Killing Time

by John Kerr

  ‘That kind of unit based here, in London, must be seriously difficult to keep under wraps.’ Peter mused with a slightly puzzled look.

  ‘Not as hard as you think.’

  ‘And you’re saying no-one knows anything about it? So, how long has it been in existence?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘Years.’

  ‘Christ. And nobody has an inkling?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘What about the offices you’re in – they must be close to the Military Intelligence Building?’

  ‘How close is the same building?’ Grant said.

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘Right under their very noses.’

  ‘And the establishment doesn’t know anything about you?’

  ‘Only because we are the establishment.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Grant leaned forward in his seat dropped his voice half a decibel and continued.

  ‘We’re technically in the same building – pass each other occasionally, even use the same areas sometimes – and when that occurs, people can forget who you are. After a while you become part of the surroundings, part of the décor and just pale into insignificance. Just like the man on the moon. When you’re a kid you can see him but when you grow up you know he’s just not there. Is he?’ Seconds passed as Peter devoured all the information in his head. He thought of a question but before he could speak, another jumped straight on top of it. Then another directly on that. Finally, Major Grant spoke, seeing Peter’s troubled face brought him back from his place of torment.

  ‘Okay, Peter, let’s get our arses back and find out just how we are going to extricate ourselves from this mess.’ Grant dropped a crisp new five pound note onto the table for the coffee they didn’t have time to drink and they both set out for a brisk walk back to headquarters.

  EIGHT

  Grant pushed open the door onto which someone had scratched the letters O.S.L. in small capitals like an old school desk. Peter followed and they entered the ops room. They were quickly joined by Harrison and George Sands, along with the heads of all other departments within the small organisation. The introductions were swift and perfunctory as the new problem now took precedence over all else. Harrison ushered everyone into the main office. It was a medium sized room – square with no windows. One of the walls was filled with photographs of past targets. There were two of each subject – one showing a living, breathing person, the other a corpse. All were underlined with detailed relevant information: Location, nationality, strength in numbers, firepower. At the bottom of each photograph on the left hand side sat the initials of who had brought their lives to a swift but bloody end. 46% of the older photographs were tagged with the letters ‘JS’. The opposite wall was punctuated by five desks, all of which sat at right angles, one behind the other. A computer had been positioned on each table with a large flat-screen monitor and a small tower of plastic interlocking trays. A series of rooms in varying sizes branched off the remaining two walls, some interconnecting and some individual. Two large columns, equally spaced, sat in the centre of the room to prevent the Military Intelligence Building above from falling in on them. Harrison, looking stern and a little troubled, waited for the murmurs to die down before he spoke.

  ‘Right, arses on seats lads ’n’ lassies, let’s get our heads round this problem. We’ve just lost two of the most experienced operatives we had. We don’t have enough cover out there, we’ve no one to take over and it would take far too long to go through a new selection. Finding a replacement because we have to, rather than because we want to, goes against the grain. Everyone who needs to be told has been, but I want the answer to come from inside this room. So, talk to me, and that includes you Peter… Sorry we had to throw you in at the deep end, but shit happens. Okay, options and solutions. I’m listening.’ Grant was the first to speak,

  ‘Can’t we pass it to other agencies; let them deal with any threat in the meantime while we get back up to strength at our own pace?’

  ‘No, we can’t have a temporary solution – that could involve telling an outside source we’re here. We need to keep it within the circle… inside the circle people’

  ‘What about Captain Soutar? Couldn’t he be trained for the field? It’s always an option,’ replied Grant. Harrison shook his head in disagreement.

  ‘No, Nathan. Peter’s job is to take over from you. He is officially our new linkman and nothing changes on that score.’

  George Sands spoke next.

  ‘The next few jobs are a little way off, so can’t we do them in-house? I’m sure amongst Nathan, Bob and myself we could get by – at least until we can get our numbers back up.’

  ‘Everyone has his own area of expertise in here. You know that George. I don’t want anyone jumping the fence to cover another area. There would also be the possibility of losing even more people and I’m not going down that road,’ Harrison replied, shaking his head.

  ‘I know the solution is in this building but it’s not that one…’ He looked directly at Grant as a silence overcame the small room. Peter felt slightly uneasy; he was a little out of his depth here and all this was making his head spin. He watched the eye contact between the two men and realised that spoken or not, an idea was passing between them.

  ‘It’s probably the only option we’ve got…’ Harrison breathed quietly, ‘What do you think?’ George Sands, slightly bemused, cut in,

  ‘What option? Would you like to let the rest of us in on what’s going on?’ Grant turned to George and answered for Harrison.

  ‘Silverman.’

  Suzy Grover the H.Q. admin and communications specialist sat at the very back of the room taking notes. Butterflies gripped her insides at the sound of the name Silverman.

  ‘Now there is the answer to a problem,’ said George Sands.

  ‘I’ll second that, Boss,’ added Connor Davis, the clear-up team commander.

