Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  The penny seemed to drop. ‘I’ll be right outside,’ he said, ‘do you want me to close the cell door?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  With the prison officers waiting behind the closed door, Dominic noticed that the male visitor took up a position near the toilet, where he was both far enough away to watch and close enough to intercede, should there be any unpleasantness.

  Although he wasn’t planning to make trouble, Dominic decided to start friendly, before he sent these two upstarts packing. In the meantime, he would take his time looking at the woman’s body.

  ‘Special Branch? You look like cops,’ he said quietly, staring at the man’s expressionless face.

  ‘Security Service,’ the woman replied. ‘We want to show you some pictures and then discuss an offer.’

  Dominic repositioned the small steel table between them and beckoned her forward. ‘Come a little closer, me darlin’,’ he smiled. ‘One of us may as well enjoy this.’

  For the next few minutes he pretended to look at the photographs that were laid, one at a time, on the table between them. He took his time, savouring the opportunity for a little titillation. It wasn’t every day he had a visitor. In fact, this was only the second time since he had been remanded. The first had also been a woman from the Security Services. She had kept her distance and was much more businesslike than this one. She had asked him about the bombings, who had recruited him and who he had worked with. Needless to say he hadn’t told her a thing. He was no tout.

  The new woman asked if he recognised any of the people in the photographs. He denied knowing any of them. Every so often she would tap a particular photo and ask if he remembered a person. There must have been a hundred in total. Some were mug shots but many were taken in the street, in clubs and in pubs.

  One photo showed an older IRA member in a clinch with a naked woman that certainly wasn’t his wife. McGlinty was careful not to give away the fact that he recognised him but he made a mental note to remember it in case the knowledge should prove useful in the future.

  One more seemed familiar, but he wasn’t sure. It looked like a picture that Declan had been given. One of the assassination targets. Again, he was careful not to display any sign of interest.

  Finally, the woman returned the last photograph to a small briefcase.

  ‘Sorry me darlin’, looks like yer wasted yer time,’ he smirked.

  ‘The ones I indicated – are you sure you didn’t recognise any of them?’

  ‘Ne’re the one of ‘em.’

  ‘Good. They work for us.’

  ‘To be sure they do; like pigs fly missus.’ Dominic gave a forced laugh; his patience was wearing thin.

  ‘I would like you to work for us too, Mr McGlinty.’

  Dominic sneered. ‘Not a fuckin’ chance.’

  ‘I need information, you know the kind of thing.’ The smile was warm, intoxicating; her eyes, enchanting.

  ‘Like I said, not a fuckin’ chance.’

  He knew the score. Talk and your family suffered. Christ he had even done punishment squads himself. But for a squeeze of those tits, he smiled to himself, who knows what I might do? His trousers tightened at the thought.

  ‘Stand up.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Stand up. I want to show you something.’

  Dominic stood – more curious than obedient. As he did so, he noticed the male officer moving to position himself in front of the cell door, blocking the view through the wicket. For a moment it crossed Dominic’s mind that things were going to get violent, but the man was relaxed.

  He looked down at the woman sitting in front of him. And, for a moment, he was dumbstruck; she had rolled down the front of her top to expose her breasts. There they were, pale and fulsome, just three feet from his groin.

  ‘You’ve had a hard-on since you saw them, and my guess is they might be the last ones you get to see for a very long time.’

  Dominic guessed the trick. Simple sexual blackmail. He could resist threats but how long could he resist the lure of a woman’s body?

  ‘Drop your trousers.’

  ‘You serious?’ he replied, reaching for the zip to his fly. He looked again at the male officer. The man hadn’t moved from the door, he simply winked, as if he knew what was to come.

  The woman pushed the small, steel table to one side and slid her chair closer. Dominic rolled his trousers down over his thighs as she moved her head into his groin. She knew what she was doing. Within seconds she had him at her mercy.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ he gasped, his breathing becoming laboured.

  He closed his eyes. And soon, he felt his groin begin to explode. He grunted, moaned out loud. And then, just as he came, the woman moved her face to one side, holding his buttocks tight. He smiled to himself as he felt her squeeze. There was a sharp pain as her ring caught his skin. But he hardly noticed it, such was the pleasure of the moment.

  For a moment, he felt giddy. He opened his eyes. The male agent was still standing impassively by the door.

  ‘Yer don’t swallow then?’ he sneered at the woman.

  ‘Maybe another time, depending on what you do for me, Dominic. Think of that as a little example of what can be done for you.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he replied, already wondering how many blow jobs he could squeeze out of the bitch without telling her too much.

  Allowing Dominic just enough time to fasten his trousers, the male officer knocked on the cell door. It opened immediately.

  A few seconds later, the Irishman was alone in his cell, wondering if he had just dreamed what had happened. The mess on the floor told him he hadn’t.

  About an hour later, the late-shift desk officer arrived to finish the cellvisit paperwork. Dominic was on his bed, reading. He had to scan the form and sign it to confirm there had been no incidents during the visit and he had no complaints. He signed without reading it fully. But the names of the officers caught his attention. A cold chill of uncertainty ran down his spine and he missed a breath. The name … Antonia Fellowes. It was the same name as the other MI5 agent – the one that had been in to question him several weeks previously. But today he definitely hadn’t seen the same woman.

