‘What?’ she asked, self consciously.
‘Just admiring the view,’ he said.
She laughed.
‘I don't know about that,’ she said, and went back to her book.
David strained his eyes to see if he could discern the title of the book she was reading. She had squealed with delight when she’d discovered the library. David’s dad had developed a huge passion for books during his lifetime, and had created a large library to house his collection.
There was very little furniture in the room. Two easy chairs facing the fireplace, with every other wall lined floor-to-ceiling with glass fronted bookcases. Sam had run from cabinet to cabinet, chattering excitedly to herself.
‘What is it about books that you love?’ he asked her now.
He maintained his father’s collection lovingly, but he’d never understood the obsession.
‘They’re like friends,’ she said, looking up. ‘If you have a book you are never alone. They’re a barometer of emotions. If you’re feeling sad, you can read a favourite chapter and your mood lifts.’
‘Doesn’t that get boring?’ asked David.
‘Are memories boring?’ asked Sam. ‘It’s the same thing really, isn’t it?’
David thought about his own turbulent maelstrom of memories.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘Mine are certainly never boring.’
At last his vision focused properly and he managed to read the title of the book.
‘Aldous Huxley,’ he repeated. ‘Brave New World; what's that all about?’
‘It's about a utopian society where children are no longer brought up in families, they’re fertilised and grown in bottles. Where drugs are legal and encouraged and pretty much everything is done in the pursuit of pleasure.’
David thought about it for a couple of minutes.
‘That sounds pretty horrible actually,’ he said seriously, thinking about his dream.
‘The pursuit of pleasure for the sake of pleasure,’ agreed Sam. ‘I see it in the faces of my own clients; morally corrupt and bereft.’
‘Isn't that what I'm trying to accomplish?’ asked David quietly.
‘Maybe so,’ said Sam. ‘But by the same token, some people just can't do real life. They need to have their senses dulled.’
‘I don't want to live like that anymore,’ said David suddenly.
Sam blinked.
‘If I asked you to stay with me, would you do it?’ asked David.
‘What's the catch?’ asked Sam.
‘No catch,’ said David. ‘It’s just with you I feel human, and I want to keep feeling human.’
‘You know that Ben is paying me for this,’ she blurted out suddenly.
The guilt had been eating away at her. She wanted their conversations to be rooted in foundations of honesty. She felt at home with David; an emotion she had not expected.
‘I don’t care,’ said David. ‘I’ll pay you double what he’s paying if you’ll stay; triple or quadruple even.’
‘It doesn't work like that, David,’ she said gently. ‘You can’t buy everything you want, no matter how much money you have’
She looked over at him. He looked crestfallen and defeated.
‘But yes, I will stay,’ she continued, ‘on one condition. I don’t want payment, all I want is bed and board and we’ll see how it goes.’
There was a loud single knock on the front door.
‘That’ll be Ben,’ she said.
‘Will you still be here when I get back?’ he asked, making no move to get up.
She got up and placed the book deliberately to one side. He waited expectantly as she crossed the divide between them. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
‘You’re not a bad person David,’ she said. ‘Even though everyone has told you that and you’ve tried to convince yourself. Just remember that. Try and reach back and grab onto the person you used to be. So go and do your deal. We can talk about things when you get back.’
He smiled, and this time it extended to his eyes. She could see a renewed sparkle in them as he walked backwards slowly and then turned and virtually skipped through the door.
A shadow passed across her face, and she shivered; like someone had just run roughshod over her grave. She went back to her chair and settled down with the book, but she couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how deeply she tried to bury herself in the words. Eventually, after about half an hour she gave up and went into the sitting room.
She snuggled into the corner of the couch, David’s corner, and switched on the large screen. As she watched the flickering images, she tried to force them to blot out the sinking feeling in her stomach.
#
David stopped at the end of the corridor. Even though he was out of earshot, he stifled the sobs, crying silently for a minute or so. Then he quickly walked to the bathroom, doused some water on his face and forced a smile to rearrange his features. He opened the door and replaced the mask. The Bullock was back; for this evening anyway.
He motioned Tony to get back behind the wheel and slid into the rear, next to his right hand man.
‘You look pleased with yourself, but in a slightly depressed kind of way.’ said Ben, half statement and half question.
‘Let's just call it a matter of life and death and leave it at that,’ said David mysteriously.
Ben looked at him strangely, but he didn't seem to be joking.
‘Leave it Ben,’ added David. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you over a glass of whiskey someday. At the moment we have other things to concentrate on.’
‘True,’ said Ben.
They journeyed the rest of the way in silence; one of them thinking about the implications of success and the other thinking about the implications of failure. Ben looked at his watch. They were about five minutes early. David made no move to get out, so neither did Ben.
‘We’ll wait for them in the car,’ said David. ‘We can all go in together then.’
They sat in silence for another minute or so.
‘Do you have everything you need? You brought it all with you?’
Ben placed his briefcase on his knees and patted it in a self satisfied way.
