by James Becker
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Chris Bronson said. “I think I’m in.”
3
20 July 2012
The pub sat on a fairly quiet street corner just northeast of Gallows Corner, where the A127 split off from the A12 and speared down to the southeast to intersect with what the locals called the world’s biggest car park, London’s orbital road, the M25.
Bronson had met Eaton and Williams as planned the previous evening and had arranged to meet them again that lunchtime. He parked his car—a nondescript five-year-old Ford saloon supplied by the Forest Gate police station—in a side street about a hundred yards away from the pub, facing away from the building, and on the last parking meter of a short line, where it couldn’t easily get boxed in by other vehicles. He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but it never paid to assume anything.
He was early, over two hours early, in fact, because he wanted to walk around the area a couple of times to familiarize himself with the layout of the streets, just in case he had to make a run for it. And he had another appointment in a backstreet café that he needed to keep first.
As far as Bronson knew, Eaton and Williams had bought his story about having a grudge against society and trying to take it out on the forthcoming Olympics. But there was always the possibility that they were smarter than they looked, and had somehow guessed that he wasn’t exactly what he seemed. And while the mobile phone tucked into his jacket pocket could call in reinforcements, Bronson knew that if he had to make the call, it would probably be too late. He could handle one or two of the group without much problem, he thought, but against half a dozen angry men armed with baseball bats—or worse—and a good reason to use them, he would stand little chance. He was acutely aware that this group were responsible for the death of the unfortunate nightwatchman. If they found out that he was a police officer trying to infiltrate them, he guessed that he could expect to meet the same end.
And this time, it wasn’t just Eaton or Williams he was going to meet. As a prospective new member of the group, Bronson knew there would be other people checking him out. Curtis had claimed that there was no chance anyone in the group could possibly know who Bronson really was, but sometimes the cosmic joker rolled the dice in a certain way and the long arm of coincidence stretched out, tapped you on the shoulder, and the impossible happened. Bronson firmly believed that Sod’s Law had just as much force and validity as any other rule of life, and frankly wouldn’t be surprised if half the members of the group he was trying to infiltrate had met him before. Sometimes, that was just the way things worked out.
And that was why he’d taken another precaution before coming to this meeting. Bronson had told Curtis that he’d never been to this part of London before, and that was true, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t know anybody in the area. For years, he’d kept in sporadic contact with a man he’d gotten to know while he was in the army, a former sergeant named Dickie Weeks, but who everybody in the unit knew as “The Fixer.”
Weeks had finally been thrown out of the army after one of his more optimistic schemes had been uncovered by a senior officer who couldn’t be persuaded—or bribed—to look the other way. The only reason he had avoided prosecution was probably simple embarrassment on the part of his superiors—in open court the full extent of his various wheeler-dealings would have been exposed to public scrutiny, and the reporters from the tabloids would have enjoyed a serious feeding frenzy. Because Weeks had managed to spirit away the better part of a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of army gear and dispose of it for cash to people who appreciated having access to that kind of equipment.
The man was, by any definition, a treacherous thief, but that didn’t stop almost everyone who met him from enjoying his company because Weeks was, whatever his faults, a thoroughly likable man, with a ready smile and quick wit. Bronson had never commanded him, but on a couple of occasions he had appreciated the rogue sergeant’s ability to obtain precisely the right equipment at precisely the right time, no questions asked. And that morning he had arranged to meet Weeks before his lunchtime rendezvous at the pub.
The café Weeks had suggested—in a parade of shops on the west side of Straight Road, north of the main Gallows Corner intersection—was easy enough to find. When Bronson pushed open the door, accompanied by a melodic tinkle from a small bell attached to the door frame, he immediately spotted Weeks sitting at a table for two in the far corner, his back to the wall and the remnants of a full English breakfast on the plate in front of him. It was counter service only, so Bronson ordered a mug of black coffee and a bacon sandwich before walking across to join his former comrade in arms.
