by A P Bateman
Bryant nodded, deciding to change tack. Sandy was a man of limited patience, besides, he was used to this sort of conversation. Every day, people would probe him on delicate matters, trying to slip him up. There was only one way for him to play it, and that was straight.
“There is a man high up in the Indonesian military by the name of General Madi Soto.” Bryant watched his friend’s face for any sign of familiarity with the name. His eyes flickered slightly and that was enough for Charles Bryant. “Heard the name then?” he asked.
“Few within the Foreign and Commonwealth Office haven’t.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“What’s all this about Charles?” Sandy asked, looking at him coldly. “You are treading rather heavily on extremely thin ice, my friend.”
“If you know what I know, then you will know that Indonesia, the lucrative gem within the shithole that is South East Asia is in big trouble.”
“You seem remarkably well informed my friend.”
Bryant smiled, enjoying the compliment, albeit on behalf of Junus Kutu. “As you know, if General Soto takes over, then the entire archipelago looks set to change dramatically. The West will lose all of its business interests and China will have a foothold in the country she always wanted.”
“China? What the hell has China got to do with it?”
Bryant frowned at him. “You don’t know?”
“Know what? For Christ’s sake, Charles, tell me what you know!”
Bryant smiled wryly, then rubbed his shoulders, which were starting to feel numb in the cold air. “Allow me to explain.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then stood up abruptly. “But not until we are in a warmer location. How about a spot of lunch?” His companion glanced at his watch, but said nothing. I’ll take that as a yes.” Bryant smiled, as the man rose uncertainly to his feet. “I fancy The Ivy. I took the liberty of booking a table. You can put it on Her Majesty’s expenses. You can telephone the office and cancel your meeting. You’re going to find what I have to say of great interest…”
46
“I’ve certainly missed this!” Bryant grinned as he slipped the fork into his mouth and started to chew the piece of succulent meat.
“You don’t get it cooked like that in Jakarta, then?”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Can’t even tell what bloody animal it is half the time!” He sliced off another tender piece of Scotch fillet steak and wiped it through the rosette of Sauce Béarnaise. “This is what I miss the most; decent quality food, with an experienced waiter on hand.”
“Can’t have everything can you?” Sandy chewed his mouthful of grilled turbot and looked at Bryant nonchalantly. “You must make a fortune over there, sacrifices have to be made in certain areas.”
“I suppose so,” Bryant paused to cut through his portion of rosti potatoes, the best he’d tasted since his last visit to Geneva. “I trust you invested your little fortune wisely?”
The man looked at him warily, then smiled as he picked up his glass of chilled Chablis. “I thought that we were never going to mention that little deal,” he stated flatly. “Or am I indebted to you forever?”
Bryant laughed out loud. “Of course not! My God, man, I could never have swung that deal were it not for you, it was the least I could do,” he paused, taking a sip of full bodied claret. “Now I am here again. I cannot go any further without you, and am offering you a great deal of money for your trouble.”
Sandy looked around cautiously, then frowned. “Tell me what you know about General Soto first, and after that, you can tell me what this has to do with China.”
Bryant told his friend all he knew. He didn’t mention Junus Kutu by name, but he told him that the man represented a group of worried businessmen and politicians. The two men ate their entrees and ordered dessert. Bryant went for a dark chocolate fondant with vanilla and white chocolate foam, his companion chose Scandinavian iced berries with elderflower cream.
“So this…” he paused, trying to search for the appropriate word. “Consortium of businessmen, have charged you with the task of coming up with an assassin. Tell me, what’s in it for you?”
“I told you, my fee is secure,” Bryant paused uneasily. “The five hundred thousand, is the assassin’s fee. I just thought that if you could swing it for one of your secret agent SAS type Johnnies to do the job, then you might just as well have the fee for yourself,” Bryant smiled nervously. He had tried his luck at the last moment and halved his contact’s fee. Only now he was sure that the man in front of him, a man trained to spot liars and cheats at a glance, was all too aware that something was amiss.
