The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  “Aye, but what the analysts say goes. You know that. They say that the NGS1 GPS system was not your average, everyday piece of kit that the Kurds might get hold of. As soon as the Iraqis found it, they pointed a finger at the west. In light of the ISIS attack on British soil last year, they pointed the finger at Britain.”

  “Well whatever happened to good old fashioned lying?” King asked. “They would have pointed the finger anyway. The fact that I used an archaic piece of Russian hardware would not have made any difference! Shit, I could have used a .50 calibre Barratt or a Macmillan, and taken him out from five times the distance! The irony is that they would never have got close to us and we would have been able to make a clean getaway. The bloody GPS would never have been lost in the first place,” he paused, shaking his head in exasperation. “Why the Hell couldn’t the analysts have foreseen that in the first place?”

  Stewart shrugged impassively, almost distancing himself from his agent. “Lord knows. All I know is, that you have to go back and finish the job.” He opened the file and took out the cover page. “Akmed and Shameel Faisal are the priority, they worked directly with you and helped you to escape back into Turkey,” Stewart shrugged. “I’m sorry, it just has to be done…”

  King stood up and paced across to the window. He pulled the blind down, kinking it slightly as he peered down to the murky river below. “For god’s sake, the whole village knew why I was there, do you want me to take care of them as well? Two men knew me, but they didn’t even know my bloody name! This is bogus. The area is hot and ISIS are being cleaned up by a new front of Iraqi soldiers, desperate to prove they’re not behind extremism. They’re a capable bunch these days, they won’t have made it easy for the likes of me to operate.”

  “Akmed and Shameel are the targets. Let’s keep it at that,” Stewart paused. “You will have a different liaison officer this time, someone to help you back over the border. Or organise assistance in other ways.”

  King released the blind and glared at the big Scotsman. “A babysitter, you mean,” he stated flatly. “Someone to make sure that the job gets done. Why don’t you just get him to do the job, wouldn’t it save a whole lot of trouble?”

  “He’s a she actually. The name’s Juliet Kalver. Pronounced Carver, for some obscure reason,” he paused and pointed to the file on top of the desk. “Her picture is in there, towards the back.”

  “Doesn’t sound very local to the region,” King mused as he sifted through the thin pile of documents and maps.

  “She isn’t. She’s a Yank, works for the CIA. She’s from a Hispanic background, but speaks perfect Arabic. Kalver is her husband’s name,” he paused. “She’s been operating in the region for just over five months.”

  “So it’s a joint operation now?” King smirked. “Big brother wants to make sure little brother does his chores…”

  “It’s become messy, Alex. The US has requested we clean house.”

  “Doesn’t hubby mind her doing this sort of work?”

  “Shouldn’t do, he’s dead.”

  King found the enlarged photograph and pulled it from behind the rest of the paperwork. He stared at the woman’s features and into her dark eyes. There was beauty there, but an eerie sadness prevailed. He suspected that the woman had seen a great deal of life’s suffering. He replaced the photograph and turned back to Stewart. “What about my insertion?”

  “Ah, yes. Thought you might like this one. No late night border dodges for you this time.”

  “No?”

  “No. The Turks are patrolling non-stop on the Syrian and Iraqi borders. Pressure from Europe and the sudden influx of ISIS supporters. Stupid Muslim girls and boys from Birmingham and Leeds or whatnot…” Stewart smiled. “The border has really hotted up this week. The press are all over it. So, you’re doing it like I used to… parachute drop, almost directly over Kalsagir.”

  King frowned, and tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Sounds a bit risky to me. Why don’t I just slip over the border just north of Amadiyah? Anyway, how the hell are you going to explain an aircraft over Northern Iraq?”

  “To answer the first of your questions, the border is simply too hot. As I said, they’re all over it. Not only are the Turks finally getting security right, but the Iraqi army are patrolling night and day, your chances of getting into Iraq would be slim. Secondly, we’ve come up with a solution for the aircraft. We’ve arranged for a private pilot to veer off course from Southern Turkey. In which time, you will exit the aircraft and open your chute at approximately two hundred feet.”

