Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  As he slowly limped back to his hotel, Archer wondered what exactly the point of that escapade

  had been. He hadn’t been robbed and they hadn’t taken him. Revenge? For what? An unspoken

  warning? Probably; but again, for what?

  He didn’t know and he couldn’t think straight right now. But if nothing else, it had certainly woken

  him up properly.

  19

  The wide deck at the rear of the house overlooked the sweeping jungle-covered mountainside. The

  ocean was in the distance, blue and crisp.

  A light breeze ruffled Yassar’s hair as he sat at the cane table, picking at a plate of fruit-mango with

  a squeeze of lime, pineapple, and melon. The food was deliciously fresh and the view captivating,

  but Yassar could focus on nothing other than the day ahead. He had slept badly and woke with a

  headache. The serenity of his surroundings was little comfort for he knew the man he was with

  was pure evil.

  Footsteps sounded on the deck behind him and his heart dropped lower.

  ‘How’s my favourite guest this morning?’ Boyle’s voice was loud and cheery. Yassar looked up and

  smiled weakly as his host plopped into the chair opposite him.

  ‘I am very wel , thank you for asking. You have a lovely spot here.’

  Boyle grinned and leaned forward with an arm on the table. ‘Glad to hear ye’re so chipper today,

  lad. It’s gonna be a grand day so it is, and we have a lot to get through.’ He gestured towards the

  barely touched plate of fruit. ‘Get plenty of that down ya, it’s the best cure for a shitty sleep.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t-‘

  Boyle’s grin hadn’t shifted. His eyes danced with merriment. ‘Ye can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Yassar.

  I’ve kissed the Blarney stone many a time and let me tell ye, I can smell yer bullshit a mile off.’

  Yassar was taken aback by his manner. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way. He

  opened his mouth to speak but was cut off with a dismissive wave of the Irishman’s hand and a

  sharp ‘Tut!’

  ‘Ye had a shitty sleep and ye’re wonderin’ what the fuck is gonna happen today. Well I’ll tell ye. I

  don’t like to see a man in this sort of situation, so I’ll just tell ye.’

  Yassar shut his mouth and waited. It seemed like he had no option anyway.

  ‘Ye think your own crew got ye out of that hotel in Auckland? Ehh, wrong!’ He grinned like a game

  show host. ‘I did-even yer man Ahmed didn’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Shame about him, he was a

  good man. Yer own family have a price on yer head, ye know that?’

  The Saudi arms dealer gave no acknowledgement. Boyle continued unabated.

  ‘There’s a lot of people out there who will be willing to cash that cheque, y’know.’

  Yassar met his eyes and found it impossible to break away. He’d seen a crocodile once as a child-his

  uncle kept it in a swimming pool as a pet-and had stared at it non-stop for several minutes before

  realising it was a competition he would never win. He could not tell if the beast was alive or dead

  until it slowly lifted a paw and began to move towards him.

  Staring at Boyle gave the same feeling. He was a cold blooded beast who would happily eat Yassar alive. He felt a sudden need to pee.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Yassar managed to rasp, ‘I’ll double it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Boyle smiled mirthlessly. ‘Ye can’t.’

  ‘I have funds...’

  ‘But ye don’t run one of the biggest arms dealerships in the world, do ye pal? Yer daddy does, and

  he’s offerin’ a cut to the man who slots his wayward son and provides his head as proof.’

  Yassar’s head felt it was going to explode and a tiny trickle of warm urine leaked into his

  underpants. There was no way on Earth he could compete with that.

  Boyle sat back in the chair and tugged his ear thoughtful y.

  ‘Me, I’m a businessman. I’m interested in makin’ money. I don’t particularly care who I deal with,

  so long as I get paid a bundle of fucken cold hard cash.’ He glanced away, down towards the expanse

  of lawn below them.

  Yassar followed his gaze and saw two burly Samoans hustling a slender young man from the house

  out onto the lawn. They each had an arm and he was powerless to resist. The boy couldn’t have

  been more than sixteen. He was dressed in baggy shorts and a bush singlet. From where Yassar

  sat, the boy looked absolutely petrified.

  ‘Ye may think I’m an unscrupulous bastard, Yassar,’ Boyle continued, watching as the two men

  forced the boy to his knees on the grass, facing the house. ‘But above all else, I have one particular

  passion. I hate the Brits.’ His voice took on real venom now. ‘I mean I hate them. If I could

  extinguish that God-forsaken fucken island from the face of the Earth, I would.’

  Yassar nodded, starting to see where this was going.

  ‘As a part of my business, I’ve been delivering zip-guns to the Brit gangs at knockdown prices. I

  make no money from it but it causes fucken havoc for them when the niggers and Euro-trash

  wannabe motherfuckers are mowin’ each other down with MAC-10s.’ He grinned again, happily

  now. ‘And that brings me pleasure.’

  Boyle leaned forward and put both elbows on the table.

  ‘What would bring me even more pleasure, is helping out the angry young Islamist brothers in the

  UK. They have trouble getting proper weaponry and ordnance. I have a sure pipeline, but I don’t

  have the sort of gear they need.’ He tossed his chin at Yassar. ‘You do.’