  For a moment he thought to mention it to the screw, but then the door was closed and the opportunity gone. He lay back on his bed. No way could there be two MI5 people with the same name; so one of them had to have been a fake. Or maybe not – maybe they all used the same name when visiting the prison? He rolled over onto his side and as he did so he noticed a small red patch on the threadbare sheet. Blood. From its position on the bed he guessed it was from his buttock, where Fellowes number two had scratched him with her ring.

  He touched the spot. It was tender but it made him smile. A worthwhile war wound, he thought, and maybe the first of many.

  Chapter 35

  InterContinental Hotel, Bucharest

  For most of the day following the wedding, I nursed a sore head.

  The wedding custom was to serve just one course at a time, followed by an hour of dancing and drinking. That meant the reception stretched well into the early hours. I had intended to last through until the morning, but age and the local liquor caught up with me. By three o’clock, I had been ready for bed and was pleased to discover that Jenny wasn’t minded to argue.

  During our day at the wedding, there had been a lot of thank-yous.

  The first was from the family patriarch, Gheorghe Cristea. Gheorghe had struck me as a generous man, but with a tough streak. He spoke poor English but what he lacked in vocabulary he made up for in enthusiasm. So effusive was his appreciation for my rescuing his daughter that, once again, I felt embarrassed.

  And yet, despite his apparent warmth towards me, I sensed Gheorghe was a ruthless and determined businessman, used to getting what he wanted. When, at one point, we had been disturbed by a maid, he had been abrupt in the way he addressed her. I also saw the fear in the woman’s eyes – and it was not born of her
simple mistake at interrupting our conversation. The poor woman seemed petrified of her employer.

  Traditional Romanian weddings are lengthy affairs with festivities beginning on the Friday evening and continuing through until the Sunday. Even before we had arrived, there had been a great deal of celebration: dancing and drinking. Anca – Marica’s sister-in-law – had assumed the role of wedding organiser.

  As we arrived, a lăutar had started to play an accordion and we had been encouraged to try the horas and manea group dances. There were also traditions to be followed, including the ritual shaving of the groom. All the guests cheered as we adjourned to the courtyard to watch.

  After that, Anca warned me to expect a mock kidnapping. She explained it had been arranged that Marica would be taken at about five in the evening to a neighbour’s tennis court, where she would be kept until the ransom was paid. The groom’s friends had agreed a payment of six bottles of Scotch whisky. They would carry Marica away, and then one of them would return a few minutes later with one of her shoes – an indication they were willing to do business.

  Just before the appointed time, two of the male guests got into a row. Anca stepped in quickly to defuse it, with the result that the men agreed on a short dance competition with their girlfriends performing as good a rendition of the manele as their high heels and tight dresses would allow. Both the girls’ dresses were bright and colourful, as befitted the warmth of the day. One was blue and green; the other a lovely summer yellow with broad red stripes. The girls were good dancers and gave it their all.

  Unable to decide a winner, one of the men had approached Chas Collins for a judgement. There was a tense moment when the security men intervened, but the author had agreed to make a choice.

  The winner was given a small bouquet of flowers made up from one of the display stands on the tables. The tension dissipated, the bet was decided and the drinking continued. All was well; that was until the mock kidnapping, when the men arrived to collect Marica.

  It all started fairly smoothly, when friends of the groom ran in from the street and started to carry the bride towards the doors. But one of them had come up with what he must have thought was a great way to add a touch of realism. He was carrying a plastic assault rifle; it looked like a Kalashnikov.

  The two security men with Collins reacted immediately. It turned out nobody had warned them about the custom; to them, the attack appeared real. In a moment, they had drawn pistols and pushed both Collins and his companion to the ground. One of them turned the table they were sat behind onto its side.

  Several women screamed as drinks and food went flying everywhere. Then, two of the Cristea men responded by drawing their own weapons and threatening the bodyguards.

  The men were shouting at each other, in both English and Romanian. It looked like they were all saying to put down their guns, but neither group understood the other.

  With nobody able or prepared to break the stalemate, I came to the sudden realisation that I was the only Westerner aware of the misunderstanding.

  I quickly nodded to Jenny and then walked into the melée, slowly raising my arms in a calming gesture.

  At first, it appeared to be working. But one of the Cristea men wasn’t having it. He dashed forward and pushed the muzzle of his Glock into my face. My attempt to resolve the situation had failed.

  But the gunman, in his excitement, had put his finger on the trigger guard of the pistol rather than the trigger itself. Noticing it, I realised I had one chance. I lowered my hands as if protesting at what was happening and then, using a move that would have made some of my old instructors proud, I twisted the pistol away from his hand, removed the clip, ejected the round in the chamber and then handed it back to him with a polite smile.