  “You’re joking…”

  “No my friend, quite serious. It will be at dawn, so you’ll just about be able to see the ground when you jump. The coordinates are vital, so you will have to double-check with the pilot.”

  “What the hell will I be flying in?” King asked, somewhat bemused at the scenario.

  Stewart coughed apprehensively. “An old Cessna one-seven-two. The starboard side has been fitted with a sliding door and a footrest,” he paused and smiled wryly. “But your contact will be at the drop zone to meet you.”

  “What about the pilot, what happens to him?”

  “Ahh,” Stewart paused nervously. “Our office in Istanbul have identified him as a double-agent. Not for any particular organization, just a bit of a freelance profiteer. He sells information to whoever he thinks will be most grateful. One day it’s the Iraqis, the next it’s Al Qaeda. But rest assure, he has cost us lives and we want rid of him.”

  “Easier said than done at just a few hundred feet.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way. You usually do.”

  King nodded, then returned his eyes to the file. “What about this Kalver woman, what happens to her?”

  “Nothing. She is the CIA’s new girl wonder. She will stay behind and continue to conduct New Dawn. She will help you to get out of the country. How you do it is all down to you.”

  “If the border is too hot for insertion, then surely it is too hot for exfiltration?” he paused, then nodded knowingly. “That’s it, isn’t it? As long as I get in and get the job done, everybody is happy. It doesn’t matter that I might not be able to get back out…”

  “Frankly Alex, yes. You know the score, get it done. How you get home is up to you. As usual, you will be issued with a considerable amount of unaccounted expenses. How you use them is also up to you. Personally, I would recommend using them to your advantage. Use your noggin. Beg, borrow and steal. Put a bit by for retirement…”

  King sifted through the remaining paperwork, then turned to the Scotsman. “Where do I meet the pilot?”

  “You will be met at Istanbul International Airport by a liaison officer, then transported immediately to an airstrip in Southern Turkey. There, you will meet the pilot. As you can see from the brief, there’s only a small window of opportunity. You will be back in the air almost as soon as you arrive. From there, the pilot will stray into Iraq.”

  “Sound’s tight.”

  “It will be. Believe me, CIA reports are all confirming the worst. The Iraqi intelligence service is close to discovering who was behind the hit. It is only a matter of time before they get to the Faisal brothers.”

  “Well there you go. Job done.”

  “It’s not going to play out like that. The cards have been dealt.”

  33

  “Charles Bryant?” He shook his head in bewilderment, then stared at the man in front of him. “Are you sure?”

  The scruffy-looking Indonesian nodded and retrieved a tattered sheet of note paper from his back pocket. “Charles Bryant, company director of CB Mineraltec.” He slid the paper across the desk, then leaned back in his seat and beamed a grin of immense satisfaction. “I followed him all the way to his company’s offices in east Jakarta.”

  “And you are sure that this man was Bryant?” The man placed his hand inside his jacket but hesitated. “Because if you are wrong...”

  “No! The man was Charles Bryant. His vehicle’s registrat
ion number is right there on the piece of paper!” He took out his rather basic cellphone and thumbed the screen. “Here, I got a picture of him…”

  The effeminate looking man looked at the slightly blurry image and nodded. He gave back the phone and took the thick envelope out of his inside pocket and placed it on the desk, but he still kept his hand on top of the packet. “This is a great deal of money to you,” he stated flatly. “Would you like to double it?”

  The scruffy Indonesian looked suspiciously at the smart, effeminate looking man behind the desk, but nodded a little too eagerly.

  “Good.” The man picked up the package and slipped it back into his inside pocket. “I’ll keep this safe for you, until you return.”

  The scruffy man visibly sank in his seat as he watched the man’s cruel smile. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, dejected at losing sight of his payment.

