by Gus Ross
As is often the case when we are sat high astride our mighty steed, we fail to see the joust pole that is coming in our direction before it is too late. But this one was not intended to knock the wind out of Charles Hanson; it was merely a prod to see how he might react.
But the old man would play the role of school teacher first, as patronisingly as he could manage. “You know the rules Charles. Don’t tell me I need to spell this out for you.” The voice at the other end said nothing, so Thomson continued, “I would be more than happy to give you a short reminder course on how to conduct your agency on foreign soil if that would help.”
“Is this why you called me George? Did you want to yank my chain and see what kind of reaction you got? Don’t you have something better to do, like find the Russian spy who stole the cookies from your jar?”
Thomson eased his joust pole into place and then nudged it forward, but with only the slightest of prods, like someone might poke at a dead looking spider just to see if it moves. “Charles, you do know we have a mole in our midst? I was wondering if you might enlighten me as to whom you think it might be.”
Hanson was wounded but by no means defeated. He knew that it would have been clear to the blind that once Hendrick’s body had been identified that someone must have let the cat out of the bag about Lyalyushkin’s intended hand over target. There were not that many who knew about it and of course he was one of the few, and he had pretty much buried that piece of intel’, but he knew the old man was merely fishing, for now.
“Well I must say I am impressed George. I kind of figured that one out as soon as I heard about the murder, but I knew you would get there eventually. How else do you think Lucian Hendrick ended up face down in the Thames? But what I’m thinking is was it one of your guys or one of the Ruskie’s that did it.”
Something told Thomson that his American counterpart was not... how would he say it....levelling with him, that was it. Just the slightest of delay’s before his arrogant response. But that was all he had been looking for. He was merely poking at the edges of the fire with a big stick.
And experience told him that if he poked around enough, eventually something hot would fall out.
“Just wanted to run it by you Charles. See if you had any bright ideas, but clearly not. Pleasure speaking with you. Goodbye.”
“Just had to have the last dig old man didn’t you,” Hanson thought to himself. He hated the way the old man could push his buttons, but if he had realised just how skilfully he had been manipulated he would have been more than just annoyed about losing that particular round of verbal combat.
Ulyana Lyalyushkin was standing on Bournemouth’s West Cliff Promenade, watching and listening to the waves roll in from the English Channel. They had a sense of cold, harsh, unwelcoming about them, a feeling she had never experienced here before; she had always treasured her time spent in this particular part of England’s south coast, time she had spent solely with her husband. The wind was beginning to bite and she pulled her scarf up to meet her dark hair and turned in the direction of the East cliff pier (she did not like being blonde and a bottle of dye had quickly brought her back to a shade she was more at one with, and one that her husband would recognise).
She had hoped I might have been here by now, but she had left a message with the hotel reception to ring her as soon as I showed. Simply sitting in her room waiting was not an option and somehow she felt safer outside, as if the knock on her hotel room door would come and it would not be me and she would be trapped, with nowhere to go. She was taking a real chance just being here, in trying to meet with me, but she had to, things had gone too far. If I made it, she would wait for the call and then arrange to meet me somewhere where she could see if I had been followed. If it was safe then great, if not then she would simply have to disappear into the night and hope that everything else worked to plan.
To her left, the row of fabulously coloured beach huts (that were for rent through the summer months, and which she loved dearly), looked dull and drab and just a little bit sad in the darkness, as if they had been abandoned and left to the vagaries of the British weather for another winter. As she started to walk, a voice came out of one of the huts. It did not startle her, but she could not see the face behind it and she was already concerned.
“Lovely night for a walk.”
The words drifted out from the beach hut three along from where she was, they sounded innocent enough, but they lacked sincerity and she chose not to respond. It was six thirty pm and it was dark and apart from the murky shadow that was speaking to her, there was no other person around.
“Not stopping for a chat.” Now the tone had changed, it was clear and firm, but within it was something as harsh and biting as the ice cold water beyond the sand.
She could still not see the face, never mind the eyes behind the voice, but she had already determined that it belonged to a male in his early thirties; the slightest hint of an accent, one that would be lost on most people, had only one meaning to her.
The figure was still immersed in shadow as it started towards her but she was already running. It reached out at her outline as she past, grabbing at her shoulder and, for a brief moment, almost knocking her off balance, but she was past him and she was running hard.
I was on the 19.09 train from London to Bournemouth and had just passed Christchurch Station. I had done as was asked and used cash for the train fare although I did not quite have enough and had to use an ATM just outside of the station. I knew it was a dumb assed thing to do as soon as I had done it, but you try stuffing the cash back into an ATM and trying to pretend you were never there.
Anyway, for now, I was happily sitting back in my chair watching darkness interspersed with the orangey glow of streetlights whizz past the window on my right. I was pretty confident that not even an old gumshoe like Sam Spade (the old ones are always the best), could have kept up with the amount of times I had covered my trail, but I was worried that the ATM records would place me at the station and that by the time I reached Bournemouth there would be a welcoming party fit for an Olympic gold medallist waiting for me. Not much I could do about it now though.
