by Steve Reeder
“I know this,” I finally replied. “He was forcibly removed from his car while minding his own business, and at the same time a good friend of mine was badly hurt.”
There was no response from him, and he continued to stare at me with cold eyes. Like a reptile, I thought. I could grow old and grey waiting for this boy to crack and break down in tears over Bud’s injuries. Showing concern about the peasants was not in his nature.
I banged down my mug, to show my irritation with him. My show of displeasure was somewhat spoilt by sloshing hot tea over my hand.
“Look,” I said. “Just what is it you want from Rodber? And why do you think you should have it?”
He stared at me, unconcerned. Without dropping his eyes he took a careful sip of tea, probably using the time to do some thinking of his own.
“Rodber hid something the other day. He did this in a hurry and yet my people cannot find it here, or over in the offices.” He stared at me, waiting for a response. I shrugged, not knowing what to say to that.
“He did not have it on him when we, er … invited him to join us either, so where do you suppose it could be?” he asked.
“Listen, mate, I don’t even know what it is that you are looking for.”
He regarded me for a moment. “Somehow I find it difficult to believe you are as ignorant as you make out, Mr Roberts,” he said, not minding if he hurt my feelings. “I wonder if perhaps I should have taken the daughter instead of the father.” I glared at him, rage building inside me. He looked speculative for a moment, “Or perhaps Miss Michele Robinson?”
I was up and half way towards him with murder on my mind when two of his minders got to me. Grabbing an arm each they pulled me back, exhibiting an enormous amount of strength. The one on my right drew back his huge fist and let it thud into my stomach.
It would be untrue to say that I folded like a pack of cards, as I am very fit and execute fifty to sixty stomach crunches every morning, at least I had been doing so until recently, but the wind was certainly knocked out of me. I had some sympathy for the pack of cards.
He stood and examined me with curiosity.
“You see, Mr Roberts. I think you are a lot tougher and more dangerous than you would have me believe. I can’t think of any reason for not killing you just to be on the safe side.”
I tried hard to mention a few that came to mind, but I was still trying to get my breath back. He gave the two toughs a contemptuous nod and they let me go. Perhaps he read my mind.
“Don’t get in my way, Mr Roberts.” He turned and followed the minders out of the door. As he stepped through the doorway, he turned and said to me, “As soon as Rodber remembers what I want him to remember, and I have what I want, you can have him back. Till then, don’t do anything stupid, will you?” With that he strolled casually out to the DB9 and, without a backward glance, drove away followed by the heavies in the Rover.
Dave came in. “You alright, boss?”
I nodded. “Sure, Dave.” I waved away his concern. “Grab me a beer out the fridge, will you.”
Dave searched the fridge and handed me a Dutch beer, opened one for himself and sat across the table.
“Sorry about that. I was a little outnumbered there.” He looked sheepish.
“Don’t let it worry you, Dave,” I replied, rubbing my stomach. “We’ll just have to do better at the next encounter though.”
The phone woke me. It must have rung two or three times before I dragged myself back to consciousness. With some difficulty I prised my eyes open and for a moment didn’t realise where I was. The ringing came again, and a voice by my side mumbled, “Phone.”
I looked fondly down at Michele and last night came rushing pleasurably back to me. We had made love three times, and I knew that if she would have me, I was going to marry this girl.
The phone’s shrill warbling finally got my full attention. I reached over Michelle’s sleeping body and answered with a grunt. My alarm clock said ten past six. AM.
And the voice said: “Mr Roberts?”
I didn’t know the voice but still recognised it. You hear it all over the world, and everywhere and it sounds the same: as precise and impersonal as an income tax form, and probably as unwelcoming. The voice of authority.
“Mr Simon Roberts?” the voice said again.
I grunted back at him. “Go away. It’s still early, far too early to speak to policemen.”
“And why would you assume that I’m a policeman?” he asked.
“You all sound so the same,” I replied. “What do you want?”
