
br />   “I am lekker Mr Reed, how are you?” in a robust South-African accent.

  “Not too bad. What happens now? I’ll take my instruction off you. Mr—”

  “Mr Steyn. You can call me Ethan. Without disrespecting your professionalism, how well have they being searched?”

  “Strip searched, and the clothes they have are ones we gave them. I haven’t done a rectal search, as Mr Dixon told me that wasn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. That’ll be done when they are sedated.”

  “Where do they get sedated?”

  “Once inside. They need to ‘wake up’ in the hospital, and a story told to them. And they won’t be able to tell the rough distance from here to the hospital.”

  Connor nodded. “OK, let’s get this show on the road.” He wound up the window and cut off the engine. As he went to open the door, Ciara softly said, “Hey.”

  After a moment he said, “What is it?”

  She looked at him, “Nothing. Let’s do this.”

  Frank Schwimmer sat in his Berlin office. He leaned back in his Newsaka S10 chair—the tech gel moulded to anyone’s frame and Schwimmer couldn’t remember ever having to shift in it. He settled himself and pressed the intercom button. “Send him in.”

  A few seconds later, a smartly dressed man walked in. He extended his hand and Schwimmer noted the alert green eyes as he shook it.

  “How can I help you Mr…,” asked Schwimmer. The CIA hadn’t told him the name of the agent who was to be meeting with him.

  “Mr Corbane. But please, call me Michael.”

  “OK Michael, how can I help?”

  “It’s more how we can help one another, Mr Schwimmer. The mutual thorn in our sides will be on a superyacht out in the middle of the Mediterranean afternoon tomorrow.”

  “That is good news.”

  “Now the vessel does not belong to our British friend; it belongs to an as yet unidentified associate of his who will be on board with him. Tomorrow he will sign the vessel into your name.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “He’ll be persuaded.”

  Corbane’s words hung in the air.

  “Then what.”

  “Then, you’ll get to explain to our British—Scottish—friend the futility of interfering in the interests of Uncle Sam, before taking ownership of the vessel. This is simply because the current owner won’t be in a position to take responsibility for it any longer.”

  “How much am I expected to pay for it?” asked Schwimmer. The Chinese had a saying, ‘Making money is like digging in the sand with a pin, losing it is like pouring water on the sand’.

  “We’ll foot the bill. It’ll be in your name, but the CIA would like to acquire it for operational purposes.”

  Schwimmer thought for a moment before answering, “Sounds reasonable.”

  “You will take a complement of four of our guys Mr Schwimmer. Not only is this man dangerous, but we intend to extract certain information from him. You won’t be present for that as it might take an awfully long time.”

  “Can I stay for the initial part?”

  Corbane looked at him closely. “Stay as long as you wish Mr Schwimmer.”

  54

  Connor’s pistol seemed to burn on his hip as he watched Dixon’s men take a grip of the hooded team, who made a show of struggling. His prayers that the team would be spared a searching seemed to be answered as Dixon’s men set them moving along with he and Ciara following.

  “They could probably do with some water once we’ve got them more secure.”

  The blonde simply nodded.

  Dixon had insisted on hooding the victims as not to be able to see his property and Connor had agreed. But he had to get him to agree to unhood them because if the shooting did start, then they would have some semblance of a chance.

  The team were led away from the mansion down a path for a hundred metres to a building that looked like a warehouse.

  “Mr Dixon will see you inside now,” said the blonde.

  “The packages remain with me until the completion of the financial transaction.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but what’s to stop us from simply taking them? We outnumber you?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be worth it. You’d have to factor in a loss of two men. Whereas if I become separated from them, then you can take them away and tell me to go fuck myself.”

  “You’re Connor Ryder. We wouldn’t tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  “My name is Connor Reed. And the packages stay with me.”

  The blonde nodded. “I will go inside and inform Mr Dixon of your stance.”

  With that, he slipped through the door. He reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Dixon understands and agrees that the packages will remain within your sight. They will be placed at the far end so Mr Dixon can speak to you without being overheard by them. We need to do a few checks before sedating them you see.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough. My colleague here can stand with them.”

  The blonde considered this for a brief moment before nodding his agreement.