For the first time in my life I found myself wishing for a refreshment trolley (surely a misnomer if ever there was one when it came to trains), to come by. I could have eaten my arm off if I had had a bottle of ‘Tommy’ sauce, but there wasn’t one. I simply sat and listened, as the train continued to pick out a reassuring rhythm from the tracks, with my body following its beat ever so gently.
I had always found train travel far more relaxing than any other mode of transport, almost hypnotic. Well, except when you were crowded like sardines into some overstuffed London main line at rush hour, with some hairy arsed student’s music in your ear, someone else’s disgusting garlic breath on your face and some saggy old women’s tits pressed up against your back; that kind of train travel was positively appalling. I was most welcome of my current seat and slowly I started to nod off.
Mac Howison had ordered what he had hoped would be the final hit. He did not take pleasure in extinguishing the lives of others but it was an unfortunate evil born of necessity. Nothing great was ever achieved without a little bloodshed and if you were intent on playing with the devil, there was always the chance that he might send his black cloaked buddy with the scythe to come looking for your soul.
In the case of Charles Hanson the Grim Reaper was already on his way.
Howison had covered his tracks with his usual expert fashion. He could afford the best and he would employ the best and they seldom let him down, but it did help that he had sown his seeds in more than one garden. Sometimes he would wonder how anything in this world could remain secret, throw a little money at it and suddenly no one could be trusted and the good thing was that he had buckets of the stuff to throw around.
On some level, not one he allowed his mind to visit too frequently, he was dismayed by just how easily man would prostitute himself, his beliefs, his values,
all for the sake of a mere piece of paper with a strip of silver in it. But he was a realist, and without cash in your pocket the big bad world can be a tough place, he was the first to admit it, but he did not like greed.
Greedy little men, men without idea, or ambition, or drive, or anything to really offer, but who were intent on pimping their position or privilege for the sake of cash. These kind of men he hated and once they had finished being useful to him, or in the case of Charles Hanson became a threat to him, then he would have little hesitation in erasing them.
Hanson, of course, was all too aware that his relationship with Big Mac had pretty much played itself out, and like a jilted lover, he wanted to be the one to hit out first.
He would not be allowed to make that happen, but then it is not always the first blow that kills.
Howison did not often get himself involved in the detail; getting ones hands dirty was a grubby business and a man at his level had no desire nor need for it, but he would always ensure he was kept fully briefed. But in the case of Hanson, he had ensured that the relationship was personal from day one.
They had first met at a fundraising do at The White House; Howison was one of a select bunch of fat cats that had been invited for an intimate dinner in the Blue Room. About two dozen or so of them would wine and dine and listen to the President’s ramblings about this policy and that, and ultimately be expected to give generously for the experience, but Howison was not just looking to provide support to a President who in turn would support Big Oil and all that it stood for; no, he was on the look-out for someone who might prove much more valuable than some Presidential backing. And it came in the shape of a certain Charles Hanson.
He had started a brief conversation with him in the Cross Hall before going through to dinner; it was nothing more than a brief exchange of pleasantries and some observations on the previous nights Redskins game with Dallas; one of those polite chit chats that we all indulge in from time to time, but Mac was already fishing and woe betide anyone who took the bait.
Hanson was CIA, on duty, and Big Mac needed someone close to the President; if he had been holding a dance card, he would have had Charles Hanson’s name at the top of it; if he had known how useful Hanson would prove to be, he would have repeated it half a dozen times over and danced till his feet hurt.
As it was, his earlier chat would serve him well; later that evening, on one of his frequent visit to the South Portico to indulge in one of his host’s fine cigars, he would find himself in discussion once more with Mr Hanson, who would soon find himself invited to a full expenses paid, top of the range, hospitality day at the next Washington Redskins home game, courtesy of Big Oil.
This was always how Mac would operate; a little bit of corporate hospitality here, a few discrete but expensive gifts there, and soon the fish had the hook so far up into the roof of its mouth that there would be no way to shake it free. Hanson would prove no different from any other although it would seem that he had been particularly keen to swim up river to Big Mac’s beat.
Hanson had proven himself most valuable over the years and most resourceful when it came to purloining the inside track that he required. Had it not been for this information and more importantly the timing of it, he would have been stung on more than one occasion; most notably in the Alaskan Oil Fields debacle. There had been some very ambitious plans to start drilling in the Alaskan Arctic and given the enormous reserves previously uncovered at Prudhoe Bay, this was a potential gold mine.
Drilling in the Arctic Ocean was always set to be a highly risky venture that would require cutting edge technology, much of which had not yet been proven in such a harsh environment, and would push the boundaries of current oil exploration. Safety was always going to be high up the agenda and after the problems in the Gulf and in particular the Deep Water Horizon incident, the tide of sentiment was moving towards the environmentalist lobby.
