by A P Bateman
King nodded, uninterested in his new companion’s aspirations. He looked warily around the large foyer, then turned back to the young man. “Do you have transport?”
The man nodded and King held his bag out for him to carry. He liked to establish the pecking order early on. “Come on then. We’d better be going.”
The young man took King’s bag and led the way through the foyer towards the vast taxi rank skirting the perimeter of the building. He continued past the row of cars, then turned his head back to King as he walked.
“My name is Richard Houndsworth,” he announced amiably, then slowed his pace to allow King to walk alongside him. “I will be accompanying you to our destination. The time window will be extremely narrow, but not to worry, you can catch up with some sleep on the flight.”
“Where are we going now, then?” King asked, as they reached the end of the taxi rank. “Are we not just catching an internal flight to somewhere nearer the border?”
“We are, but not from here,” Houndsworth paused, then nodded towards the nearby car park, motioning King to follow him across the road. “We have a helicopter, fueled and ready to go. It’s just a few minutes’ car ride from here. We have to stop off halfway for a refuel, but that should only take half an hour or so.” He fell silent as they approached the first row of cars, then briefly glanced at his key-fob. He looked across at a nearby Toyota Corolla, double-checked the vehicle’s number plate with the key fob and then walked decisively towards it.
King watched him intently, realising that this was the first time that the man had set eyes on the vehicle. He had obviously been dropped off at the airport and was merely following the instructions and directions he had been given. King noted that the security surrounding this operation was tight. He had already been ordered to kill the pilot of the light plane and started to doubt whether the pilot was really a double agent, or whether he would just be another loose-end, like King’s two Kurdish companions. And how the Hell was he going to kill the pilot? Unless they had another pilot arranged for the mission a plane crashing down with a dead pilot was going to do a bit more than ruin the element of surprise… He looked across at Richard Houndsworth as he slipped the key into the lock and started to wonder what was in store for his new-found companion.
36
“He can’t be bloody serious!” Arnott exclaimed loudly. A little too loudly for Donald McCullum’s liking.
“The important thing is to remain calm,” McCullum said quietly. He looked across at Stewart and raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Where is Alex King as we speak?”
Stewart frowned. “In Turkey,” he paused, deciding that he would probably need to be more specific. “He should have just landed in Istanbul. Richard Houndsworth, of the Istanbul office, should have met him by now.”
McCullum kept his eyes on Stewart and nodded. “All right, there is little we can do but allow the operation to continue as planned.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think that everyone will agree that this is not only necessary, but probably most prudent.” He waited for the two men to nod in unison, then continued to question Peter Stewart. “Did you suspect that King was doing something like this?”
Stewart glared back at him. “Of course not!”
“Well he is one of your field agents, you are meant to keep close tabs on them at all times,” McCullum shook his head, almost dumbfounded. “Why was this not spotted earlier?”
Stewart glared contemptuously at the Deputy Director General. “Because until now, nobody has ever ordered that his private life be violated!”
“He is a specialist for the SIS. He has no private life!” Marcus Arnott interrupted.
Stewart ignored him, deciding to keep his attention focused on McCullum. “What I am saying is, it is not regular procedure to go through an agent’s possessions. This was only stumbled upon after the order was given. What King does in his private life…” he glanced across at Arnott. “...should ordinarily be no concern of ours.”
“Writing a book of his bloody memoirs is very much our concern!” Arnott responded. He held up a sheet of the printout which had been given to both of them not ten minutes earlier. “If it’s half as compelling as this, it’ll be bestseller within weeks!”
“I’m not disputing that it will be a problem for us, I am just saying that there would have been no way of knowing.” Stewart looked across at McCullum and shook his head dejectedly. “For God’s sake, Donald, I had no idea! How could I have?”
McCullum shrugged. “He’s your agent, you helped to train him. You’re the one who should have been keeping tabs on him. Instead, because he’s a one-off, the best at what he does, you cut him some slack. Perhaps a little too much,” he paused, then glanced down at the sheets of paper in front of him. “It was all very well allowing the man to go off into the countryside painting his bloody pictures, but now we know he was diverting his artistic flair into other channels.”
Stewart remained silent. He was familiar with the technique, having seen it time and time before. He knew that he was already being set-up as the scapegoat, he would not be surprised if his signature had found its way onto several sensitive documents already. “I’ll talk to him. Remind him of the Official Secrets act, let him know that the nature of his work may have the faint whiff of murder about it. He’ll change his mind when he thinks what a few life sentences will do for him…” He looked at McCullum, who was shaking his head emphatically. He sighed in resignation. He’d tried at least. “All right, what do you want me to do?”
McCullum smiled. “You can take a handful of men and step up the search for his Security Blanket. Two components have been located, Holmwood is certain that there should only be one more, given both King’s patterns and locations worked or time on leave,” he paused, glancing at Arnott. “In your opinion, what can be done to destroy King’s chances of getting his memoirs into print?”
