K2 book 1

by Geoff Wolak

New beginnings

  1

  Sunday morning had brought some new additions to the household. From his bedroom window, Beesely noted a large pile of building materials outside the old cottage beyond the lake. He put his glasses on. The lakeside grass now offered two benches, each sat facing the lake and bisected by a small pontoon reaching twenty feet into the lake. He stepped across to his second window. A small wooden bridge now spanned the stream feeding the lake, allowing someone to stroll all the way around the lake unimpeded. He smiled. And against the old fence that edged the wood he noticed reels upon reels of new green metal fencing.

  Ten minutes later, Beesely found Otto supervising the erection of a large conservatory on the side of the house that viewed the lake, previously a neglected vegetable patch. Now it hosted quick drying cement, one side of the conservatory already up. Stopping and surveying the grounds, he noted many men in yellow plastic waistcoats. ‘Morning,’ he greeted Otto, squinting against the bright summer sun. ‘You do realise,’ he pointed out, studying the new conservatory’s foundations, ‘that this is a listed building?’

  Otto smiled. ‘Not any more, it was … de-listed. Have you had breakfast?’ he asked, clipboard in hand.

  ‘No, not yet. Why don’t you join me.’

  Otto handed a builder the clipboard and followed Beesely inside. They found Johno sitting in the kitchen, with a coffee and a headache.

  ‘What we doing today?’ Johno croaked out.

  Beesely sat as Jane served tea and toast for him. ‘Just a few phone calls, then we’re off cuckoo clock hunting.’

  ‘Good,’ Johno quietly stated. ‘We can go and sit in Otto’s kitchen, let him do the dishes.’

  Beesely attended his toast. ‘Just when, pray tell, was the last time you did the dishes here?’

  Johno thought back. ‘That’s not the point.’

  Otto and Beesely exchanged smiles, unseen by Johno.

  ‘I’ll pack a case this afternoon,’ Jane suggested.

  ‘You will not need much,’ Otto told them. ‘There are clothes waiting for all of you in Zug.’

  ‘Zoog?’ Johno repeated without looking up.

  ‘Zed-you-gee,’ Otto assisted.

  Johno toyed with him. ‘Zugggg, then?’

  Otto continued, ignoring Johno’s language deficiencies, ‘It is on a lake, twenty kilometres south west of Zurich. Our headquarters are three kilometres south of the town, on the southern lake shore.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ Jane offered.

  ‘It is very beautiful.’

  Johno turned to Otto. ‘Do the barmaids carry those huge pint glasses and have big boobs?’

  ‘I am sure some of the barmaids have big boobs, as you say. And they can all carry the beer glasses with one litre in.’

  Beesely held up a finger. ‘Private jet will take us there. Just a one hour flight.’

  ‘Learjet?’ Johno asked, brightening.

  ‘Yes,’ Otto confirmed. ‘And we make use of Gulfstreams for longer journeys.’

  ‘Johno can pilot most aircraft types,’ Beesely proudly pointed out to Otto.

  Otto informed Johno, ‘There is a Cessna 172 at the airfield outside of Zug. You can fly it through the mountains if you wish.’

  ‘With … a currently qualified pilot sat next to you!’ Beesely sternly warned.

  Johno picked up a copy of today’s News of The World newspaper. ‘Keep your knickers on.’

  2

  The Learjet flew north-east up the Zug valley, low and slow and affording the passengers a keen view of their new home.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Johno enthused as he stared out of the window. He turned and kicked Otto’s leg. ‘Hey, Swiss boy! Tomorrow, you and me, walking boots, some climbing gear, that mountain.’

  Otto smiled enthusiastically. ‘It sounds good. That is the small mountain that we use for training. It has the firing range on the far side.’

  Beesely gently tapped Jane’s leg. ‘Hey, English girl. Tomorrow, you and me, shopping bag, that small town.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Jane agreed, tipping her nose up at Johno.

  Through the aircraft’s small round windows they could see two ground controllers as they taxied to a halt, the men wearing fluorescent orange waistcoats and ear-defenders, standing ready with wheel chocks. Lined-up and waiting for them on the airfield’s tarmac stood three black Range Rovers, two K2 guards alongside each vehicle.

  With the aircraft halted, a smartly dressed woman walked out from a single storey building to open the aircraft’s door. Otto stepped out first and exchanged a flurry of German with the woman. Johno caught some of it, understanding half. It seemed to be to do with the making arrangements for guests.