  “I want you to follow Bryant, find out what both he and Junus Kutu are up to. I want to know who else Bryant meets and if possible, I want you to find out what he talks about.” He subconsciously adjusted his silk necktie, then glanced down at his slim gold wristwatch. “Go back to Bryant’s offices and follow him home.” He looked thoughtful for a second or two then took a gold fountain pen out from his inside pocket and scribbled on a piece of note paper. “Here, take this,” he said, then waited for the scruffy man to take the paper and start to read. “It’s Bryant’s address, just on the outskirts of the city, near Bekasi. We have done a great deal of business with Mister Bryant over the years.” He smiled sardonically, with a brief chuckle. “Now it certainly looks as if we may well be doing some more.”

  34

  “Do you take me for a fool?” General Soto shook his head as if he were answering the question for him. “Of course you don’t! So then, why treat me as one?”

  Tembarak spat out a mouthful of blood and looked up at him pleadingly. “I am not! I cannot tell you any more than I already know!” He watched the man as he raised the revolver above his head. “No! Please don’t hit me again! I don’t know anything else!”

  General Soto brought the revolver’s barrel down onto the side of Tembarak’s damaged knee, then swiped upwards catching him in the face, just as he had done not two minutes before.

  Tembarak cried out in agony, then looked down at the floor as he continued to bleed from the mouth. He felt the saltiness in the back of his throat, but was more distressed at the discomfort of not being able to hold his hand to the pain, to comfort the injury. He felt the shards of broken teeth with the tip of his tongue, spat them out onto the bloody floor in front of him.

  General Soto spun the weapon around his finger by the trigger guard western style then slipped it expertly back into his hip holster. He caught hold of Tembarak by a handful of his hair and pulled his head upwards until their eyes met. “Do you want the soldiers to amuse themselves with your wife?” He waited for the man to shake his head, then smiled, as he saw the desperation in his eyes. He released his grip, and Tembarak’s head dropped down, resting his chin against his bloodstained chest. Soto smiled once more. He waited for Tembarak to look back at him, then in an instant, he whipped the revolver out from his holster and spun it around his finger again, before the barrel came to rest directly in front of Tembarak’s eyes. “Do you know anything about handguns?”

  Tembarak knew a little. He had passed the compulsory small arms course in training, but he did not answer. Instead, he watched the General’s childish display, which seemed to have the two young guards quite transfixed.

  “The revolver is seldom used by the armies or police forces of the world. Your average soldier rarely needs to use a handgun at all.” Soto started spinning the revolver around his finger again, then brought it to a halt instantly, with the hammer cocked and his finger resting on the trigger. He turned the weapon back towards Tembarak and aimed the barrel at the centre of the man’s forehead. “You see, ever since the end of the First World War there has been a push for weapons to fire at greater rates of fire and have more and more capacity for ammunition. All this has really done is increase the supply of bullets. Back in the First World War soldiers averaged one point five bullets per kill. In the Second World War that increased to forty bullets per kill. By the time Vietnam ended for the Americans it stood at a quarter of a million bullets per kill…” Soto studied the large revolver in his hand then turned his eyes back to his prisoner. “I think some of the old ways are best. Teach a man to shoot well. Make every bullet count.” He thumbed the cylinder catch and dropped the six .357 magnum bullets into the palm of his left hand. He grinned at Tembarak as he slipped just one of them back into the cylinder and snapped it shut. He placed the remaining bullets into his trouser pocket, then pulled back the hammer to ‘half-cock’ position and spun the cylinder with his left hand. The cylinder spun like a bicycle wheel, then ran out of momentum and stopped. Soto continued to smile, as he cocked the hammer and walked over to Tembarak’s wife, who lay still on the bed.

  “No!” Tembarak shouted at the top of his voice. “Please!”

