The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  “C.E.R.N. employee suspected murder victim.”

  But he was in good time for the next bit.

  Meyer took a slow, almost inaudible, deep breath through his nostrils and spoke. “What I have to say next is not without great difficulty and I am afraid as to where it may potentially lead, however I feel, that after careful consideration, I have no choice but to share this information. You will all be aware of the aims and ideals that support this organisation here at C.E.R.N., as too the continued co-operation, funding and participation of all member and observer states, both here and at multiple learning facilities throughout the world. For many years now we have been working in harmony together, furthering and sharing our knowledge of particle physics and in particular in recent years, in searching for the illusive Higgs.” Meyer did not have any intention of making this a history lesson, but he wanted to set the scene all the same. “It would seem however, that there has been...”

  For the slightest of seconds everything stopped. Even Meyer seemed to stop, as if what had just happened did not really happen at all and his entire body was having difficulty coming to terms with it. And then he collapsed sideways and forwards into the table in front of him. The bullet had come in from the window to Meyer’s left, courtesy of a high powered long range rifle, the kind reserved for only the best of marksmen. It had penetrated Meyer’s skull at the temple and exited just above his right ear. The room descended into pandemonium.

  There was leaving things late and then there was leaving things late. Had the bullet that was now embedded in the plasterboard of the conference room at C.E.R.N. met its mark any later then the ramifications would have been unmanageable. As it was, George Thomson had been completely blind-sided. He had only just received a copy of the coroner’s report, the same one that had been of such interest to a certain Sergeant Watt, and was still in the process of assimilating all that it entailed. But someone was two steps ahead of him and that he did not like the feel of that. This was a very public execution and one he reckoned had only just happened in time. Yet he had not ordered the hit on Meyer, in fact he had not for one moment even considered Meyer’s curveball.

  But someone had.

  Thomson had a pretty strong hunch where Meyer was about to go with his impromptu press conference and in many ways he was at least glad that someone else had taken the decision to silence him.

  He would have made the same call, no matter how much heat it would have brought down from above. But there was now also the small matter of Lucian Hendrick’s murder being announced live on tv.

  He instinctively knew that was liable to complicate matters.

  The breath returned to George Thomson’s lungs at precisely the same moment the last drained out of Mr Stephan Meyer.

  This whole operation was beginning to become seat of the pants stuff and already he was having to work harder than ever before to keep ahead of the game.

  George Thomson had some serious thinking to do.

  Chapter 16: Stern Anderson.

  I was pretty sure that by now they would be tailing me, even though I was mobile naked. I turned to look out the back window of the cab, but the scene confronting me was just the usual throng of London traffic. I was not really sure what I was looking for anyway, I had a fair hunch that the boys from MI6 did not drive around in cars marked ‘Spooks’.

  Bizarrely, the boys in the Audi that had been tailing me had gotten snarled up in traffic a few hundred yards back down the road and what I should really have been looking for was Elton’s evil twin, sitting astride a gunmetal grey Yamaha Y2F-R1. Sternie would not have been instantly recognisable to me in his biker gear even if he had pulled alongside us waving and blowing me kisses. In fact he looked more like Robo-Cop than your average every day assassin / come MI6 double agent, but Sternie had me well within his sights and there was no way he was about to lose a London taxi on that kind of super machine.

  George Thomson was not the only one with thinking to do; things had also been getting a little uncomfortable for a certain Mr Charles Hanson. He too had seen the live news stream from C.E.R.N. and the umpteen reruns of the events that had taken the life of Mr Stephan Meyer that were now all over the internet, despite the best attempts of the powers that be at trying to censor that particular piece of footage. But of course it was already viral.

  What really worried him was that only a very few people knew that Ulyana Lyalyushkin had been planning to hand over her ‘information’ to C.E.R.N. His dear friend Thomson, and his own agents for that matter, were all convinced she would be feeding her SVR masters. But now it would be clear to all that she had not followed orders; the fact that her own people had tried to assassinate her was proof enough. He knew it would only be a matter of time before someone put the pieces together and realised that Hendrick had been the one she had arranged to meet.

  It was the link to Howison that could bring his little world tumbling down; he was more than just heavily implicated and things had gone a lot further than he had bargained for. He had feed Mac the information about Hendrick although he had no idea that Mac was going to have him killed. He was playing a very dangerous game, one that was rapidly spiralling out of control and he could not afford to let that happen. In some ways he could not help but admire the sheer ruthless efficiency with which Howison would operate, but it also scared him, and if any of this got out they would all be facing the chair.

  Alex Boardman had just about enough of sitting around. He had been instructed not to go back to C.E.R.N., or for that matter to have any contact with his ‘employers’ in mainland Europe for the time being. He had a bout of the man-flu and would be absent for at least two weeks; not the greatest cover story, but there was more than enough going on to keep the attention away from the likes of Boardman, and Thomson had reckoned it was more than sufficient for now.

  But as Boardman sat staring at the four walls and his mobile phone that just would not ring, he had exhausted all of his patience. He was one of the few people who were not yet aware of the morning’s events and the tragic demise of a man he had the utmost respect for.