  ‘Watcha babes,’ Johno offered as he emerged into the warm sunshine and straightened. ‘No body cavity search?’

  She frowned her lack of understanding, turning to Otto for support, who now shook his head quickly. She offered to take Johno’s bag.

  ‘Not in this lifetime, love. Verstehen Sie?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Welcome to Switzerland, sir,’ she beamed.

  ‘And never call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.’ Johno walked to a vehicle, giving the woman a respite.

  Beesely greeted her in fluent German, friendly, but formal, his vehicle’s doors being opened by tall and muscular guards.

  Johno threw his bag into the back of the second vehicle, promptly throwing the driver out; he would be driving, and that was that. As with the lady, he warned the two men in his vehicle not to call him ‘sir’, demanding a cigarette. He had smoked all through his military career, but had been forced to give up in hospital and rehab. After that he had just ‘kind of lost the habit’, as he put it. With the windows wound down, Johno and his front seat bodyguard lit up.

  Beesely tapped Otto’s arm as Otto focused on the driver. ‘Don’t go punishing any of your staff if Johno involves them in something they should not be doing.’

  Otto did not look pleased with the driver. ‘This man knows not to smoke in a vehicle.’

  ‘And Johno is an honoured guest, who probably just ordered your man to join him in smoking.’ They clambered into the back of the next vehicle. Beesely continued, ‘You will have to warn your people about stuff like this, especially where Johno is concerned. He is not command staff and has no desire to give anyone any orders.’

  Otto nodded as he thought. ‘I will brief the managers.’

  Jane found the drive from the airfield just magical. She wound down the window and breathed in the warm Alpine air. With her driver told to slow down, they enjoyed the tour, Otto rapidly and over-enthusiastically pointing out many things of interest, Johno soon getting fed up with the snail’s pace and shooting past.

  A few miles further along the same road the remaining vehicles passed through a wood. Beesely noticed Johno’s black Range Rover parked in what appeared to be a picnic area for tourists, overlooking the lake, his being the only vehicle. Beesely’s driver slowed and asked Otto what to do.

  ‘Go on in,’ Beesely suggested.

  Johno and his two guards stood leaning against their car, Johno peering through a large pair of binoculars as the men pointed to something in the distance, across the lake. As the other vehicles pulled in Johno walked over, calling loudly for Beesely to get out. Beesely had the binoculars thrust into his hands.

  ‘There!’ Johno indicated, holding an arm straight, his finger pointed. ‘There.’

  Jane wandered down into a meadow as Beesely focused the binoculars.

  ‘What exactly am I looking for?’ Beesely asked as he re-focused the glasses, Otto soon passed a similar pair by a driver.

  Johno keenly explained, ‘That peak, go directly left, scree slope, bottom left of the scree where it turns to grass.’

  ‘There are people there,’ Beesely observed.

  ‘K2 boys on a training hike,’ Johno informed him.

  Beesely turned to Otto, who keenly explained, ‘We have a game for new staff who are being trained. First they r
un seven kilometres along this road, then they get into canoes on the lake side not far from here.’ He pointed. ‘Then they paddle across the water –’

  ‘How far?’ Johno keenly asked. ‘A mile, two?’

  ‘It is two point five kilometres. Then they must walk with heavy packs up to stage one, the hut.’ He gave his glasses to Johno as both men found the hut. ‘Then they change to climbing gear and make the short climb to the west. After this there is a two kilometre trail, a difficult trail, and the final ascent of the mountain, some two thousand feet.’

  ‘I wanna to do it,’ Johno firmly insisted.

  Beesely lowered his glasses. ‘Do me a small favour; spend a week getting into shape, get yourself up to speed and then you can play with the boys. You’re part of the company now -’

  ‘Not really,’ Johno pointed out. ‘You two are the brains, I’m strictly foot soldier.’

  Beesely was left standing as Johno ordered ‘Fritz’, not the driver’s real name, back into the vehicle. He drove off. Beesely exchanged an uneasy look with Otto, called Jane back and set off after Johno.

  As they progressed around the lake each new scene improved upon the last. The sun beat through the trees, the views magnificent out across the lake to the right, flashes of meadows to the left; cows, pastures filled with yellow flowers, glimpses of wooded valleys and ornate wooden cottages. When they reached the K2 compound, Beesely believed that they had arrived at a Swiss army base. A uniformed police officer stood guard outside a large and imposing gate, the gate bracketed uniformly by twin guard huts and a high fence with razor wire. Men in black fatigues stood holding Alsatian dogs on long leads, the dogs panting in today’s heat.