  They stepped inside to find a cavernous space covered in wood chippings. Dixon stood in the centre wearing a country jacket, trousers and boots. As the group approached, Dixon indicated to the corner of the space. Connor checked to see if there was a door at that end—there wasn’t. After a couple of glances—Connor to Ciara and Dixon to his three men—he was left with Dixon while Ciara and the men led the hooded team to the far end.

  “How are you?” Dixon asked.

  “Fine, you?”

  “Not so good as it stands.”

  Connor felt a cold splash around his insides. “Go on.”

  “She works for the government.”

  Connor steadied his breathing. “Come again?”

  “She works for the security services. Here,” said Dixon reaching into his pocket. Connor stiffened but then saw it was a phone. Dixon opened the phone and began swiping through pictures of Ciara and Bruce. Connor recognised that they had been taken from outside the warehouse where they had held Peter Jackson.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s high up in the UK security services. He’s a dark horse; we were lucky even to get these. I don’t think any less of you, but she’s played you. She’s some sort of agent.”

  Does he know about me? No, he’d have had me shot immediately. I was inside with Jackson when these were taken, thank fuck, thought Connor.

  He didn’t want to have to sacrifice Ciara, but he knew that was his male preconditions kicking in. The Israelis had done a study that concluded that men would rush to an injured female soldier’s aid—to the detriment of the overall mission—more readily than a male soldier’s. He snapped himself out of it—she’s a soldier, one person, she isn’t higher than the mission. Still…

  “We can’t let her leave here,” said Connor.

  “I agree, but she’ll have told her handlers about me and this place.”

  “You, of course. But not this place, I didn’t tell her exactly where we were going—”

  “She could have a tracker on her phone or anything. That’s why I have left three of my team guarding the front of the house—buy us some time if anyone arrives.”

  “What you thinking?”

  “Well, so far, the only crime that has been committed has been by yourself. I hate to do this, but you owe me financial recompense for this. I can’t use these people now.”

  Connor looked him in his eyes, then said, “I am not giving you money, but I can make good.”

  “How?” asked Dixon archly.

  “Have you told the people who were due to receive them of the dilemma?”

  Dixon took a moment to answer. “Not as yet.”

  “I’ll deliver these packages myself. No way does she know where the hospitals are as I don’t even know, and I am her source of information. And I’ll deal with her, either on the way—or if you’re nervous—I can shoot her now?”

&n
bsp; “This goes above even me. The South African doesn’t work for me, he works for the man who hired me. He’s a fucking psychopath of like I haven’t seen.”

  “That’s saying something considering some of the people you’ve rubbed shoulders with.”

  “Yes. A scary fucker.”

  “And so.”

  “And so, I’ll have to ask him first.”

  “OK.”

  On the short walk over Connor was confirming the angles in his head. If the South African agreed to the proposal and Connor took Ciara and the team to the hospital and interrogated whoever came to collect them, then Dixon would be alerted. Then the entire UK criminal underworld would be told he worked for the government, and he wouldn’t be able to operate. The original plan was for Ciara to accompany Dixon’s men down to the hospital, or hospitals, while he stayed at Dixon’s. They had practised the conversation enough times. Once Ciara had identified the hospital or hospitals, she’d kill Dixon’s men accompanying her and then message Connor. He would then execute any remaining members of Dixon’s team within the house.

  Now that was out the window, he had to remind himself of that chad military saying, ‘survive, adapt and overcome’.

  The negatives—or challenges, he told himself—was that he and Ciara were outnumbered within the building four to two if Dixon was carrying, although Connor had not spotted any of the tell-tale bulges of a holstered pistol. The fact that his weapon fitted with a silencer was a double-edged sword; any shots from his pistol—providing they were from his pistol only—would not attract the attention of the men at the front of the property. The disadvantage was that would take a few milliseconds longer to draw and bring up on aim—ideally, he wanted to shoot them all before they got a shot off. These men wouldn’t be amateurs, and they would be alert to anything being pointed at them. Still—he thought—there’s always a way.

  Ciara watched Connor and Dixon walk back. Something was amiss. The huge blonde’s eyes fixed her with a stare. At first, she assumed it was a sexually predatory leering. But his eyes never wandered away from her face, never took in the contours of her body, just remained locked on her eyes.