“Frank Brown’s my name and…”
“Somehow, I was expecting you,” I interrupted. “What do you want?”
“I believe you’ll be spending much of the day at Brands Hatch Raceway. If you don’t mind I’ll come over and we could have a chat. I’ll meet you at the track.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Unless you would rather I popped in for breakfast,” he suggested.
My sleep-clouded mind mulled this over for a moment. I was tempted to ask if he had spoken to Inspector Hammil lately, but decided against it.
“No. I don’t think Special Branch for breakfast is a good idea, not for me anyway. And I don’t think we can talk much at the track, if only because there are people that you don’t need to speak to. As long as that’s clear, let’s meet tonight.”
“Certainly, Mr Roberts.” He named a quiet country pub not far from here and rang off.
The only thing that stopped me wishing I had never gone to Texas in the first place was the girl sleeping peacefully bedside me. I drew the duvet down and began caressing Michele’s lower back. I might just as well enjoy an early start to the day.
I must remember to phone Jethro Jones too. It was beginning to look as if I was going break into a foreign embassy protected by armed guards. Unless someone named Frank Brown stopped me.
By three thirty I knew we were ready to race. Both riders had completed sixty laps of Brands Hatch at a competitive pace. Brett’s troubles had been sorted out by radical suspension changes and he finished the day with not only the quickest lap, but one that was nearly a second quicker than any of the five top privateer riders that had joined us at the track. Russell was marginally slower, which did not seem to worry him in the least.
The first race of the season was at Donnington Park in ten days’ time. Next week Sunday in fact. The team would be travelling up north to Donnington next Wednesday with Dave and one of the other drivers leaving Tuesday lunchtime with two trucks full of bikes and equipment. The first open practice session would be Thursday with the first qualifying on Friday. This would be the big moment for both my riders: a first chance to test themselves against the likes of Ritter, Haslop and other experienced, fast men. Not Neil Mackenzie though, who I had just heard had retired.
I congratulated the team on a fine effort and told them to take the next two days off after getting everything back to the farm.
I would not be going back with them. I had an appointment with Jethro Jones, armed nutter for hire, and later with a man named Brown. I had decided he was not a policeman of any persuasion. More likely he was with MI5. I wondered if he knew anything about the equipment Hammil had dropped off last night. Some of it was quite hi-tech stuff, including an infra-red scope powerful enough to detect heat sources within a building. Heat sources such as human beings for instance.
They say dynamite comes in small packages. Well, that describes Jethro Jones perfectly. Of course they say the same thing about jelly powder, but I don’t think that applied in this case.
At five foot six he was the shortest man in the Bricklayers’ Arms, yet I doubted anyone, including me, would want to have started trouble with him. He exuded a barely controlled aggression, ready to explode like old nitro-glycerine. He was perhaps late thirties with uncombed blond hair, two days’ worth of stubble on his chin and a shirt that had seen better days.
I shook his hand warily. He grinned at me. “Don’t
worry, Mr Roberts, it’s just an act,” he said but I must have looked confused. “When you’re only five and half feet tall, your best defence from the playground bully is for him to be scared of you.” He chuckled.
“Uh huh,” I replied, but noted how powerful his grip was. Perhaps the playground bully had had reason to fear him.
I offered him a beer, but he chose rum and Coke instead. I spotted an empty table in the back and grabbed it before two teenage boys could get there. I ignored their whining complaints and Jethro suggested they go back to Mummy, or words to that effect.
“So what can I help you with, Mr Roberts?” he asked, coming straight to the point.
“How much did Bud tell you?” I asked him.
“Not much, except that you need someone handy in the stealth department?”
“Mr Jones - ”
“Jethro,” he interrupted. “Or Jonesy if you like.”
“OK. Jethro then.” I proceeded to tell him the whole story from when Rodber had been taken. I told him what we believed and what Hammil had suggested. I also explained about the equipment that Hammil had delivered.