‘I always carry it with me; all of it. I don’t trust the safe to something this valuable.’
David glanced across and then lapsed into silence again.
‘Someone’s coming,’ interrupted Tony suddenly.
They all watched as a large black limousine pulled into the business park, slowly negotiating the roundabout before pulling up outside the building. David looked at his watch. It was five pm exactly; an impressive display of timekeeping. They watched for two or three minutes. There was no movement of any kind from the dark Mercedes.
‘Looks like we’ll have to make the first move,’ said David. ‘Tony, would you do the honours?’
Tony grunted and got out of the car. He proceeded to Ben’s side and opened his door first. As Ben slid out, Tony stepped around the back and repeated the procedure on the other side.
Ben waited at the front of the car, briefcase in hand, as David joined him. They walked over to the waiting car, both of them feeling a tiny bit foolish and more than a little exposed.
They waited, each holding their breath as the tension built.
Suddenly, the passenger door flew open, causing them to both jump slightly and then exchange mildly uncomfortable glances. As they watched, an enormous man got out and regarded them inscrutably for a few seconds.
‘Antonio?’ ventured Ben hesitantly.
The big man nodded. He moved to the back and opened the door. He bent down and they heard low voices. Then two men stepped out in quick succession and turned to face them.
Ben and David approached the two older men slowly, heeding the warning in Antonio’s eyes. To David, they looked like ordinary old men. He didn’t have a point of reference really, as his father had been pretty young when he’d died, but he had been expecting them to have more of a presence.
Granted, with their sharp suits, piercing eyes and slicked back hair, they did look like the archetypal mobsters, but even so; he’d been expecting Al Pacino.
‘David McCabe?’ asked one, and David immediately revised his opinion. This was a voice used to command; used to getting its own way.
‘Mr Mancini,’ acknowledged David, walking forward and taking a surprisingly firm handshake.
‘Guido, please,’ said the man, in a harsh New York brogue. ‘And this is my brother, Ernesto.’
‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said David, shaking the other hand.
He indicated Ben.
‘You both know my associate, Ben Collins; well, you’ve spoken on the phone at least.’
They nodded and more handshakes took place.
‘Well,’ said David, ‘shall we go in?’
He indicated the main entrance and they were about to go through, when a car came screaming into the estate. David noticed the small Hertz sticker on the rear window as it braked to a halt in a shower of small stones.
‘Who’s this joker?’ asked David, as Bill came rushing over.
Ben could see the security guard instinctively reaching under his jacket for his weapon and motioned him surreptitiously to hold off for a second.
The stranger walked up to the group of men, laughing quietly to himself.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘Guido, did you not tell your hosts that I was coming?’
#
I kept the glasses trained on the entrance. When the BMW arrived and the three men got out, I passed the glasses to Dale and then Roussel.
‘That must be David McCabe and Ben Collins,’ said Roussel.
‘A reasonable guess,’ I said.
‘Hang on,’ said Roussel. ‘What’s this?’
We saw a large limousine sweep around the roundabout and into the car park. I clicked my fingers impatiently at Roussel, who reluctantly handed the glasses back.
As I focussed, I felt the familiar flip in my stomach; Antonio, Guido and Ernesto. They had been my friends and colleagues, and dare I say it, family for many years. I still felt the conflicting emotions.
‘Is it the Mancini’s?’ asked Dale excitedly.
I nodded slowly. Then I saw another car scream into the car park.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Roussel.
As he got out of the car, he looked around him. The last time I had seen those eyes had been on the other side of the window ledge in my mother’s house, framed in plaster dust.
‘This is starting to get interesting,’ I murmured. ‘Our double dealing CIA friend is back; the one from my mum’s house. He must be the mole.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Roussel.
I nodded absently without replying. I had seen a flash of movement across the fields. I swung the glasses over and saw four men crouching behind a stone wall. They were talking quietly, and as they moved I saw the glint of sun on blue steel.
‘Looks like things are really starting to heat up now,’ I said.
I tapped the holdall beside me.
‘Good job we have some means of cooling things down.’
Chapter 56 – Confrontation
23rd May 2011 – Thirteen days after the Storm.
Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory. – Sun Tzu.
Bill watched the executives entering the building with a mixture of amusement and contempt. Who were they kidding? He knew what they did, despite the elaborate subterfuge.
He was similar to someone who worked in a brewery or a cigarette factory. You didn't have to like smoking or drinking to work there, but it paid the bills and he had to admit; this job really did pay very well.
He thought of his daughter, struggling to forge a normal life with cystic fibrosis. When he thought of her, his qualms were easy to dismiss.
Ben had told him that they had special guests coming this evening, so he’d stepped up the security accordingly. Normally, there were only two, this evening there were seven. He’d also rostered himself on to manage and coordinate.
Bill let a polite interval elapse before he followed his employers and their guests back through the front entrance.
‘Hey chief,’ said Vinnie, the guard behind the desk.
Another ex soldier, he was almost impossibly cheerful, almost all of the time.