  ‘Stick my name on that list too,’ Ritchie McRoberts, his 2IC, added. Peter had now completely lost the thread of the conversation; they were talking as though he wasn’t there. Harrison nodded his head slowly.

  ‘Yeah, it’s probably the best option we’ve got. Nathan, you go and find out if he’s willing to help. Take Peter with you and fill him in on what happens within this little world of ours. You can introduce him to Jake at the same time. And speak to David Hagen – he’s got a box of ammunition that he doesn’t know what to do with so you can give it back to the man who made it. He may need it. When you do speak to Jake, tell him I said we need a piano player. By the time you get back we should have a better idea how healthy we look,’ he said turning to George Sands,

  ‘George, find out where Jake is. Check if he’s still where we left him and let Nathan know.’ Harrison waved his hands in the air.

  ‘Everyone, go do it.’ Grant and Peter left the building and the buzz of the conversation behind. It felt good to get out into the fresh air.

  ‘So, where to now, and what the fuck is going on?’ said Peter, hating the fact that he had joined something when no one had the time to help him settle in.

  ‘Yes, Listen, when we get everything back to some sort of normality it’s actually a really laid-back environment. Right, Peter tomorrow bring in an overnight bag – we’re going to go on a little journey and might be away for a few days.’

  ‘To pick up this Jake Silverman?’ asked Peter, ‘Who the hell is he anyway?’

  NINE

  Grant eventually led Peter into the central library without him being aware of it. As they moved through into the vastness of the main reading room, Peter suddenly felt the incredible void above his head. Grant saw the surprise in Peter’s face as they made their way to the far end of the great hall. Peter watched as Grant sat with his back to one of the largest windows he had ever seen and gestured for him to sit.

  ‘I love coming here – so much effort to write so many books. You know, Peter, if you sat in here for the rest of your
life and started reading from one end you wouldn’t get half-way down a single row.’ said Grant.

  ‘It’s definitely a very imposing building, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t like to clean it!’ returned Peter. Grant smiled and paused for a moment, drinking in the grandeur of the place before he continued.

  ‘To business,’ he murmured, drawing a deep breath,

  ‘You, Peter, are our new linkman. Your job is to liaise with our field operatives, of which we now have only one and he is in line for a transfer. You’re the thread between us, passing information back and forth. Nothing is on paper; everything is kept in your head and passed directly to your delivery man. You will develop a very close relationship with him, whoever he turns out to be,’

  ‘So who exactly are we after – are they a special kind of criminal?’ asked Peter, feeling as though he may be getting somewhere at last.

  ‘They fall into a very simple category… They’re killers, pure and simple. They have their own agendas and they don’t do anything on the spur of the moment. Everything is pre-planned and executed professionally. Since the inception of The Circle we have taken out a great number of undesirables and made the U.K. a safer place. What you’ve got to get your head around is that when we get targets, there is absolutely no question that they have to be taken out. Every possible question has already been asked; every other option investigated leaving only us. The O.S.L.’

  ‘What does O.S.L. mean?’

  ‘Only Solution Left,’ Grant replied with a wry grin and then went on,

  ‘That’s why no one in the team needs to think about the rights and wrongs of what we’re doing. Somewhere, someone has already thought about it and the decision has been made for us. It’s as simple as that, Peter. Now, we don’t have new people join us very often, but every selection we make takes a long period of time. We already know that you think the same way we do.’ Peter tried to articulate one of the hundreds of questions which were swimming through his mind, but found the more he concentrated on one, the more the others clamoured to be heard. Grant continued.

  ‘All of our information comes from the very top of MI5 – Sir Thomas Ellis – and after they are finished with an investigation, a target file is discreetly placed in the bottom of a filing cabinet and seemingly forgotten about. Or rather, they forget about it, but that’s when our job begins. Everything is kept under wraps and we aim to clean up after ourselves. Sometimes, if, for whatever reason that’s not possible then we invent a cover story. Each one is different and is made to fit the particular situation.’ Peter reviewed the sparse information he had been given so far and took a deep breath. One thing was resoundingly clear – his new post was never to be mentioned, never to be discussed. In essence, he had become a ghost.

  ‘So essentially, we don’t exist?’

  ‘That’s a perfect description. You’ll pick up the rest as we get through this latest problem.’ Peter thought for a second then asked.

  ‘So we’ve just lost two men which we hope to replace with one.’

  ‘In our game, two isn’t always better than one.’

  ‘Silverman is good then?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘He must be something very special.’

  ‘Schhh.’ Grant touched his forefinger lightly to his lips.

  ‘Christ, that’s good?’

  ‘Let’s just say if a thousand people had to pick a soldier from a line up to save them from a plague of fundamentalists, then Jake Silverman would be left standing.’

  ‘Why’s that.’

  ‘I’m afraid that in the world of fighting superheroes our Jake looks like a lost little boy… No that’s probably a little unfair – he looks more like a pile of shite.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me completely.’ Grant leaned forward in his seat and waited for Peter to do the same. He continued.