  Their vehicles were waved straight through, hardly slowing, soon passing rows of small huts, assault courses and isolated buildings, some half sunk into the ground. Beyond the small camp they followed a wooded road higher for two hundred yards, eventually spotting the castle that they had seen from the air. It nestled into a rocky outcrop, stood at the base of a hundred-metre cliff. To the left of it stretched a row of modern, single story office buildings and beyond them ran a row of traditional Swiss cottages, half hidden by trees, backed onto the wooded mountain.

  Stepping down from their vehicle, they noticed Johno stood near his Range Rover, again using his binoculars. This time the binoculars were trained on the cliff behind the castle, Johno’s driver pointing out something of interest.

  ‘Welcome to Schloss Diane,’ Otto offered as he stepped around the front of their vehicle.

  ‘Diane?’ Beesely questioned as he faced away from the castle. He took in the uninterrupted view of the lake and the wooded hills beyond, the far shore at least a mile in his estimation.

  Otto stepped closer, also now facing the lake. ‘It was Gunter’s favourite … er … woman’s name,’ he explained, glancing at Jane. ‘In the year, maybe, 1976.’

  Over his left shoulder Beesely could see a straight road stretching away down a gentle slope, a large patch of well-tended grass reaching towards the wooded hill. In the middle of the grass stood an isolated three storey modern office block, some fifty yards from the castle. In front of him he could see another neatly mown area of grass stretching down towards the lake, a line of cottages and a road on the lakeside, perhaps two hundred yards away in his estimation.

  Jane took in the castle and its ancient stone walls. ‘Gosh, it’s lovely,’ she suggested to no one in particular. ‘Does it … have central heating?’

  Johno could be heard laughing a short distance away, the other side of his vehicle.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Beesely said as he led her towards the ornate drawbridge.

  Otto described all of the buildings in great detail, their historical significance, the age and origins of the castle and the families that had occupied it over the years. Jane put her coat on as they edged slowly closer to the wooden drawbridge and into the shade, tour-guide Otto in full swing.

  ‘Magnificent,’ Beesely commented, before quietly adding, ‘Not much of a moat?’ Whatever the moat had originally looked like, now it offered a three-foot deep grassy footpath.

  ‘It was filled in many years ago. The drawbridge is functional, but just a symbol.’

  Beesely half turned his head to notice Johno now joining the tour. Otto followed his gaze, but said nothing.

  ‘What’s the flag?’ Johno asked, looking up. Two large flags blew in the breeze, one the Swiss flag - red with a white cross, the second a white flag with a horizontal blue line taking up the middle third.

  ‘The blue-and-white flag is the flag of the town of Zug,’ Otto enthusiastically informed him.

  Johno considered it. ‘So, K2 doesn’t have its own flag then? A bit poor.’

  Otto smiled, but made no response. Crossing the wooden drawbridge, they entered an original stone walled courtyard that had been roofed over. Three Mercedes were parked, room for four or five more. They walked slowly across a cobblestone floor, glancing up as if tourists, a pigeon flying out as they approached.

  The Great Hall they entered was indeed a great hall, a ceiling some fifty feet high, the room not much smaller than the courtyard. They inspected a ten metre wooden table, an original feature, coats-of-arms on the walls, lances, and several sets of metal body armour, each ghostly Knight holding a large sword.

  Otto announced, ‘This entrance is not used by the staff. They are next door or inside the mountain. This is for guests.’

  ‘I’d love a complete tour,’ Beesely suggested as he admired the shiny armour, ‘But I’m a little tired. Can we see our rooms?’

  Otto gave a slight head bow. ‘Of course. This way, please.’

  The contrast between the Great Hall and the next room was stark. This room had been laid out in the style of the foyer of a five star hotel, complete with reception desk, phone booths, a waiting lounge and a boy in a traditional regional costume of shorts and waistcoat standing next to a lift.

  ‘It’s Pinocchio!’ Johno whispered, Beesely glaring at him.