“I’m fascinated how you came to the conclusion that General Soto is in league with China. Of course, our analysts have drawn similar conclusions, but it was just a theory. No one ever thought that it could be proven,” he paused, looking thoughtfully at his berries, wondering briefly what it was that was Scandinavian about them. “Our agents cannot get near Indonesia and as for coming up with their own conclusions, it would seem that the Indonesian government have their heads buried deep in the sand.”
“Well it looks as if someone is about to take advantage and bugger them good and proper,” Bryant commented flatly. “Anyway, you’re not the only one with analysts. Serious businessmen spend millions on finding out things and predicting the future, it’s only wise when so much money is at stake.”
“So how did you come to be charged with doing the job?”
Bryant spooned a mouthful of chocolate pudding and dipped it into the white chocolate and vanilla foam. “My dear man, I was in the right place at the right time. Let’s just leave it at that.” He put down his spoon and stared at him coldly. “Sandy, I am giving you the chance to earn half a million pounds, tax free. Follow the investment guidelines which I gave you last time and your offshore bank balance will be blooming,” he paused, then took the napkin off of his lap and dropped it on the table in a heap, deciding that he had eaten enough. “Just answer me one question.”
“Fair enough.”
“Could it be done? Could we use one of your agents and make him think that he was simply following orders?”
The man gave up on the Scandinavian berries and put his spoon and fork down on the plate. He pondered for a moment, swilled some wine unhurriedly. “It would be difficult, but not impossible. Yes, we could get a man in place,” he paused. “It’s a highly specialist, highly difficult job. One would say, perhaps a suicide mission. Obviously we don’t send operatives on suicide missions, but should General Soto be killed, it would be hard to imagine an operative escaping cleanly. However, after the dirty work has been done, our man would become extremely soiled. Suffice to say; I wouldn’t want him back… That aspect you would have to arrange yourself. I trust you could find suitable people to handle that?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Bryant paused. “I suppose the odds would be in favour of a vanload of armed villains? Not professionally trained, but exceptionally violent and above all, experienced.” He knew of miners who would turn their hand to such things, he had heard that gold prospectors panning gold mining tailings on the edge of claims had been disappeared in such a way.
The man nodded. “The more the better, at least three or four, with surprise in their favour. Who knows? Maybe the Indonesian army will do the job for them…”
Bryant drained his glass. “In that case, I trust you could find such a man for the task?”
“Oh, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” Sandy paused thoughtfully, drained the rest of his Chablis and broke into a grin. “I have just the man in mind.”
47
Stewart pulled the Vauxhall Insignia into the driveway and eased off the accelerator as he bounced and weaved his way down the potholed lane. He swept around the corner, then slowed to a crawl as he searched for a place to park. The Ford Mondeo which had transported both Pryce and Holmwood was parked in front of the house, blocking most of Alex King’s old Range Rover from view.
Stewart eased t
he vehicle up onto the nearby patch of grass verge, and switched off the engine. He looked out over the overgrown field and stared thoughtfully into the distance. It all felt so deceitful. Alex King was his friend, one of his initial recruits. The two men had even operated in the field together, King as the sniper while Stewart had guided his shots into place over two thousand metres away through the spotting scope.
He looked back at the house, where Holmwood now stood on the doorstep, awaiting his imminent relief of charge. Within the next few hours, he would be putting a plan together to search for his old friend’s lifeline; his security blanket. The sentiment was almost too much for him, the irony so thick he could almost choke on it.
He had found Alex King and he had saved him from a near lifetime in prison and he had given him the chance of freedom, and the new life which followed. He had shaped King into an effective tool of the Secret Intelligence Service, but had also been a part of shaping him into a better person. Ironic, considering the man’s line of work, but under the surface lay a well-rounded individual with a strong moral compass. King was not interested in money, just the best for his country and the safety of its citizens. And now? Now Stewart was going to pull the rug from under him, steal his security, and God only knew what would follow in the wake. God, and Deputy Director General Donald McCullum.