  ‘A real soldier doesn’t have to be 6’5”, 250 pounds, with a 50” chest and biceps like a gorilla’s neck. It’s not about how you look, not for us anyway. It’s what you’re made of. It’s having the ability to find your targets wherever they may be located, in any kind of weather. It’s having the strength to walk through the day and night, again and again until you drop. Then pick yourself up and do it all over again. That’s when Jake Silverman becomes something very unique and very special. When he finds his targets something deep inside him changes. His modus operandi never changes, only him.’

  The two men stayed in the library for the remainder of the day as Grant went through the history and development of the organisation and after a while Peter began to regard his new post with a degree of fascination. The fact that a covert unit could exist for years without it ever being discovered gripped him completely. It didn’t take long for him to decide that he liked what he was hearing and want to become a part of it. Despite Grant’s insistence that Silverman looked like ‘a pile of shite’, the mysterious figure began to grow into something of a superhuman in Peter’s imagination and the urgency of The Circle’s predicament increased accordingly. He could feel the almost palpable urgency to convince Silverman that his skills were once again required by the unknowing general public.

  TEN

  Brooks pushed open the large farmhouse gate and waved the small convoy of vehicles through. Each moved slowly on the gravelled driveway, in a futile effort to keep the noise to a minimum. Dumas drove the dark blue Ford van towards the light, 75 metres ahead and on arrival Demarco Salis lifted his hand to signal them to stop. The three vehicles came to a halt, facing the front porch of the grand converted farmhouse. In the van Demarco Salis and his driver, Pasquale Dumas, sat and surveyed the other vehicles. In the back, perched on a bench seat, was Willoughby, Spencer Riley and Eric Alborz – an Iranian with a liking for young boys that he kept to himself. Eric was not his real name, but after numerous attempts to instruct people on how to pronounce it, he had given up and answered to this European alternative. On the floor opposite, sitting cross-legged was Regis, a huge black man with a large tear-like scar on his face which ran from his hairline to his right cheek. In the first vehicle to the left of the van sat Brooks and Max Shelton whilst the second car held the last of the group – Ricardo Corseta, an Italian, and Nikolai Bestir, a Yugoslavian, both of whom had been displaced from their homelands many years before. Within 30 seconds of stopping, and in almost total silence, the group de-bussed and stood at the door. Salis sent three of his men to take the right side of the building and start their search. Three others did the same for the left whilst Dumas, Riley and Willoughby followed Salis as he removed the front door with one almighty kick of his heavy right boot. They quickly made their way towards the sound of panic coming from the large drawing room on the left. It had two French doors, held open with large, cast-iron statues of young black immigrants, carrying massive sacks of sugar. Demarco was at the front and quickly strode to the centre of the room, grappling with the dark-haired middle-aged man who had jumped up in terror.

  ‘Sit down, you insignificant little piece of shit,’ He ragged him almost to a standstill then slapped the man hard with the back of his hand, watching as he crumpled down onto the expensive beige coloured leather sofa. Sitting directly opposite was the man’s wife and daughter, both with their hands to their faces in complete disbelief. Dumas, a man who had been at Demarco’s side for most of the last ten years, pulled the young girl – who looked no older than 19 – out of her seat and onto the floor. Riley laughed as the girl’s body connected with the plush Wilton carpet and sent a deep thud around the room. The older woman screamed and jumped to her feet just in time to feel Riley’s clenched fist impact on the side of her face. The crack as her jaw broke reverberated around the room and served to force Demarco into even more of a frenzy. He kicked ferociously at the crumpled body whilst the man tried in vain to crawl out of range.

  ‘You’ve got something we want and you’re going to give it to us it now. Otherwise, you’re going to get sucked into a nightmare that only exists in your imagination.’r />
  The man let out a high-pitch scream as Demarco lifted him bodily and slammed him hard against the wall. In an instant, he had his favourite weapon in hand and held the point of the knife only millimetres from the man’s right eye.

  ‘Okay, you little slug, we know you’re a big-shot Government chemist and we heard that you’ve been freeloading for the past few years.’ The man shook his head slightly and groaned as the pain in his body intensified.

  ‘Time is something I don’t like wasting and you’re trying my patience to the limit. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where you keep the merchandise or the festivities begin.’ Demarco slid the knife very gently along the cornea membrane of the man’s eye. The man’s body froze as all he could think of was the knife and the clock that ticked down inside his head. Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick. Afraid to move the man said nothing, he just hung there. His weight fully supported by the giant towering above him.

  ‘Fuck this for a game of poker,’ Demarco could take no more; he released his grip on the man and watched him fall helplessly to the floor. He reached down and pulled the crumpled body back up by the wrist. He slid the arm high up the wall and with a single chopping stroke stabbed the man through the hand and forced the knife deep into the plaster. The man screamed in pain and both his wife and daughter gasped in horror. Demarco turned away, leaving the man sobbing in agony and swinging slightly like a badly worked crucifixion.