‘Hey Vinnie,’ said Bill. ‘Can you tell me what zones are alarmed at the moment?’
Vinnie checked the panel behind his head, squinting over the top of his reading glasses.
‘All zones alarmed except the upstairs offices and the reception area,’ said Vinnie.
‘Okay, switch off the zones on the main production floor,’ said Bill, ‘but keep all the external access points alarmed.’
‘You got it, chief,’ replied Vinnie.
‘You going out for a fag?’ asked Bill, extracting his pack and his lighter.
‘It’s awfully tempting, chief,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been off them since Good Friday. I really want to give it a go this time.’
‘Wish I had your willpower,’ said Bill with a smile.
‘So do I,’ said Vinnie, with an answering smile.
Bill walked back the way he had come in, out through the reception doors, and felt the cool West of Ireland breeze fresh on his face. They were near the sea and he could feel the salt hanging in the atmosphere. He inhaled deeply, a large lungful of the fresh life-sustaining elixir. He put a cigarette in his mouth, thinking how ironic it was that he was just about to deliberately pollute the pure clean air of his last breath.
He cupped his hand around the lighter and pressed the switch, but the wind blew the flame out immediately. He swivelled until he felt the wind on his back and then clicked the switch again. As he did so, he saw a flicker of movement.
It took him a couple of milliseconds to register the gun that the crouching intruder was holding out in front of him. A couple of milliseconds more and he had identified the fact that there was a silencer screwed into the barrel.
He saw the muzzle flash and felt the small stones kicked up against his legs, as the bullet impacted between his feet. The cigarette dropped from his lips and the lighter dropped from his hands as he dived sideways, reaching under his jacket as he did so.
In his mind, he was immediately transported back to the Lebanon and some Arab terrorist was trying to kill him. He fell heavily and winded himself, partly because of his age and partly because his hand was inside his jacket, probing for the gun.
Even though he was almost breathless, he kept rolling. He knew it was his only chance to evade the bullets. His hand closed around the butt of the weapon and still he kept rolling. He could hear the sound of the silencer in a measured beat, the whistle and whine of the bullets as the words of his training ground instructor came back to him.
‘Always a moving target son,’ he’d shouted at the top of his voice. ‘You always need to be a moving target!’
The sound of silencer and bullets ceased and he heard the unmistakable sound of a clip being loaded. He took a chance and stopped rolling, turning onto his back. His own weapon cleared his jacket and he aimed and fired almost simultaneously, just as his assailant’s barrel came up. The report from his weapon drowned out the small phut of the silenced round. He felt a stinging pain in his shoulder, but at the same time he heard a cry of agony. He rolled again and the pain in his shoulder intensified.
He tried to ignore it, instead focusing all his energy on staying alive. As he turned onto his back again, he held the gun in front of him. Cautiously, he inched his head up off the ground to look ahead and saw his assailant sprawled between clumps of rough grass and heather.
Bill levered himself up with difficulty and walked slowly towards the shooter. His army training had always instilled in him the need to go for the big targets. By a combination of luck and design, he had hit the man squarely in the chest. By th
e look of it, his heart was gone. The stranger’s eyes had rolled up into his head and he was scrabbling weakly at the ground.
‘You shot me, you bastard!’ shouted Bill.
It was all he could think of to say.
Suddenly his legs buckled. At the same instant, he felt a terrible pain in his chest as he sank to his knees. He looked down in surprise to register the fact that his crisp white shirt was turning red with blood. The shock of the discovery seemed to drain the strength from his body and the gun slipped from his powerless fingers. His vision started to cloud. He lifted his head with difficulty and saw the outline of a man framed against the sun.
‘So did I,’ said a voice in heavily accented English.
By the time Pavel heard the silenced report of his second shot echo off the hills behind him, the impact of the actual bullet had knocked Bill backwards in a messy twisted heap of limbs. Pavel walked up and spat on the blood soaked body and then savagely kicked it. He hadn't been expecting to encounter any resistance, let alone lose a member of his team.
His earpiece barked into life. He transmitted his reply. Two of the targets had been neutralised, but were alive. Bill had also been neutralised, but he had not been so lucky.
Pavel was not happy. As he walked into the main reception, he was not in the mood for chit chat. Vinnie looked up, not yet registering anything except surprise.
‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t....’
He hit the desk with a loud thud. Two shots to the head; Pavel couldn’t be bothered messing around trying to disarm people any more. Vinnie was stone dead, even before his head slammed into the front desk.
Pavel walked around the desk, grabbed the prone guard by the collar and dragged him to the floor behind the counter where he wouldn’t be casually spotted. Turning his attention to the Alarm panel, he opened the front cover and studied it implacably for about a minute. He seemed to come to a decision. He took a spare clip from his inside pocket and reloaded. Whipping the gun up suddenly, he emptied the entire magazine into the panel, which duly exploded in an electrical cacophony of hisses and crackles. He closed the front cover to hide the devastation.
The Storm Protocol Page 53