Hanson had got his hands on some very interesting White House communications with regards to the extensive testing regulations that were about to be enforced; these would set back any foreseeable drilling for years and would require a small fortune in investment. He timed it just right in getting his money out, and over the coming years he would allow himself a wry smile at the continual test failures and incidents that seemed to be plaguing the other big oil companies that had remained in the game. Soon he would have the opportunity to buy his way back in for half the price if he so chose. Hanson had saved him many millions on that one deal alone, but then he had been handsomely rewarded. Still, all of that was small beer compared to what Hanson had brought to the table eighteen months ago.
This was a game changer.
Even then, Mac knew there would be casualties, and Julian Hendrick was just one in what had now become quite a long line. As always, Hanson’s intelligence had been spot on, and there had been no problems intercepting the target. The Brits had either been sleeping (a favourite expression of Hanson’s), or had failed to pick up Hendrick’s little ‘holiday’ to London and of course Hanson had ensured that he would not be sharing his information anytime soon. There was more than enough time to provide the window of opportunity that Mac needed.
The tentacles of the unseen part of Mac’s empire extended in many directions; some ultimately arriving at dead ends after what would seem like endless elaborate complexities, designed solely for the purposes of distraction and misdirection, others that would eventually be the conduit for some of the less savoury aspects of ‘doing business’.
Howison himself was bulletproof, fireproof, and probably every kind of proof you could think of. He had teams of the finest accountants and lawyers that would ensure there was no paper trail leading back to his front door. The engagement of Stanley ‘The Knife’ Osram and his louts to abduct and eradicate Hendrick was simply one of those decisions that could never be attributed to him, despite it being exactly what he had asked for; an east end gang with a reputation for violence and one that had previous in terms of turf wars. There would be no way to trace them back. The double insurance would come in the form of someone who, assuming you could find even the slightest record of his existence in the murky depths of Howison’s empire, would be referred to only as the Debt Collector.
Things had not quite gone as smoothly as Howison would have liked. Firstly Osram’s boys had been piss-poor sloppy when disposing of Hendrick; not only had they allowed themselves to be seen, but then the body, that should have disappeared without a trace like a stone in the Atlantic, floats to the surface a few days later. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, then it turns out that Osram had been playing his own little game of corruption, albeit on a much smaller scale, but enough to necessitate the eradication of a DI by the name of Buckfield.
The Debt Collector had witnessed the discussion between Osram and Buckfield in a white van that was soon about to become history and he had wished that he hadn’t; taking out police officers always added complications. He knew that he had no other option, he could smell a bent cop from a hundred yards, and all that was missing from the white van meeting was a dirty brown envelope stuffed with cash.
A bent cooper in discussion with a man that was just about to die in an unfortunate accident with an articulated lorry, that he had just so carefully arranged, was something he would have to tidy up. The fact that his handiwork had almost been obliterated by poor old Mrs Edgerton had almost brought a smile to his face.
Taking out the two fools in the disused warehouse he had actually enjoyed; they were scum and he had no problems with his conscience after that one. He likened that aspect of his job to community service, ridding the country of some of its filth, but had he known that this would be his last ever job he would have taken a bit more time over it, and inflicted a good deal more pain.
His unfortunate demise at the wheel of the Golf was just gravy as far as Mac and co were concerned; another loose end taken care of, another link (albeit incredibly tenuous), severed, and without even the need to complete the agreed
payment to the, sadly departed, Debt Collector.
Hanson was a very nervous man as he paid for his ticket. If he had had the Hubble telescope pointing directly in its path it could still not have been any clearer. It was coming, but in the same way that the inevitable lump of rock will eventually come out of the void and eradicate us all, he did not know the when and where.
This was not a time for him to be anywhere that was not public. His mind was racing with permutations and he was certainly not going to accept defeat to Howison, regardless of how powerful he was. He had to switch things off for a bit, clear his mind and then hopefully things would make more sense. The hit was coming, of that he was sure, but he was not about to make it easy for them and after all, this was his bread and butter.
He would de-clutter his brilliant mind and how better to achieve that than an hour or two of some mindless nonsense at the cinema. It was about as public, and therefore safe, as anywhere, but that didn’t mean a lot these days.
It had been years since he had last taken in a movie but as he stood in the queue the smell of popcorn and the buzz of people all around him, fuelling up with ridiculous sized tubs of sweets to help them through the latest Hollywood blockbuster, was already bringing back fond memories. Already he could feel some of the tension ease from the back of his shoulders.
It was a busy night; the latest in a trilogy of intergalactic battle movies, none of which he had even heard of was premiering, and, judging by the strategically placed promo material dotted around the foyer, it featured a rather hot looking young actress and some rather impressive robotic type machines. He had decided that this would deliver just the right kind of nonsense he required. Bucket of salted popcorn in hand he moved through the throngs of bustling people; some coming out and already discussing the “did you see that” and “did you see this” aspects of their movie of choice, and some on their way in.