Marcus Arnott shrugged. “Well he’s signed the Official Secrets Act. Legally he can’t divulge any pertinent information. He could always write under the guise of fiction though. Like those former SAS types do. He could write some extremely embarrassing and sensitive situations regarding SIS into his story. Publishers and literary agents tend to keep a firm lid on any future projects. Finding out whether King has a contract will prove nigh on impossible.”
“What makes you an expert all of a sudden?” Stewart asked, a trace of cynicism clearly detectable in his voice.
Arnott looked at him. “My sister, old boy. She was a school teacher, plodded away writing romantic fiction for a decade. When she retired she wrote a sort of romantic thriller. The book sold quite well, didn’t get anywhere near the bestsellers, but netted her a fairly considerable sum all the same.”
“The trouble is, the sort of thing that King is writing about is bound to sell well. Espionage, assassinations, intrigue, God only knows how well it could do with the appropriate marketing. And that factor is a given. An actual government assassin writing espionage thrillers… That’s gold to a good publicist,” McCullum sat back in his seat and frowned. “And then there’s the internet, self-publishing, blogs… But we’re digressing. King is writing his bloody memoirs and we categorically can’t allow it to go any further. He also has sensitive documented evidence of missions he’s participated in locked up in various legal offices. It simply ends now. King is a loose cannon. Who the Hell does he think he is? Trying to hold the firm to ransom? No, he needs to be taken out of the picture altogether.”
“Assassinated?” Stewart asked dubiously. The Scotsman looked perplexed, he’d never come across this sort of action in his entire career, let alone been a part of it.
“Maybe not,” McCullum said. “He’s about to drop into a living Hell on Earth. If we can locate and lift the rest of his security blanket before he starts running about in a war zone, then maybe we’ll get lucky and ISIS or the Iraqis will do the work for us...”
37
The helicopter was a Gazelle. It was in need of some body r
epairs and a coat of paint. The paint didn’t bother king as much as the repairs. The aircraft had hit something, or had a minor crash. Which made King think about the pilot. Maybe a vehicle had backed into it in the hanger. King hung on to that thought as they walked from the car across the dirt yard to the helicopter.
“She’s a bit of a dog, but she’ll get us there all the same.” Houndsworth stood next to him, still carrying the bag like a loyal butler. He turned towards the old metal hangar and pointed to a man sitting in the back of an open Jeep reading from a newspaper and keeping his bare shoulders out of the sun. “That’s the pilot. He does a bit of work for us from time to time, and has agreed to take us to the border.”
King watched the man, then turned back to Houndsworth. “What are we waiting for then?” he paused, studying the Turk in the back of the Jeep. “If the time frame is so tight, why the Hell don’t we get going?”
Houndsworth shrugged. “He is a bit temperamental, perhaps he’s waiting for us to go to him?”
“But the bloody chopper is over here!” King kicked a small pebble across the dusty ground, then looked at his liaison officer. “Don’t you think that it might be a good idea to find out what’s going on?”
The young man nodded, put down King’s travel bag and walked hastily across towards the rickety looking hangar.
King turned around and looked out across the dry plain, which spread out far into the distance. It reminded him vaguely of Northern Iraq and the task which lay ahead. Getting into the country would be easy enough, as long as the American woman, Juliet Kalver, was at the rendezvous to meet him. If not, then he knew the coordinates of the village and could tab there within a few hours. No doubt his two good friends would be pleased to see him again and would offer him a bed for the duration of his stay. King turned around cringing suddenly at the irony. Richard Houndsworth was walking back towards him, stumbling briefly on the rough ground, but quickly regaining his footing as he walked despondently towards the helicopter.
He looked apologetically at King, then shrugged. “He says that he cannot leave the hangar until his brother-in-law arrives to look after the place.”
“What?” King looked at him and shook his head. “Are you joking? For Christ’s sake Houndsworth we have an operation here!” He looked across at the pilot, who was nonchalantly turning the pages of his newspaper. “I’m not putting my arse in a sling because your pilot hasn’t got his act together. Go over and tell him he flies now, or I will go over, slot the bastard there and then and fly the fucking chopper myself!”
Houndsworth trembled as he saw the expression on King’s face. He looked briefly into his hard, glacier-blue eyes, then glanced to the ground, never wanting to make eye-contact with this man again. He turned back across the dusty ground, a shiver running down his spine as he thought of what he had just experienced. No wonder Alex King was an assassin, there was nothing behind his eyes but death.
King watched from the helicopter as Houndsworth talked to the arrogant looking Turk. He studied the Turk’s mannerisms and Houndsworth’s own body language and could tell in an instant that the young liaison officer was getting nowhere. King could see that he not only lacked vital experience, but also the authority or presence to win over the Turkish pilot. He turned around and opened the left-hand door to the bulbous fuselage, then dropped his travel bag onto a rear seat. He looked back at the two men and could see that the pilot took exception to his aircraft being touched by anyone. King left the door open and walked calmly across the waste ground towards the hangar. Richard Houndsworth looked away from King, turned frantically to the Turk and started to converse with him quite animatedly in his own semi-fluent grasp of the language. The Turk stuck his chin arrogantly in the air as if to ignore the Englishman’s warning. He dropped his paper in the Jeep and jumped to the dry earth. “Get into the chopper, Houndsworth,” King ordered him quietly.