  All of the staff present immediately stopped and nodded their respects to either Otto or Beesely as the group progressed. The boy opened the lift, taking them to the third floor without being prompted, Beesely thanking him warmly and patting him on the shoulder as they exited. They emerged into an internal corridor, still reminiscent of a grand old hotel, the walls covered with wooden panelling. The ancestral Swiss theme continued to influence the décor with numerous coats-of-arms on the walls, plus an assortment of swords and alpenhorns.

  The door Otto opened first was Jane’s bedroom. ‘Please, make yourself at home, your bags will be here in five minutes. Please use the intercom for service of any kind, and your phone to call myself, or one of the others. We will meet for food when you are ready, the restaurant is on the top floor.’

  A little uncertain, Jane glanced at Beesely before stepping in. ‘God, it’s posh,’ could be heard as the door closed.

  Next came Beesely’s room. It seemed at least twice the size of Jane’s, two large windows facing out over the lake and offering a panoramic view. Johno stared through one, Beesely the other. The windowsills offered bench seating some two feet deep, the castle walls six foot thick and giving the windows the appearance of small tunnels. Johno leant in and banged on the window frame with the side of his fist.

  ‘They do not open,’ Otto informed him.

  ‘Just as well,’ Beesely commented, looking down sixty feet to the mown grass that surrounded the castle.

  ‘And the glass is bullet-proof,’ Otto added after Johno had punched his window.

  Johno stood in the middle of the palatial room at the foot of a giant four-poster bed. He pointed to a door, ‘Jane’s room.’ Then thumbing at another door opposite, he asked, ‘My room?’

  Otto gave him a nod. ‘It is unlocked.’

  Johno thrust his hands in his pockets and walked through, opening it with his shoulder, the door slamming shut behind him.

  Otto stepped to the window as Beesely continu
ed to take in the scenery, the lake and mountains. ‘Will he be OK?’

  ‘That depends,’ Beesely sighed, still transfixed by the magnificent view, ‘on whether on not he finds something useful to do.’

  Through the window Beesely could see the top of the courtyard roof; numerous small spires tiled with grey slate, triangular flags waving in the breeze. Beyond that he could he could see the top of the drawbridge, two stone towers with slate-tiled spires again.

  He turned fully around, examining the window’s writing table. ‘If you lock up a stallion in a small field it goes mad. Lock up a lion in a small cage and it goes to sleep, gets fat … then goes mad.’ He lifted his gaze to Otto. ‘He needs a mountain to climb, and I don’t mean one of those outside.’ Otto seemed puzzled, Beesely explaining, ‘He needs a task to perform. A respectful, challenging, important task.’ Otto brightened, nodding his understanding. ‘Johno!’ Beesely called.

  Johno came back through quickly, checking the room as if there might be trouble.

  Beesely took Otto’s arm. ‘I’ll call you in an hour or so.’ Otto bowed his head and left.

  ‘What’s up?’ Johno curtly asked.

  Beesely took a chair near the window, kicking one out for Johno. ‘Small problem.’ Johno sat. ‘I was talking with Otto when you were snoring on the flight, also read some files last night. Seems they have some problems with their agents.’

  Johno focused on Beesely, making strong eye contact. ‘What kind … of problems?’

  Beesely eased back and crossed his legs. ‘I believe it’s the training. Either that or it’s the Swiss culture. You see, they’re turning out very fit marksmen who are complete androids, programmed to think a certain way and stumbling at problem solving in the field.’

  Johno’s eyes widened. ‘Not surprising is it. Take a look at those drivers just now. Top men here, fit and trained in all the technical stuff, but no balls or independent thought. If a VIP in Hereford told the driver to get out he’d be told to piss off and get in the back. These … wankers are all wound up and shit scared of authority.’

  ‘Well, they are Swiss,’ Beesely emphasised with a pained expression. ‘When was the last time you heard of a British or American security firm hiring a Swiss bodyguard?’

  ‘Frigging never,’ Johno coughed out.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Our boys go all over the world, best there is. Even the Yanks want Hereford boys.’

  ‘So … how do we make these obedient little robots tick-tock our way?’ Beesely waited.

  Johno eased back in his chair, grey matter starting to fire up as Beesely observed him. ‘It’s like you said, all culture. They need twelve weeks in Hereford.’

  ‘Or …’

  Johno brightened, a sly grin forming. ‘Or twelve weeks here with some Hereford boys.’

  ‘Might work,’ Beesely reluctantly admitted. ‘We’ve got the ex-Regiment staff in AGN Security with Max, but not many old training dogs though. No warrant officers.’