48
As they entered the remote village, King stared at the burned-out vehicles by the roadside. The vehicles, mainly old four-wheel-drive SUVs and pickup trucks, had been turned over onto their sides, or roofs and ignited with petrol by the look of it. Whatever had happened, the burning had not been the result of artillery fire or explosives.
“The Iraqi army,” Juliet Kalver stated flatly. “Making hay while Islamic State militants are in the area. They are getting to strike at the Kurds under the guise of wheedling out ISIS.” She looked at King. “They weren’t doing this until you killed the regional commander. It’s been a Hell of a week…”
King remained silent as he surveyed the scene. The carnage of vehicles was scattered along both sides of the dusty road and seemed to convey an eerie warning as they approached the village, which to the few inhabitants remaining, had become their own, morose prison.
Juliet turned to him. “Where do you intend to do it?” she asked as she steered the pickup around a discarded wheel which had found its way into the middle of the road. “I think it will be betterif it is done outside of the village.”
King nodded. “Yeah, I guess they’ve had more than their fair share of killing recently…”
“I don’t make the decisions,” she glared at him. “God only knows what the Hell you’re doingin such a profession. Are you an assassin or not?”
King turned and looked out of the window, as they entered the deserted village. Her question had struck a chord. Each assassination was becoming more difficult afterwards, and it was not until he had actually sat down and started to write an account of his memoirs, that he had started to realise that he might soon be coming to the end of his career. He could still kill without question and he had never doubted his ability, but his enthusiasm before the kill ebbed further with every mission.
The killing of Richard Houndsworth had not been a problem. The man had retaliated, drawing a pistol from nowhere. In truth, King had enjoyed the sudden unexpected thrill of pure combat. Kill or be killed, it was always the easiest scenario to live with. However, King knew that pulling the trigger on an unarmed, helpless man would have been an entirely different matter. The sight of Houndsworth’s tiny Beretta had evoked a feeling of elation, as the task had suddenly lost its emotional burden.
The assassinations were becoming harder to live with, that much was true, although it had not been until the order to kill the Faisal brothers that King had seriously thought of disobeying a direct order. The killings made no sense. The Faisal brothers were freedom fighters, Iraqi Intelligence was aware of that, as were the rest of the Kurds in the area. They had shifted from fighting with the Iraqis under Saddam to fighting insurgents with the British and Americans. They were now defending their land and people from Islamic State. The Faisal family were renowned and would one day be the stuff of legend. No, this operation had all the hallmarks of protocol. The mission had not gone entirely as planned, and the Americans wanted to crack the whip on the Brits’ backsides. The British government’s answer, as was becoming its tedious habit, was to stick its backside out and brace itself.
King turned his eyes back to the derelict looking houses in the centre of the village. He could see the changes of the few weeks since he had last been here. The town was even more dilapidated and had obviously undertaken a battering from the Iraqi soldiers, as well as ISIS insurgents, judging by the bullet holes in the walls and windows. It was a crazy situation and if the Iraqis put weapons, equipment and resources behind the Kurds they would no doubt fight Islamic State back over the border. Instead, while the rest of the world were not looking, they chose to settle old scores from a long defeated leadership.
King turned to Juliet and frowned. “Is there anybody left in this town?”
“You could hardly blame them if there wasn’t.” She eased the truck to a halt outside a building which looked to have once been a cafe, then switched off the ignition. “Most of the men have been killed and the women and children have fled across the border into Turkey. All that remain are the old, who are stubborn to the bitter end, or the few men who are fighting a guerrilla war against Islamic State. They use the village as a stop-off or resupply point. As far as the village of Kalsagir is concerned, it died a long time ago.”