“’Ang on a minute. Do you mean to tell me that we’re doing this with not only the blessing of the coppers, but with their help too?” He sounded incredulous.
“Exactly that, Jethro. Think of it as the best of both worlds, doing a bit of mischief, with the police turning a blind eye.”
“And getting paid for it too, yeah?” He cocked an expectant eyebrow at me.
“But of course, Jethro. Name a reasonable price and I’ll square it with the boss.” I thought it wise not to mention that the boss was a nineteen-year-old girl.
We haggled about money and debated how we would proceed and by nine that evening Jethro and I had reached an understanding. We could work together and we had a plan for the first part of the operation: reconnaissance. We would take a look at the Embassy building the next evening.
Outside, Jethro reclaimed his old Jaguar XJS from the parking lot and, with a promise to phone me the next morning, he roared off trailing evidence of a broken silencer behind him.
Only then did I remember Frank Brown. I’d forgotten about our meeting.
As I drove away from the Bricklayers’ Arms I turned on the mobile phone. There were eight missed calls. Five were predictably from Brown. Two were from Michele wondering when I’d be back and one from Bud who had not left a message.
I called Brown and apologised. He insisted we meet straight away. After calling Michele to reassure her, I called Brown back and agreed to meet around the corner from Rodber’s. He was waiting for me when I arrived.
I drew up alongside his dark blue Vauxhall. Very official looking it was too. He climbed into the Granada and handed me a business card. It indicated that he was with the Foreign Office. I remained sceptical but put it in my top pocket anyway. Come to think of it, MI5 was part of the Home Office.
“What can I do for you, Frank?” He looked annoyed at my use of his first name. I had known he would be.
“I’d like to talk to you about Josh Rodber,” he began.
“You’re doing your best to have him returned to his wife and daughters of course?” I asked him. He looked uncomfortably at me. This conversation was getting away from him already.
“We are, ah … facilitating his return, but that’s not what I came to see you about, Mr Roberts.”
“Good, then I guess we’re finished here.” I was determined to rattle his cage. Some men you just dislike on sight.
“No, sir, we are not. Look, you are meddling in something that does not concern you and - ”
“Listen, Frankie, I haven’t done anything yet, other than help prepare a racing team.”
“Yet. You said yet,” he claimed triumphantly.
“Is there some reason why the Foreign Office doesn’t want Rodber home?” I asked.
“Mr Roberts, there are things I cannot discuss with you; Affairs of State if you will. Just believe me when I say that everything will work out right in the end if you would just leave well alone.”
“For you or for Rodber?” I was getting angry now. “And come to think of it, why do you assume I’m involved in doing anything other than running a race team?”
“It’s my job to know things, Mr Roberts. Please take this as a friendly warning. Keep your nose out of this affair.”
He climbed out of the car and closed the door gently. I rolled down my window and asked him, “Have you been speaking to Sultan what’s his name lately?” He gave me a sour look and drove off. At least I knew now why the Sultan had come visiting.
Jethro and I sat and stared at the old house, our vision blurring as the light rain blotted the windscreen only to be wiped clear every five seconds by the reluctant wipers.
“So this is what he uses as an embassy then?” Jethro asked softly, more to himself than me. A rhetorical question, presumably, as the gate was clearly marked “Embassy of the Islamic Kingdom of Saudi.”
The house formed the end of a quiet London street with the road running directly into the gates. Several older three-storey mansions lined the street on our right with very old-looking oak trees dotting the pavement. On the left was a park with palisade fencing keeping out the homeless and any backpacking Australians. The park continued on past the Sultan’s home-away-from-home for some hundred yards or more till a busy road replaced the green grass with traffic heading east out of London.
The gate was ten foot high and it would take a Challenger main battle tank to get through it without some help from the gatekeepers, of which there seemed to be three. At least one was armed with an Uzi machine pistol; ironically an Israeli weapon.