“Diet going well?” Bronson asked, gesturing to the congealing fat and bits of bacon rind decorating the plate in front of the other man.
“You know me, Chris. Eat like a bloody horse and I never seem to gain an ounce.”
That was both true and irritating. Weeks was a big man—almost as bulky as Bronson—but despite having a prodigious appetite for all the wrong food, he never seemed to put on weight. If there was a scrap of divine justice in the world, he would have weighed a quarter of a ton and be suffering from a variety of digestive-system-related maladies. As it was, he radiated health and was, Bronson knew, extremely strong.
Bronson, in contrast, did have to watch what he ate, steering clear of what had become the traditional diet of most Britons—pizza, pasta, curry and fish and chips—because he knew that all the excess calories made straight for his waistline and took up permanent residence there. On the other hand, he had the frame to take it. He stood over six feet tall and was, in a word, wide—heavily built with broad shoulders. He exuded an air of barely restrained menace that he’d found useful in his early career as an army officer, and even more useful as a policeman. As his encounter in the pub he’d visited with Eaton and Williams had demonstrated, his physical presence could be quite intimidating.
Bronson sat down opposite Weeks and took a bite of his sandwich.
“Before we start, Chris,” the former sergeant said, keeping his voice low and taking a quick look around the interior of the café to make sure that nobody could overhear their conversation, “just so you know, I’m wearing a wire and that’s linked to a recorder in my car that’s already running. Miracle of modern technology, really. In this business, I don’t trust anybody, not even you. If I even think there’s any sign of entrapment, if you’ve been set up to try to take me down, I’ll be out of here real fast, but you won’t be following because you’ll have a bullet through your leg. And that’s if I’m feeling generous. Piss me about, and it’ll be in your gut instead. Do we understand each other?”
Bronson nodded. “No entrapment, Dickie, no funny business. I’m here because I need help, and you were the only person I could think of who could get me what I wanted. And I don’t blame you for being suspicious. In your position, I’d be just as paranoid.”
Weeks allowed himself a brief smile. “Yeah,” he said. “And just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean some bastard isn’t out to get me. Anyway, those are the rules. If you’re straight with me, there won’t be a problem.”
“You have my word,” Bronson replied.
“So you’re in trouble again?”
Bronson shook his head and chewed his sandwich for a few moments before he responded.
“Not exactly. I’ve got a bit of a nasty job on, and I just thought I needed an insurance policy.”
“And the powers that be didn’t think you needed to be tooled up?”
Bronson shook his head again. “I didn’t even ask them because I know what they’d say.”
“And that would be ‘no,’ I assume.”
“You assume correctly. They get very sniffy when it comes to firearms. You wouldn’t believe the number of forms you have to fill in before they’ll issue you anything more lethal than a bloody truncheon.”
“But you did the course, didn’t you? I mean, you’re an Authorized Firearms Officer, right?�
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Bronson nodded. “Yes. Because of my army training I did the AFO course quite soon after I joined, and I’m also a qualified SFO—Specialist Firearms Officer—which means I have the dubious privilege of being able to enter premises known to be occupied by armed criminals. Not that there’s a lot of call for that kind of thing in Tunbridge Wells. But that’s not the point. This op I’m on means I’m going deep undercover, and at the moment the only thing I can do to protect myself is take my mobile phone out of my pocket and hit the number nine three times. By the time an Armed Response Vehicle could get to me, the chances are I’d just be a mess on the floor. And I’m not wild about that possibility.”
“I take your point,” Weeks said. “So you want something to give you an edge, just in case the shit hits the fan. And that’s why you called me.”
Bronson grinned. “I could tell you I was pining for the pleasure of your company, Dickie, but you and I both know that wouldn’t be true. What I’d like from you is something small so that I can hide it easily, but with enough power that I can use it to finish any argument that anybody else starts.”