  Johno straightened. ‘I know a few, I could put a team together. Got the space over here, the mountains and the kit. Just need a programme that will stretch their minds when their bodies are under pressure.’

  Beesely seemed cautious. ‘Well, I don’t want to break too many of Otto’s people –’

  ‘Sod ‘em, this ain’t kindergarten! It’s for their own good anyway, keep the wankers alive longer.’

  ‘Well, you may be right,’ Beesely let out with a sigh. ‘Let’s grab some of their training plans from Otto - you can go over them. Fly back when you need to, smoke out Hereford, throw some money around and see who we can get?’

  Johno nodded enthusiastically. ‘I could set up ten different programmes just off the top of my head. Frigging great facilities here; lake, mountains, probably white water rafting, climbing, shooting … and not a soul in sight for miles.’

  ‘You’ll need to be tip-top secret squirrel back home,’ Beesely quietly warned. ‘No one comes here we cannot trust two hundred percent.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Get me them files.’ Johno stood.

  Beesely picked up the phone on his bedroom table. ‘Can you ask Otto to pop back in? Thanks.’

  ‘Time for a shower, shit and a shave, Boss. Catch you after ya’ nap.’ The door slammed behind him.

  A minute later Otto knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  Beesely motioned Otto towards the seat Johno had vacated. Holding a finger to his lips he signalled for Otto to talk quietly, glancing at Johno’s door. He began, ‘I’ve told Johno that we are not happy with your training programme for agents, although I am sure it is excellent. He will get experienced SAS instructors here to develop additional training programmes, designed to make your guys think a bit. That will give him something to do, make him feel wanted, useful and … necessary.’

  ‘But it is not so artificial, this task. Your SAS people are very good, and we want their training. I have considered many times giving work to ex-SAS soldiers, other than Ricky, but I could not trust them. Here my people are with me for life, I know them. And I do not know if these English people will trust or respect me.’

  Beesely put his hand on Otto’s arm. ‘They will trust me, and they will respect me. And in time they will do so with you as our reputation grows. And, more importantly, they all know what happened to Johno, his story is one told over and over, given as examples in training lectures. They respect him.’

  ‘It is good,’ Otto enthused.

  ‘Be a good lad, and get Johno some English versions of the outdoor training programmes that you use for your guys.’

  ‘OK, Boss,’ Otto said with a smile as he stood.

  3

  An hour later Beesely was awake. After a refreshing cup of tea with Jane in his room, he gave her the task of checking out the kitchens and letting the chefs know what their new visitors liked to eat and drink.

  Now Otto led Beesely and Johno back to the lift. ‘Foyer,’ he told the boy.

  ‘To the bat cave,’ Johno whispered to the boy with a wink. The boy did not understand, so Otto explained in German, making the young lift attendant laugh.

  They found themselves back in the foyer walking past the reception desk, turning right and down a long corridor of Spartan décor - magnolia walls and a few bland watercolours, Otto leading them on at a brisk pace.

  The double doors they came to were metal, Johno noted, and appeared strong enough to withstand a terrorist attack. He could see two cameras, one in each corner and angled down, two spy holes, a slot of some sort that reminded him of a Second World War pill-box, a numeric touch pad and several other buttons. Expecting a laborious entry ceremony, the visitors were relieved to find the doors being opened from the inside by armed guards in black fatigues, holding the heavy doors and tipping their heads. A blast of warm air washed over them, a contrast to the decidedly chilly corridor.

  ‘Oh my!’ Beesely whispered.

  They had heard the stories from Ricky and had spoken with Otto, but that had not prepared them for what awaited.

  ‘Doctor No’s cave?’ Johno whispered.

  Directly ahead ran a circular walkway skirting around the edges of a sunken room as big as the courtyard. It housed numerous small alcove workstations, flickering computer screens in subdued light. Half were occupied, a mixture of men and women in smart business suits.

  Below the walkway, the lower level that could have been taken out of any British bank headquarters; rows of computers sat on ultra-modern looking desks, swivel lamps, flipcharts, white boards, fifty men and women buzzing round. At the end of the lower level nestled several doors, people coming and going. From the ceiling hung a large set of central lights, strongly illuminating the desks.

  Beesely stepped forwards for a better view, to the top of the stairs that gave access to the lower level, and accidentally into the edge of the stronger light. Immediately the buzz stopped, staff standing and facing toward him. Even the people in the alcoves around the upper level paused
and stood up.