  Had he been, it may well have changed his thoughts on what to do next.

  Thomson rose from the old, leather Chesterfield tub chair and nodded to the man who had entered. The gentleman’s club was his favourite place of business, he was old school and his current surroundings were a perfect compliment.

  The room was excessively large with wooden panelling extending upwards to the ornately plastered ceilings that towered above him; it was almost as if it had been designed specifically to provide the conspirators that would gather huddled around tables in smart suits, hiding behind the mask of respectability, with enough space to avoid any unwanted eavesdropping. Old oil paintings of distinguished past members stared down at him; like the faces of his old schoolmasters suspiciously watching those below as they went about their business, waiting for the slightest misdemeanour to pounce upon.

  Vladimir Kustchev smiled back at him in an almost genuine manner; both men went way back and this was not the first time they had met at Thomson’s club. They had both been through the cold war and all the shenanigans that had brought with it, but these days things were a lot more relaxed; information was shared, diplomatic channels were open and encouraged, and there was now a genuine spirit of cooperation (well at least on the surface; for two old dogs like Thomson and Kustchev the plastic veneer of the post cold war was just another game face they had to master).

  Meetings such as this were now the civilised face of how business was conducted and both men enjoyed the intricate subtleties of such encounters; diplomacy being the impediment of directness. Yet perhaps today’s meeting might lend itself to something a little closer to the bone, Thomson was already prepared for it and relishing it.

  “Vladimir, how very good of you to make it. Please have a seat. Tea?”

  Kustchev had a soft spot for quintessential Englishness, he would never let Thomson know that, but he enjoyed a fine breakfast tea as
much as the next man and in another world he would have happily enjoyed membership of a club such as this.

  “ So, how are you?” Thomson would continue with the pleasantries all day if he could.

  “George, always a pleasure to see you. But as I am sure you have guessed, this is not a social call. I’m afraid I have a bit of a problem.” Thomson waited with an expressionless face, a product of all his years of experience. “It seems we have lost three of our team.”

  “How very careless of you.” Thomson was, of course, fully aware of the reasons behind this most civilised of meetings, in fact, he had expected Kustchev to come knocking on his door long before now, but this was his bread and butter and inside he loved these exchanges.

  Kustchev smiled again and considered the old man across from him very carefully before speaking. “Yes, most careless. I do agree. I will be sure to be more careful next time. But I think we both know why I am here. This has the potential to become, how do you say.... A tricky situation?” Kustchev’s English was perfect, but he did like to play up his Russianness from time to time, especially if it could be turned to his advantage.

  “My thoughts entirely.”

  “Good. If this was to reach the wrong people then I am not sure I could avoid it becoming a major political incident. This would not be in either of our interests, as I am sure you will agree George.”

  “Indeed. What, may I ask, are you proposing?”

  “George. I came here to listen to what you had to propose. After all, this ‘problem’ is not of our making.”

  “With all due respect Vladimir, it is not my agents who are running around playing cowboys and Indians. This is London dear boy, not the Wild West. And it is not one of my sleepers that seems to have gone walkabout.”

  “Ah George, I do enjoy our little chats. But why don’t we step out of the playground for a bit, we could trade such pleasantries for most of the day, which I am sure would be most entertaining, but it is not going to get us anywhere. I am going to be very frank with you George, I think the time is right for it,” Kustchev did not even pause for effect, “you must know that we know all about A.P.R.I.L. and something that big cannot stay under wraps forever. Why don’t we agree to cooperate on this one? Then we can all call off the dogs.”

  “My dear fellow, it is always a pleasure to meet with you, but I am afraid you have caught me a little on the back foot. I have no problem in helping you locate your little runaway and perhaps we can tidy over whatever misdemeanours she has been up to, and those of your trigger happy agents, without things getting ‘tricky’, but I’m afraid that is all I can do for you.”

  “That is a good start George. I am sure that once you have had some time to think it over that you will come round to my way of thinking.” Vladimir Kustchev bade his old advisory farewell and left the room.

  Thomson sat with his tea, watching his Russian counterpart as he left. He had gotten all he had wanted from the exchange. Sometimes it is what is not said that provides all the answers, and now he had the absolute certainty he required. Kustchev was a worthy opponent but over the years George was pretty certain he had learned to read his poker face. He brought the fine china cup to his mouth, took a satisfying sip, and placed it back in its saucer.

  The oversized pop star on the motorbike was intent on keeping the taxi that I was travelling in well within his sights. The roads were busy and there had been the slightest smirr of rain, but he sat only fifty or so yards back; this was a good distance and one he could close in a heartbeat if he so much as twitched the throttle. His two colleagues in the Audi were also back in touch and if I had known what was about to happen next, I am pretty sure I would have shouted out some kind of warning in an attempt to repay some of my indebtedness to the Sterminator. As it was, a man on a motorbike, even one as strong and as alert as Stern, is no match for a 4x4, especially one that was being driven by yet another man that had been bought and paid for by an unseen hand.

  My cab driver saw it in his rear view mirror and let out a gasp as it happened.