  As the other members of the ‘kidnap’ gang began to laugh, I hastily explained to the security men about the tradition and suggested they relax and put their guns away. They did as they were asked, everybody calmed down and the incident was soon over. The remainder of the evening passed quietly. Petre and Anca came over and thanked me for stepping in. They said I had been brave, I said not. I hadn’t had time to think, it had happened so quickly. Brave men are those that face fear and overcome it, I said. Jenny wasn’t pleased with me though, and, with the benefit of hindsight, I soon realised the crazy risk I had taken.

  Throughout the evening, Collins didn’t speak to me. Not a word. In fact, Jenny and I noticed that he didn’t speak to anyone other than his female companion throughout the whole day. But it was only when we entered the lift to head back to our room that I discovered the reasons for the author’s silence and the presence of the security men.

  Jenny had spent a lot of time chatting to Maggie, the companion. It turned out that she was Collins’ agent in London. Jenny had warmed to her and found that, after a couple of glasses of wine, Maggie became a bit incautious. It seemed that Collins had attended the wedding under protest; and the scuffle had done nothing to improve his mood. Maggie was cross with him; he seemed determined not to enjoy himself and had made much of the dangers of travelling to unsafe parts of the world. He was also upset because an interview he’d just recorded with the BBC hadn’t gone well, just when he had been hoping to negotiate a new deal for future books. Cristea Publishing were also pressurising him to come up with some new ideas. They wanted to cash in on the notoriety that Cyclone had generated.

  Maggie Price was in the middle. An agent who felt like a referee.

  Chapter 36

  Thames House, London. Headquarters of MI5

  Toni Fellowes sat very, very still. She barely noticed as people filed into the conference room.

  Everything she had been working on was now dead in the water. Everything.

  It was Saturday, her day off. The Reserve Office had called at six am with a brief message from Director ‘T’. My office, 0900hrs this morning. It was not a request.

  Getting called into work on a weekend wasn’t unusual, but a call to a meeting with the Director was only going to mean problems, either professional or personal. And today, it was both.

  Her Section Head, Dave Batey, had been waiting for her as she had arrived. Batey was a tough ex-soldier who had transferred from the Intelligence Corps during the Irish troubles and then risen slowly through the ranks. He was now in charge of T2/1 department, which was tasked with both investigating terrorism and liaising with Police Special Branch offices throughout the UK. Batey was also a frustrated field operative who liked to keep his hand in whenever and wherever he could; the kind of man who would never ask one of his team to do something he wasn’t prepared to do himself.

  Batey took Toni into his office, closed the door, and summarised events for her benefit. Unusually, he suggested she think carefully before commenting.

  The purpose of the meeting called by Dirt was to discuss an incident at Belmarsh Prison. Dominic McGlinty had died in the prison hospital. He’d been murdered by a visitor, who had injected him with ricin.

  The visitor log at Belmarsh had recorded the name and ID of the visitor; it was Toni Fellowes.

  The Director had invited a number of key people to the meeting. Present were the Commander of the Police Special Branch, the Head of the Police Press Bureau and Bill Grahamslaw from the police Anti-Terrorist Squad. The deputy Director ‘T’ and several Section Heads from other MI5 departments were also in attendance.

  Before sitting down, Batey had reassured her that no mention would be made of her name, at this stage. It was a small concession that did little to alleviate the turmoil of her thoughts.

  The meeting began. Toni felt all eyes were on her, even though only three of the people present knew how the assassin had gained access to the prison.

  Director ‘T’ started formally, recording the names of those present for the benefit of the minute-taker. He then informed the meeting of McGlinty’s death and said, for the time being, the cause of death was being attributed to natural causes. However, he told them it was now certain that McGlinty ha
d been murdered; he had died three days after a visit by two people who had impersonated members of the Security Service.

  Suspicions had been raised when McGlinty – in the prison hospital having suffered a rapid onset of diarrhoea, thought to be food poisoning – boasted to another prisoner about a female MI5 officer performing oral sex on him to try and get him to work as a tout. Toni felt bile rise in her throat. Her name was going to be tarred with that brush, whatever the final outcome.

  McGlinty’s fellow prisoner had repeated the claim to a doctor and the prison staff had, in turn, alerted Special Branch.

  The Special Branch Commander asked a question, looking in her direction as he spoke. ‘Is that how we get information from terrorists these days, Director?’

  The Director ignored the question, moving on to report that, after McGlinty died, a post-mortem had been immediately ordered. The Security Service pathologist had discovered a tiny metal pellet in the victim’s buttock. The pellet had been analysed and had been found to contain the poison ricin. The pathologist had confirmed that diarrhoea was a symptom of ricin poisoning. There was no doubt the murder was a very professional hit.

  Toni watched the faces around the table; only Grahamslaw’s remained straight – the others looked horrified. A couple of questions were asked about whether the use of ricin was likely to become a new weapon of terror. The Director confirmed that several embryonic terror groups were said to be experimenting with the poison, but the reality was, it was a difficult and dangerous substance to manufacture.

  It was Dave Batey who suggested the IRA might have been behind the murder. Whilst the use of ricin had not been attributed to them in the past, it is quite possible McGlinty’s killing could have been outsourced to another group; one with access to the substance.

  Whoever was responsible, the reason for the murder seemed clear: it was to prevent McGlinty from talking.