  ‘I have no interest in helping the jihadists,’ Yassar said weakly.

  ‘I have no interest in those wogged-up fucken sand-niggers either,’ Boyle retorted, ‘but I do have an

  interest in hurting those British monarchist bastards who raped my country. In fact I have such an

  interest in hurting them that I will hurt anyone who stands in my way. Take that-‘he jabbed a

  stubby finger towards the young boy kneeling on the lawn, the two thugs standing over him-‘as an example. He’s my gardener.’

  Yassar glanced at the boy again. He was crying silently, tears rolling down his brown cheeks as he

  stared at the ground and mouthed words to himself. Praying, perhaps.

  ‘He’s been chatting online to someone, telling them all sorts of things that I trusted him to keep

  confidential. He believes he’s been talking to a 16 year old Essex girl who’s going to send him some

  nudie pics for his wank bank. I believe he’s been talking to a member of the British intelligence

  services.’

  ‘How can-‘

  ‘Oh believe me pal, I know. I know. I know how those bastards work, and I will not tolerate anyone

  who deals with them or breaks my trust.’

  Boyle glanced down to his men and gave a tilt of the head.

  The taller man drew a machete from his belt and hefted it in his hand. He took half a step back and

  Yassar heard a guttural sob break from the boy’s lips. His eyes were screwed tight shut and he was

  crying hard. Yassar was mesmerised by the scene as it unfolded before him.

  The machete arced down and sliced cleanly through the boy’s neck, severing his head in one fell

  swoop. The head hit the grass with a thump, arterial blood spurted out several metres and the

  torso hung, momentarily suspended, before toppling forward and resting on the shoulders.

  Yassar couldn’t help himself. He vomited on the table.

  Boyle sat back and studied him across the table. Yassar spat onto the plate and wipe
d his mouth

  with the back of his hand. He felt embarrassed. He took his time wiping his mouth and chin before

  spitting again and finally looking up. Boyle looked completely unaffected by the act of brutal

  violence they had just witnessed.

  ‘I know for a fact that ye have a warehouse full of weaponry in Manila,’ the Irishman said calmly.

  ‘Surface to air missiles, explosives, anti-armour, heavy machine guns, mortars, the lot.’

  Yassar started to open his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He had no desire to be the

  next candidate down on the lawn. Boyle clocked it and gave a minute nod of agreement.

  ‘I have the contacts to get that weaponry into the UK mainland for you. You need the cash and I

  want the result.’

  Yassar struggled to regain some of his usual bluster. Maybe the day wasn’t lost after all.

  ‘Business is business,’ he said, pursing his lips thoughtfully as if considering a marginally

  acceptable proposal. ‘I think we can talk turkey here.’

  ‘Make no mistake, pal,’ Boyle told him flatly, ‘we will do business. I want that gear and you want to

  live. I’ll be taking that shipment off yer hands at a price that will keep me happy and you alive.’

  ‘I have a friend in Africa who has already expressed an interest in my products,’ Yassar protested. ‘I cannot now renege on the deal, it would be terrible form on my part.’

  ‘It’d be worse fucken form to have yer head rollin’ down my fucken lawn, don’t ya think?’

  Boyle stared menacingly across the table. Two sets of footsteps sounded on the deck behind Yassar.

  He glanced down at the lawn and saw the two thugs had gone, along with the dismembered corpse.

  A dark stain remained on the grass. He knew the men were now behind him, awaiting fresh orders

  from their boss.

  He nodded slowly and Boyle smiled.

  The deal was done.

  20

  Archer checked his room when he got back to the hotel, but was confident it hadn’t been searched.

  He always took a couple of precautions when he travel ed, and one of these was slipping a

  fragment of tissue paper between the top of the door and the frame. When he opened the door it

  dislodged, indicating the door had remained closed in his absence.

  Archer secured the door latch and placed a chair in front of it, then stripped off and checked his

  body. The wound on his side had cracked and bled a little, and the stun gun had given him small

  twin red welts in the middle of his back.

  He scowled again as he examined the new injury. He’d met the American twice now and come off

  second best both times. Archer was a sore loser, and he bore grudges. This guy had definitely made

  the list.

  He drank a large glass of water as he sat brooding with an ice-pack on his back, then showered

  and dressed and opened the wallet he’d stolen. It was a simple plain black leather affair, with forty

  pounds cash, a couple of coins, a travel card dated the previous day and a debit card for one of the

  high street banks.

  The name on the card was TJ Wheeler.

  Archer laid the items out on the bed and grabbed his phone. He took a photo of the two cards and

  composed a quick email back to Jedi. He knew the Ops Officer wouldn’t know how to get the info

  he wanted, but he was sure he’d know who could. He asked Jedi to try and identify the owner of the

  bank card, and briefly outlined the morning’s incident.

  That done he made his way downstairs to the dining room. There were a handful of other guests

  eating and Archer ignored them all, taking a copy of the Times to a corner table for two and giving

  his order to the waitress rather too curtly.