If the side wall bordering the park were a continuation of the front, then it too would be of stone, ten foot high and two foot wide with anti-intruder spikes on top. We would need to get a closer look at both the side wall and the back if that were possible. I said as much to Jethro. He nodded thoughtfully.
After a moment he turned to me and said, “I think we should come for a stroll around the park tomorrow and see what we can see.” I nodded back to him.
“I think I’m going to bring Michele for a romantic walk, or maybe a picnic. It’ll give me an excuse to take some photos.” I thought for a moment and then continued, “I think perhaps you could jog a few times around the boundary and along the embassy wall?”
Jethro grinned at me. “Rather be picnicking with your bird, but all right. And I think it’s time to go. That rag-head fellow has been out of his hut twice to stare at us.”
It never occurred to me till much later to wonder how Jethro knew about Michele.
The car started on the third attempt. Perhaps it was time I gave it back to its owner and retrieved my twenty-year-old TVR Tasmin from Manchester, where the seats had been reupholstered in dark blue leather while the motor was being overhauled.
I decided to fly with Michele up north, spend the night, possibly at a quaint B&B I knew of just outside Manchester, and drive back the next day. We could then come directly to the park for the spy mission. I mean picnic.
I called Michele on her mobile phone and put my idea forward. To my obvious delight she agreed. Jethro couldn’t help laughing. We would fly up tomorrow directly after the morning test session.
We had just received hugely expensive new gearboxes from Italy. The crew was going to be fitting them while Jethro and I spied on foreign embassies.
We only got lost five times on the inner London streets while searching for the road at the far end of the park. One of us was getting more than a little annoyed by this time. It wasn’t Jethro either.
Finally, I stopped on a darkened corner and called across to a poorly dressed elderly man sitting on a doorstep. He reluctantly stood and walked unevenly to the passenger window that Jethro had opened. I realised he was more than a little intoxicated.
“What the fuck do you want then?” he asked belligerently.
“Um, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re lost and could
do with some help.” I was trying to be polite.
He glared at me and started to turn away but before he could take a step Jethro said. “What regiment were you with, Granddad?”
‘Granddad’ stopped and looked at Jethro intently. “Duke of York. Long time ago,” he said, pulling himself up and straightening his old shoulders. “You?” he asked. Jethro nodded, “Royal Marines, but I spent some time with the Silly Buggers.” He meant the Special Boat Service, which is a naval version of the SAS, more or less. The old soldier nodded respectfully.
“You’re just two streets away from the A21. That’ll get you out of London.” He gave Jethro brief directions.
Jethro thanked him and he turned away, but again Jethro stopped him. Pulling out his wallet Jethro extracted a £50 note and held it out to the old man.
“I don’t have time just now to join you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop in a real soldiers’ pub somewhere and have a pint or two on me?” The old boy hesitated, then in as dignified manner as he could, he accepted the note. He stared at Jethro for a moment longer and then without so much as looking in my direction, he returned to the doorstep. Wrapping his coat around himself he made a point of ignoring us.
“Come on,” Jethro said, “let’s give the old boy some peace.”
Once we were on the M26 I soon found I knew where we were. We drove in silence and I speculated on Jethro’s previously hidden side. A side that related to old comrades-in-arms even if they had left the service before Jethro had been born. A side that showed not only enough compassion to cough up a fifty quid note, but to do it such in a manner as to try not to hurt the old boy’s pride.
“How did you know he was an old soldier?” I asked.
“Fifteen years in the service and you begin to get a feeling about blokes, you know?”
“Not really,” I replied, “but I’ll take your word for it.” We turned off the main road. The farmhouse was not far now.
“SBS,” I said. “That is impressive.”
Jethro grunted. “Yeah, we were good. Better than the SAS. Best in the bloody world.”
I said I’d take his word for that too. “Anyway,” he continued, “I know about your stint with the South African Special Forces.” I glanced across at him, wondering who would have been in a position to tell him that. It must have been Bud, although he’s not usually that talkative.