  He took a deep breath and turned his head to Otto, who had hung back, and quietly said, ‘If I may.’ He addressed the entire staff, a greeting in English, German and then French. ‘As you are, not doubt, already aware, my name is Sir Morris Beesely, and I will be working with you in the near future. The success of that work will originate in good ideas, will grow from strong teamwork and will be rewarded with the knowledge of a job well done. And no one need fear making a mistake - we are all human. In the days and weeks ahead I will get to meet many of you individually, and discuss your particular project areas and tasks. Please forgive me if I do not remember all of your names, I’m getting old.

  ‘In the meantime, I do not want anyone to stop work, at any time, because I am in the room or even standing nearby. Your work and your duties are important, not least to your own self-respect. The only time I wish you to deviate from your work is when it is obvious that I wish to speak with you personally. Please return to your tasks. Thank you all.’ Beesely took a large step backwards.

  ‘This way,’ Otto led. ‘Your office.’

  Overlooking the command centre, Beesely’s new office was on a grand scale. ‘Chairman of the board,’ he commented as he entered the Spartan office.

  The desk was an antique, made from a dark red wood. It supported two computer screens, two keyboards and two desk phones. And its chair would have impressed the most ostentatious company director. Behind the desk ran a curved wall, several pleasant watercolours hung along its length, a waist-high fitted cabinet running the full length of the room. One cabinet door hung open, revealing a fridge. Immediately inside the main door, radiating outwards along the internal wall, sat a row of a dozen comfortable chairs.

  Beesely ran a hand over the desk’s cool surface. ‘Was this Gunter’s office?’

  ‘Yes, but I had everything removed and destroyed and decorated for a second time.’

  Beesely turned to face Otto. ‘I was not suggesting that I would have objected to using Gunter’s office.’

  ‘I did object. That is why I removed everything.’

  Beesely nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘Where’s my office then?’ Johno joked, taking in the surprisingly plain office.

  ‘In the dungeon,’ Otto flatly answered, causing Beesely to laugh.

  ‘Swiss boy Robinson’s got a sense of humour after all!’ Johno pointed out to Beesely.

  ‘No, it is not a joke. You have an office. Come, this way.’

  Otto moved off, Johno stepping up to Beesely. ‘He’d better be fucking joking.’

  Beesely beamed a smile as he put an arm around Johno and led him out.

  ‘The dungeon!’ Otto announced. It was one floor down in the same lift, the lowest level.

  Johno thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘So this is my office,’ he muttered. There was actually a small desk in the corner of this large room, a computer sat atop it, a group of white boards on the wall behind it, two filing cabinets.

  Alongside the desk stood a king size fridge edging a small half-circle bar, complete with beer pumps and rows of bottles. Beside the lift door hung a dartboard with toe-line marked out on the floor. To the right of the lift stood a punch bag, a boxers speedball, an assortment of free weights, some Kendo swords on the wall, crash mats on the floor. Directly ahead a glass wall cut the room in half, two glass doors leading through to a gymnasium on the left and a small firing range on the right. The central feature of the room was a large circular sofa that had been laid out below a ceiling mounted TV screen.

  Otto stepped forwards. ‘Through that door on the left is the toilet and rest room with a bed and TV. Through that door on the right there is a sauna, Jacuzzi and steam room and lockers for clothes and equipment.’

  ‘You’re not such a bad wanker after all,’ Johno told Otto, maintaining a hostile stare. He wagged an accusing finger at Beesely. ‘This is racial stereotyping, Boss. Not allowed in Barclays central!’

  ‘I cannot claim any of the credit,’ Beesely admitted with a shake of his head.

  Johno’s expression highlighted his surprise as he studied Otto’s neutral features. Otto tipped his head up to signify that Johno should look behind. As Johno half turned his head three buxom ladies in bikinis came out of the sauna area, soaking wet and shimmering.

  Otto stepped closer to Johno. Quietly he said, ‘Sir Morris informed me of your lower back problem that persists from an old injury. These ladies are highly trained physiotherapists. After all, we need you in the best of health.’

  Beesely stepped in the lift, Otto there a second later. Johno was about to say something when the lift door closed with a ‘ping’.

  ‘Yep, not such a bad wanker after all,’ Johno repeated, easing off his jacket.