  Moore’s assessment of the full English had been accurate but Archer ate it anyway. He was

  ravenous and cleaned his plate, chasing it down with a glass of orange juice and two mugs of black

  coffee.

  When Moore arrived in a cab, Archer was ready and waiting at the door, looking sharper than he

  felt in a charcoal Hugo Boss two-piece, a crisp white shirt, a subdued navy blue tie and polished

  boots. He put his black woollen coat on over the top and noted that Moore’s normal attire of jeans

  and a bomber jacket had been replaced by a smart black suit and overcoat. Archer joined his

  col eague on the footpath before they walked around the corner to hail another cab.

  ‘I met some new friends this morning,’ he remarked casually, watching Moore for a reaction.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. American. Three of them.’ He paused and Moore turned away from waving at a cab, waiting for him to finish. ‘Shock of my life.’

  Moore frowned quizzically.

  ‘They followed me on a run through Hyde Park, then when I bumped them I got Tasered from

  behind.’

  Moore still didn’t react, and Archer was satisfied that it was news to him.

  ‘You sure they were Yanks?’ he asked.

  ‘100 percent sure.’

  Moore frowned. ‘I’d be confident they weren’t from Grosvenor Square then. Or if they were, what

  the hell are they playing at?’

  Archer watched as a cab slid in to the kerb. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied firmly, ‘but I’m gunna find

  out.’

  The cab dropped them in a side street off Vauxhall Bridge Road, from where they walked across

  the bridge itself. Most of the traffic was coming towards them, into the city, but as always there

  were people going in every direction.

  Glancing to his left, Archer could see the Security Service headquarters further along the

  Embankment, and he asked his companion if they would be attending the meeting.

  Moore shook his head briefly. ‘Unlikely. As far as I know, the sisters have no involvement in this

  job.’ He grinned. ‘But who knows?’

  Ahead of them as they crossed the Thames sat the formidable headquarters of the British Security

  Intel igence Service. MI6. Popularly known as Legoland due to its rather block-like shape, it housed

  an organisation that had been attacked and scrutinised in every way possible by every foreign

  agency and every possible critic, and was still going strong. As far as Archer could tell from his

  admittedly outsider perspective, despite the odd cock-up which always fed the headlines, it was

  still one of the world’s best spy agencies with an enviable record of success.

  Security at the public entrance was rather like that of an airport, with metal detectors, an X-ray

  unit and closed doors off the atrium-like foyer each with card and code access. Archer followed

  Moore’s lead, emptying his pockets for the X-ray and submitting to the scanner wand of a muscular

  guard who looked like an ex-Para. Their phones were surrendered and secured in a locked cabinet

  by the security guard.

  Probably be scanned as soon as we go through, Archer figured.

  Moore showed his identity card to the receptionist and a phone call was made. Archer signed in

  and was issued a visitor’s pass to clip to his lapel.

  A couple of minutes later a woman was crossing the foyer to them, smiling at Moore and extending

  a hand to Archer.

  ‘Morning Rob,’ she smiled, ‘and you must be Craig. I’m Tracy.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Her hand was firm and dry, and she wore a sensible grey business suit with an understated warm

  perfume. Her blonde hair was pulled back and her make-up was subtle. She had the leanness of a

  runner and the broad shoulders of a swimm
er.

  ‘Come through.’

  She buzzed through a door and took them in a lift to the second floor, then into the first meeting

  room on the left. It was blue and plain and could have been a meeting room in any office building

  anywhere.

  Another man entered from a door at the other end of the room with a black leather folder in his

  hand. He was average sized, brown haired, tidily dressed and maybe mid-forties. He carried

  himself confidently.

  ‘Matthew,’ he said with a pleasant smile, shaking hands with Moore first then Archer.

  It was a brief, moist shake.

  Tracy introduced them, and Matthew turned to Moore.

  ‘I understand you have another matter to attend to while you’re here,’ he said smoothly, ‘so if you

  don’t mind. .’

  Moore took his cue and nodded. ‘I do,’ he said, opening the door behind him, ‘give me a buzz when

  you’re done, Arch.’

  Archer watched him leave before they sat round the table that dominated the room. Archer noted

  that nobody seemed to use last names and he doubted even the first names were real. Tracy took

  the time to fill glasses of water from a jug on the side cabinet then deferentially took her seat

  beside Matthew.

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ Matthew started, keeping his folder closed for now. ‘It’s good to meet you,

  and it’s very important that we work together on this. It’s a matter of great importance to both our

  governments. We’ve been aware of Yassar Al-Riyaz for some time now, keeping tabs on his

  movements etcetera, until he really began to move up on our radar about a year ago.’

  He paused to take a sip of water. ‘As you know, money’s the big game now. All these terrorist

  organisations need it, but it’s not part of the job description for the average suicide bomber. So

  they use these players that we’ve never really had dealings with before, dodgy financiers and

  money men from around the globe. Yassar is one of them.’

  ‘Funny, because apparently we only became aware of him about four months ago,’ Archer

  interjected.

  Matthew nodded sagely. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know. That’s something that could have been done better,

  and we’re following up on that but it’s all a bit above my pay-grade I’m afraid.’