  A silver 4x4 had simply come out of a side street in a similar way to which most of us are guilty of from time to time, especially when turning left onto a busy main road; only the most cursory of glances to our right, enough to establish that there is just enough space to ‘get out’ and thus avoid five minutes of waiting for the next break in the traffic.

  It is so easy to just pull out without the necessary due care and attention; however, the driver of this particular 4x4 had also clearly never seen the ‘Think twice. Think bike!’ safety advert. His vehicle had not really stopped as it reached the junction and in fact had no intention of stopping, it had not even slowed. It had been sitting idling some thirty yards back, waiting, and when Stern had come into view the man at the wheel had simply thrown her into gear, and with his heart in his mouth, he had sped out directly into the path of the oncoming traffic and in particular a beautiful gunmetal grey motorbike.

  Sternie broke as hard as he could but the 4x4 was directly in his path; the bikes tyres screamed in protest, desperately scouring at the damp ground for purchase. A fine spray of water mixed with white smoke seemed to momentarily marry together in a bizarre kind of dance behind the rear wheel and then was gone. The bike slid and then flipped sending Sternie flying from his shinny new motorcycle, and although none of what happened next was clear to the driver of my cab, as it disappeared into miniature in his rear view mirror, Sternie shot forward, bouncing of the side of the 4x4’s bonnet before being catapulted backwards into the road and the path of the oncoming traffic.

  The force of the two impacts would probably have been enough for most men but Stern was still breathing when he saw his fate approach him. There was nothing he could do; the horror in his eyes as his final moment came would thankfully be shielded from all but his maker by his cracked visor, the sound of his screams as he finally came to rest under the wheels of an oncoming bus would stay with all those that had witnessed it for some time to come. And there were plenty of witnesses to what was yet another tragedy on London’s overcrowded roads; just another sad statistic to add to the annual list of fatal accidents involving men over forty and motorbikes.

  The driver of the 4x4 would later escape with a 12 point ban and a six month suspended jail sentence for reckless driving, and also driving without insurance. He would also later receive a five figure sum of cash in a brown envelope delivered courtesy of Her Majesties postal service.

  I, of course, had no idea it was my friend Sternie who was the victim of the tragic ‘accident’ behind us, and it would only be some time later that this particular fact would become known to me (and I would be more than sad to hear it), but the ensuing chaos served perfectly in ensuring that the boys in the Audi were no longer on my tail. Pretty much everything screeched to a halt behind us amidst the screams and hysteria of the unfortunate pedestrians who had witnessed the event unfurl, and it would be some time before that particular stretch of road would reopen.

  I recall asking my driver what it was he had been gasping at, and he replied that it looked like there had been a bad accident behind us, and how something needed to be done about the roads around here, before repeating that it looked really bad.

  I am certain he could have told me of many more such incidents that he had come across during his years of driving the streets, but for now, my mind was a long way from mourning the untimely death of the man who had saved my life on more than one occasion. I did try to turn and see what all the commotion behind us was, but we were so far ahead I could not make out any of the detail.

  For now though, circumstances were playing into my hand and what is more, I had decided to abruptly end my little taxi jaunt across London and was now on my way to the nearest tube station; a fact that was neither seen, nor communicated by the boys back in the Audi.

  I had slipped my first MI6 tail and I didn’t even know it.

  Thomson was still at the Gentlemen’s club when he received the news. This was turning
into a Pantomime. If Widow Twankey had come bounding across the floor at that moment with an armful of neatly starched white shirts for him to wear, he would simply have risen from his chair and applauded. In fact he might seriously have considered giving her a job; she could not have been any less competent than the buffoons that had just let him down again.

  Eventually a link would be made back to the man who received the brown envelope containing two hundred pink pictures of the Queen’s head (although technically the pink hue did not really extend to her Royal Highness’ coupon).

  Thomson would insist that he take care of that one personally; there were few things he despised less than losing a good man for the sake of a few measly quid, and especially in such a gruesome and cowardly fashion. It would be his mark of respect for the late Stern Anderson and the least he felt he could do.

  Old double ugly and DI Bright had made a pretty good job at piecing things together. They were pretty sure that Buckfield was just the tip of the iceberg; Bright had shared some of his frustrations with Watt and they had both agreed that Osram’s protection had to go quite a bit higher than Watt’s dead colleague. They were still short of motive and the final piece in their little jigsaw, but they both knew that somewhere there had to be a link between Osram, Buckfield and the late Lucian Hendrick.

  The bullet that had been retrieved from the rafters of Patterson’s delightful little shed, and which at some point had passed its way clean through an unsuspecting, if rather fat pigeon, was the missing piece they had been looking for.

  It would have been much easier and quicker had the gun that discharged it still been where it had fallen, but the little scumbags that made up Tongs, were intent on moving up in the world, now that they were tooled up that was, and had caught an eyeful of their first official dead bodies.

  It would be less than three hours from finding their new toy that Tointy and co would end up handing over their merchandise to the bigger boys on the estate before they received a slap. But the markings on the bullet were a perfect match for the one that had not long since been pulled from the skull of Lucian Hendrick.