“Always happy to oblige an old comrade. I brought along a selection, actually. They’re outside, in the motor. And it’ll be cash, Chris—you know the rules.”
Bronson nodded. “Just remember I’m only a struggling copper, not some wealthy East End villain. I can’t afford to pay top dollar for what might become a throwaway weapon.”
“I was rather hoping you might bring it back when you’ve finished whatever you’re doing. If you do, I’ll give you half what you paid for it.”
“Half? That’s not much of a deal, Dickie.”
“It’s the recession, mate. Affects every business, even mine. But as it’s you, I’ll lop a bit off the price and you can have two-thirds back. Can’t say fairer than that. Oh, that assumes you don’t use the weapon in a killing. If you do, you’ll be keeping it, because I can’t move it on.”
“I bloody hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Getting squeamish in your old age?” Weeks asked with a smile.
“Not really. I was just thinking about all the extra paperwork I’d have to do.”
About five minutes later, the two men walked down Straight Road, turned left into Colchester Road, the A12, and immediately crossed to the south side. The Gidea Park shopping center was located on the corner of the road, and Weeks led the way into its car park.
Bronson looked round. The parking area was fairly long and narrow, with spaces for about two hundred cars, but bordered by a row of bushes on the side adjacent to the main road.
“You parked here?” he asked.
Weeks caught his glance and shook his head. “No. Too bloody confined for my liking,” he replied. “Never know what nasties somebody could have hidden away over there. I like the wide-open spaces. Like Tesco.”
Weeks turned right into the car park and then continued walking diagonally across it, toward the exit into Bryant Avenue. With Bronson keeping pace beside him, he crossed the road and walked on into the much bigger car park that lay behind the Gallows Corner Tesco store. Standing by itself at the far side of the car park was a late-model Range Rover, a deep lustrous black in color and with heavily tinted windows, that probably cost nearly as much as Bronson earned in a year.
“Nice motor,” Bronson said, as Weeks pressed the remote control to unlock the doors.
“Tools of the trade, mate. All the windows are bullet-proof, and there are Kevlar panels in the doors and behind most of the bodywork. That wouldn’t stop a serious attack, but I’ve had the engine breathed on a bit and the tires are run flat, so if the shooting started, I hope I’d be able to use it to get the hell out of the way.”
When they were still about fifty yards from the car, Weeks raised his hand to stop Bronson getting any closer.
“Not so fast,” he said.
“What?”
Weeks didn’t reply, just selected another button on the larger-than-normal remote control unit. As he pressed it, the Range Rover’s engine started with a throaty roar, then settled down to a steady idle.
“Just in case somebody managed to wire a lump of plastic into the ignition circuit,” Weeks explained. “I never sit in the thing and turn the key, not even if it’s in the garage at home.”
Bronson stood still and stared across the car park at the vehicle. Then he glanced at Weeks and shook his head.
“For a few minutes there I was starting to envy you your lifestyle, but if this is how you have to watch your back every day, I think I’ll stick to what I do.”
“You get used to it,” Weeks replied shortly, and led the way over to the Range Rover.
The two men climbed into the front seats. Weeks immediately checked the open expanse of the car park ahead of him and the view behind the vehicle visible in the rear-view mirrors. Shoppers, mainly women, some by themselves and others with children reluctantly in tow, were pushing trolleys to and fro, while cars were arriving and departing all the time. There was movement all around them, but none of it appeared in any way unusual or suspicious.
“Looks okay to me,” Weeks said. “No sign of any of the thin blue line lurking about either.”
“I told you, Dickie,” Bronson replied, “I’m here by myself. This isn’t a sting operation or an entrapment. Though if it was, I doubt if you’d spot any of the watchers.”
“It’s not just your lot that I worry about. I’m in a competitive industry, and sometimes people decide that a bit of direct action might be the easiest way to make sure I don’t get the business.”
“You make it sound almost legitimate,” Bronson remarked. “Selling guns, I mean.”