The young man looked at King, feeling useless in the middle of the situation. He turned to the pilot in desperation and started to plead with him not to ignore his warning. Then looked back at King, before turning to walk dejectedly back towards the helicopter. King looked at the Turk, who was now holding himself defensively in an amateurish fighting stance. King noted the width of his stance, estimated the percentage of weight over each foot. The man’s hips were pushed forwards so any punch aimed his way would be powered only from his arms and not the crucial power driven from both hips and torso. He also looked stiff and slow. But that was never a certainty.
“You threaten me bastard? You come and see what you get!” The Turk bunched his fists. “We no fly. Not until Ismail comes to look after building.”
King walked openly towards his man, his hands by his sides. “No. We have a schedule to keep. You are being paid well for your services. You will fly now.” He stared at him, his eyes cold, hard and steady. “Understand?”
The Turk suddenly stepped forward and swung his right fist, at the same time mouthing obscenities in Turkish. King twisted to his left and pushed the man’s arm a few inches aside with his left hand, bought up his right arm around the arm. King’s right hand connected with the side of the man’s neck with his bunched thumb catching the carotid artery. At the same time, King caught hold of his right hand with his left and turned the strike into a vice-like hold. He kicked out the man’s lead foot for good measure and the two-hundred odd pounds sagged increasing the effectiveness of the hold. The man was struggling to breathe and King knew that the blood supply to his brain was being pinched. The man would have blurred vision by now, along with a pounding pulse in both ears. He released his grip a little then said in fluent Turkish; “Get into the chopper and fly us like you agreed. It’s your choice. I can fly it if necessary. But then we won’t need you. Do you understand what I mean by that?” The Turk nodded and King cautiously released his grip and the man sagged to the dusty ground.
38
Charles Bryant sipped the gin and tonic and closed his eyes. The drink was generic. Made from mass produced ingredients and all the better for it. The gin was Gordons. Looked down on by aficionados these days, but consistently good. The tonic was Schweppes and the ice was made from water that was safe to drink. The lemon was Sicilian, but tasted no different to him. It was the best G & T he’d had since leaving Britain for Indonesia.
He was flying business class. He always did. Economy was too tiresome, and first class was a waste of money. Besides, business class was tax deductible. He would enjoy a few of these gin and tonics, but only until he reached Dubai. From there he would drink espresso and later tea. He would then arrive in London level headed and within the drink driving limit. His Mercedes C63 AMG Black was securely parked at a luxury car specialist near Heathrow and he would enjoy the drive through Hampshire to his home on the outskirts of Winchester.
Bryant had decided that this business with Junus Kutu was too important and too sensitive to risk anything other than a face to face meeting with his contact in the intelligence services. If nothing came from it then he could be back in Java in a few days. He would have wasted money on the flight, but from speculation came accumulation and two million tax free was incentive enough. His biggest worry was broaching the subject of taking another man’s life.
39
Donald McCullum set the page down on the desk and picked up the next instalment of the printout, his eyes never leaving the words in front of him. Not for a long time could he remember feeling quite so compelled to continue reading.
The quality of writing and punctuation were surprisingly good, given that Alex King had not excelled at academic study, either in his formal education, or in training within SIS. The subject matter was compelling and the style flowed easily, enabling the reader to cover a great many pages in a short amount of time.
He looked up, suddenly aware of a soft buzzing from the internal telephone line. He cursed inwardly, and replaced the page on the desk, before picking up the rather dated looking red telephone. “Yes?” he asked impatiently.
> “Sir, there is a telephone call for you from a Mister Holmwood. That was all he would say, but he did give this month’s security clearance code.” The voice belonged to a young woman who was monitoring the service’s switchboard. “Do you want me to put him through?”
“Please,” he put down the receiver, then picked up the white telephone, which was a secure link, external line only. “Holmwood?”
“Yes Sir. I’m just reporting to give an update.”
“Well get on with it man…” McCullum glanced down at the unfinished page and found himself scanning the words as he waited.
“Yes Sir,” Holmwood paused. “We have found a possible location for the missing merchandise…”
McCullum sat up expectantly in his chair, clutching the receiver tightly. “Go on,” he prompted calmly.
“It’s an invoice for services rendered, from what looks to be a small legal firm called Callington and Co. based in a nearby town called Falmouth.”
McCullum smiled. It certainly fitted in with King’s modus operandi. So far, he had used two small legal firms, one based in Hereford, the other in Blakeney, Norfolk. It would make sense to spread the files and to use a firm in the county where he lived would only be practical. Doubtless it would also appear to be just another small time legal office, one of many. But there was a pattern. King spent a great deal of time in Hereford at the SAS base, where he trained and refreshed and sometimes instructed other MI6 and MI5 agents. Blakeney was a small town in Norfolk where SIS held a safe house for debriefing and a farm where training and evaluation took place.
“Sir?” Holmwood asked, made somewhat uncomfortable by the long pause.
“Yes.” McCullum came to his senses, suddenly excited that he might well be nearing a conclusion to his most recent bout of problems.