King looked up as something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A man was watching them from the edge of the building across the square. His hair was long and most of it was tucked up under a floppy Australian bushman’s hat, but for a few unruly strands which poked out like dreadlocks. He carried a battered AK47 assault rifle with a collapsible shoulder stock and tucked into the front of his belt, as if on display, was a large bowie knife.
King turned slowly to the American agent and spoke in a low voice. “We have company. Don’t make it too obvious, try to check him out with a glance. He’s across the square, to your left.”
Juliet rolled her neck slowly, as if she were suffering from stiffness or an aching muscle. She glanced quickly towards the far building, then relaxed. “It’s all right, that’s Rocky. He’s just checking us out, making sure that we’re alone.”
“What the hell sort of a name is Rocky?”
She smiled. “He’s a bit of a movie buff. Took on the name after watching a load of bootlegged DVDs. You know, Rocky,” she paused. “The boxer played by Sylvester Stallone in about a hundred movies…”
“I think it was more like five,” he replied sarcastically. “Or maybe six. I lost interest after number four. So, what do we do now?”
“Now? Now we get out and get down to business,” she paused, looking at him curiously. “Or are you going to disobey your orders?”
King glared at her, as she caught hold of the door handle. “Of course I’m not… I just have a few reservations, that’s all.”
She pushed her door open, then shook her head as he reached for his own door handle. “No, you wait here. Rocky is a bit trigger happy, best let me explain who you are first.”
“And who am I?” King asked cynically. “And who’s Rocky? He was nowhere around here when I started setting up the hit over a month ago…”
She smiled at him, then slipped on a pair of small, round sunglasses. “You’re my replacement, I’m just showing you the ropes before I hand the operation over to you, that’s all.”
“Really?” King paused, as he watched her slide off her seat and climb out of the pickup. “And you think he’ll buy that?”
“No reason not to. The CIA are closing shop,” she said. “As soon as the loose ends have been tidied. As for Rocky, he works with me. New Dawn has, or had two cells. It’s only now that they are being merged before we bug out.”
King watched her walk casually towards the Kurd, then frowned as he mulled over her last words. So that’s what he was here to do. He shook his head at the simplicity of it all. The whistle had been blown on Operation New Dawn and the Americans were using a British agent to do their dirty work, under the pretense that it was one of their agents who had led to the cover of the operation being blown in the first place. The fact that King had left his GPS behind had merely been a bonus for the CIA, who could now implicate Britain in the collapse of the operation.
King watched the woman as she conversed animatedly with Rocky, who seemed to be angered at her presence. The man shook his head vehemently and his eyes glowered angrily as he spoke.
King glanced around the inside of the pickup, suddenly very much aware that he was unarmed. Surely Kalver would carry a weapon with her? He eased his arms back behind his seat and searched with his fingertips for a hidden weapon. There was none. He turned back to the pair, who were now shouting at one another with rage and contempt. There was little else he could do. He gently opened the door, and stepped casually onto the dusty earth.
The Kurd stopped his shouting and pointed the assault rifle at King, as he walked slowly, but deliberately towards them. King kept his eyes on the man, not daring to falter, or glance at the obtrusive weapon aimed threateningly at him from the Kurd’s hip. He stopped just a few paces away and turned calmly towards Juliet Kalver, who was standing directly in front of the man with her hands on her hips, and a defiant pout upon her face.
“What’s the problem?” King asked impassively, ignoring the rifle’s muzzle, which was now less than feet away from his stomach.
Juliet Kalver did not look at him. “The Faisal brothers are in hiding. Seems they accidentally blew up most of a border patrol with an IED meant for Islamic State insurgents. They are now the subjects of a dedicated manhunt. That’s what happened here. Iraqi soldiers came back through here on a vengeance run. According to one of Rocky’s contacts, the Iraqi border patrol are mounting a full scale search tonight and will not halt until both Faisal brothers are dead. Every Kurdish rebel is getting out of the area, the Iraqi soldiers will show no mercy.”