  General Soto rested the muzzle of the barrel against the woman’s temple and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud, distinctive click as the hammer dropped down onto an empty chamber and the woman, who had been completely unaware, visibly jumped. She looked at the revolver, then started to scream. Soto smiled and pulled the hammer back halfway and spun the cylinder once more. “The correct way to do this is to keep pulling the trigger until someone dies, taking it in turns of course. That was how the drunken Russian soldiers perfected the game on cold Siberian nights. However, I have found it more entertaining to keep spinning the cylinder, that way the game can go on and on…” He looked across at Sergeant Grogol and smiled. “Grogol once kept a man sweating for an hour. That’s impressive for one in six odds. What are the chances of me doing the same with your wife?”

  Tembarak shook his head. “Please! I have already told you everything. I was sent to the bank to look into your accounts. I was to come up with names and details of all your financial transactions. To date, I have come up with nothing…”

  Click.

  “No!”

  “Quiet!” Soto cocked the hammer and pointed the revolver back at Tembarak and squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  He pulled back the hammer again, then aimed the weapon at the woman’s head. Again, he pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  General Soto looked at him and pulled back the hammer once more. “Three shots without spinning the cylinder. At best, you have two more…”

  “I don’t know anything else! They know about your aspirations for leadership and they know of your deal with China. They wanted me to find out more. But as I have told you, I don’t know anything else!”

  Soto looked at him and shook his head belligerently. “They know nothing of my plans with China! The coalition are just fumbling in the dark! Sending idiots like you to get themselves killed!” He looked at Tembarak and shook his head contemptuously. “To think that you would risk your own life, and that of your wife’s, for such an impotent, weak-minded government. Can you not think of a higher, greater good which you could serve, for which you would be prepared to die?” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned to Sergeant Grogol. “Get the woman cleaned up and her wound seen to, then have her locked in a holding cell,” he paused and looked at Tembarak briefly. “While you are at it, have this man cleaned up and find him something to eat and drink. After that, put him in a cell on his own and report back to me.”

  35

  She flicked through the pages of the passport, taking in the vast array of visas adorning its back pages with a combination of admiration for the traveler and a hint of jealousy, having never had the opportunity to travel herself. She turned back to the photograph and studied the man before her. A shade under six foot, broad shoulders, muscular chest and trim waist. His hair was dark, but the odd grey was showing through which was not indicated in the photograph. His features were a
little more prominent now, the wrinkles more pronounced; but she could see that the man had not gained weight in the six years since the document had been issued.

  Alex King watched her closely, aware that his visa stamps made for impressive reading, although he omitted to tell the Turkish customs officer of the other two passports, each under a different name, and the two clean passports in his own name which were stitched into the lining of his travel bag. The clean passports held visas which would not offend certain countries. You wouldn’t get into Israel with a recent Syrian or Iranian visa for example.

  She closed the passport and handed it back to him, then turned blankly towards the next man, who stood approximately five feet away behind the thick yellow line separating the queue of travelers from her desk. King thanked the woman, slipped the passport back into his jacket pocket, picked up his one, medium-sized travel bag and headed towards the exit. He was used to travelling light and never carried more than one bag. That way he could be sure of exiting airports quickly and never had to wait for his luggage, which he knew could easily be misplaced or delayed. He bypassed the hordes of anxious holidaymakers preparing for the scramble ahead and made his way through the green passage and into the crowds of eager taxi drivers, luggage carriers and travel reps.

  He studied the crowd casually, then cringed at the sight of a slightly built young man holding a small handwritten placard, baring the blatant legend - MR. KING. He walked on past the young man, to check if he was alone. He studied the man’s build then looked to see whether he was carrying anything which might spoil the lines of his well-tailored linen suit. Satisfied that his new companion was both alone and unarmed, King walked over and smiled politely. “I’m King. You are expecting me?”

  “Alex King of the London office? Yes I am,” the young man drawled, in what King guessed to be a naturally upper class accent. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you actually. Glad to be working with you.”