“That’s the funny thing about the arms business. It’s one of this country’s biggest industries, and Britain sells everything from pistols to aircraft and warships to other nations, knowing bloody well that some two-bit dictator in the middle of Africa will use the weapons to make his program of genocide that bit more efficient. And the people who run the British arms industry get invited to tea at Number Ten and are given knighthoods and all the rest. But if a freelance businessman like me gets caught selling a twenty-two-caliber target pistol to someone, he’ll end up in the slammer for a few years, and so will the buyer. Makes no sense to me.”
Bronson guessed that Weeks was treading a familiar path, though what he was saying was undeniably true—yet another demonstration of the arrant and arrogant hypocrisy of most politicians. Ever since Tony Blair had famously “banned handguns,” the only people who owned weapons in Britain were criminals, and the Labor Party had somehow managed to spin this obvious lunacy into a piece of good news for the public.
“Okay, you want a pistol, right? And some ammo, obviously. I’ve brought three along, but it all depends on what you want to spend and if you think you’re going to bring it back to me.”
“I’ll try, but I don’t know how this is going to pan out.”
“Then you probably won’t want this one,” Weeks replied.
He reached over to the backseat of the car, where a couple of coats had been draped, apparently casually, and pulled out a wooden box secured with metal catches. Weeks snapped them open and lifted the lid. Inside, set in a shaped recess, was a small black semi-automatic pistol. He lifted out the weapon, showed Bronson that there was no magazine fitted, then pulled back the slide and handed it to his companion—basic safety precautions to ensure that the weapon was unloaded.
“Smart. A subcompact Glock,” Bronson said, recognizing it immediately. He turned it over in his hands. The butt was very short, allowing the weapon to be held by two fingers, the third finger nestling in a recess at the front of the magazine when it was in place. “A nice piece of kit, but I don’t know if I can afford this. Which model is it, and what’s it chambered for?”
“It’s a Model Twenty-six, so nine millimeter, with a ten-round magazine. I’ve got a Model Twenty-seven as well, to take the forty-caliber Smith and Wesson round, but that’s a bit more expe
nsive, and really that cartridge is a bit of a handful in a pistol this small. I’ve got a standard magazine, as well as one of the factory plus-two models that gives you twelve rounds altogether, and a spare mag from a Glock Seventeen that’ll fit. That holds the usual seventeen rounds, but it sticks out a hell of a long way. If you wanted that, you’d probably be better off with just the Model Seventeen right from the start.”
Bronson nodded, looking down at the compact pistol. “It’s ideal, Dickie, but these are expensive little buggers. How much are you asking?”
“That weapon’s virtually new, and they are pricey. But for you, as a deal, you can have it for six hundred, plus twenty for a box of Parabellum. And I’ll give you four hundred if you bring it back when you’re done.”
Bronson shook his head and reluctantly handed back the weapon. “Too rich for me,” he said. “I was hoping you’d got something for less than half that.”
Weeks nodded. “I have,” he said, “but you won’t like it as much.”
He replaced the Glock in the box, closed the catches and returned it to the backseat, then rummaged around under the coats and took out another box, bigger and more battered, showing signs of its age.
He opened this box, took out the pistol and did the usual safety checks, then handed it to Bronson.
“It’s another Glock,” Weeks said. “This one’s a Model Seventeen, with two standard magazines. It’s been around for a while, but it works well. Dead reliable, these pistols.”
Bronson nodded as he inspected the weapon. It was a bit battered and there were several smears of what looked like paint on the polymer grip, but all the damage was cosmetic and the firing mechanism itself seemed in good working order as far as he could tell. There was really only one problem with it, apart from possibly the price.
“I’m not bothered about the way it looks, Dickie, but this is a full-frame pistol, and I don’t know if I could keep a weapon this size hidden in my pocket or wherever. I really need something a bit smaller.”
