Gun For Hire: A Michael Devlin Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  “I’m retired,” Devlin remarked, not quite rudely but matter-of-factly.

  Talbot smiled in reply, almost unctuously, as though he had won a private bet with himself as to predicting the Englishman’s reaction to his opening salvo.

  “I think you might find that you’ve just been on a long sabbatical. It was Oliver’s first thought too. But then, wisely, he had second thoughts when I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, to quote a phrase.”

  Devlin turned to look at Porter, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, but the fixer averted his gaze and bowed his head, in shame or otherwise.

  “You only have yourself to blame, one might argue,” Talbot continued, after taking a sip of coffee and fastidiously smoothing his tie down. “You came to my attention as a result of your last job. Your principle target was Rameen Jamal, I believe. But you also took out Faisal Ahmadi, a person of interest to me. Incidentally, I was surprised, impressed or appalled by you shooting your former commanding officer that night. In another lifetime I would have gazumped Oliver and recruited you myself, when you left the army. But as to Ahmadi it was my intention to turn him, or at least extract sufficient intelligence from the agent. I wanted to know who his paymasters were – and who he was giving money to. You rendered my operation obsolete however. Ahmadi’s death didn’t upset me, God and Allah knows the cretin deserved to die. But I found it irksome, to say the least, when some cowboy moseyed on into The Ritz and gunned down my target. I do not like to have my time and energies wasted. Now you and Oliver here were clever enough to shut down the surveillance systems of the hotel during the hit. But our equipment was still working fine when you entered and exited the building. Man plans, God laughs. It took some time but we managed to track you down. We duly discovered your connection to Oliver and I built up a file on you both. I’ve condensed the highlights of your files into these two folders, which you can peruse before you leave. Or you may want to glance at them now, so you are fully aware of the unfortunate position you’re in.”

  With a nod of his head Talbot instructed Cutter to hand over the two manila folders, containing photographs, intelligence reports and facsimiles of bank records and other documents. The CIA operative had been thorough. He often compared his agency to “the great Eye of Sauron,” which saw and knew everything, eventually.

  “I have considered you both prospective assets for some time. You just didn’t know it. I felt fine to put you on ice, until now. I want you to help me make a problem disappear. Once done, those files you are holding will similarly disappear. Now before you think of chirping up and saying that you are still retired, Michael, I want you to think carefully not just about yourself, but think of others in your life too. The authorities can use what’s in that binder to freeze and appropriate all your assets. A long prison sentence is inevitable. Who will then pay for your father’s care home? Who will visit him in your place – and give him his cigarettes and navy rum? Your former girlfriend, Emma, will be devastated too. Not just because of a sense of betrayal and humiliation. But did you know she is currently applying to work for an NGO, dealing with foreign aid? How much would you rate her chances of success once the word gets out that she was intimately involved with a contract killer? And who will be left to tend to Holly’s grave, after you’re gone? Should you insist that you are still retired there will be consequences for Oliver, your partner in crime so to speak, as well. I’m not sure how much he – or his family - will enjoy his sunshine years from a drear jail cell. I take no pleasure in mentioning such unpleasantness but I believe it’s best that you are apprised of all the facts before you make your final decision,” Talbot remarked with sympathy. Unrepentantly.

  Devlin remained outwardly calm – but inside he experienced an urge to make the CIA agent his next target. But that would only make his situation worse. He flicked through the pages of the file to discover photos of him leaving both Bermondsey Square and the Pankhurst estate. Perhaps if he still insisted that he was retired the American would threaten to send the relevant photos to the local yardie boss – and Jackson. His family – and the likes of Emma, Terry and Kylie – could suffer a worse fate than just seeing him go to prison. And what would happen to Violet?

  Devlin always knew the past would somehow catch up with him one day. Perhaps the past caught up with him every day. It wasn’t even the past. It was his present. We are where we are. The past can, like malaria, lay dormant for years. But every decade or so the disease will rear its ugly head. Make you suffer.

  7.

  Devlin agreed to take on the job.

  Talbot rubbed his hands in satisfaction and beamed, as if he had just closed a business deal of mutual benefit to all parties.

  “I’m pleased, gentlemen, that we are all on the same page. You’ll also be pleased that your target is neither a good nor innocent man, although we have all worked in this trade too long to grow a conscience. You are familiar with Ewan Slater…”

  Porter pictured the fifty-year-old former MP for Bradford West. He was scruffy-chic and could often be seen wearing a corduroy cap, which he claimed had once belonged to John Lennon (although he had been quoted years ago as saying the cap belonged to Donovan). A former trade unionist and member of the Labour Party, Slater had run as an independent candidate a decade ago and, against all odds, had won a seat. He called his party “Vision.” He had only served one term as an MP but Slater was currently experiencing a renaissance in support, mainly due to his appearance on the television show Strictly Come Dancing. He was willing to make a fool of himself – and a large section of the audience loved him for it. Vision was gaining some traction in the polls again and Slater had just announced that he would put himself forward as a candidate in the next election (albeit he remained coy about which constituency he would be running in). The BBC seemed to grant him as much favourable coverage as he desired and his team were adept at using social media (both to spread positive stories and shout down any critics). Most critics of the party were trolled and labelled “fascists” or “racists”. The Observer half-jokingly described Ewan Slater as “slightly to the left of Jeremy Corbyn”. The article also stated how the “socialist Nigel Farage” had won a poll relating to which political figure the public would most wish to have a drink with down the pub (despite the fact that Slater was a teetotaller). Porter had once met the rabble-rouser at a dinner in Mansion House. He was the guest of the Venezuelan ambassador. Porter had noticed over the years that even the most ardent communists were happy to break bread with capitalists, providing the spread was lavish enough and they didn’t have to pay. Slater turned to championing his friend’s country and its political system, arguing that “Venezuela is the fairest nation on Earth. Nigh on everyone is the same.” Porter was tempted to reply, “Aye, nigh on everyone is poor and is an enemy of the state,” - but desisted.

  Talbot continued with his character assassination:

  “Slater is vegetarian, against foxhunting and has spoken of a worldwide Jewish conspiracy on more than one occasion. He also fanatically believes the state should control the means of production. And he has the audacity to compare Donald Trump to Hitler. I am not at liberty to divulge the reason why we have commissioned this job but suffice to say you will be doing your country a great service. Slater may well be the single most dangerous man in Britain right now.”

  Porter painted a scenario of the target’s resurgent party winning a few seats at the next election (in northern towns and constituencies encompassing large student populations). He would be able to prop-up a Labour government, if the polls were correct, in exchange for enacting certain policies and being given a prominent post in the cabinet. Slater’s avowed enemy was “western imperialism”. Capitalism was to blame for all the worlds’ sins, according to the activist’s political philosophy (although what Slater really desired to propagate was a political religion). He called Das Kapital his Bible and Marx was a prophet. The proletariat were the chosen people and socialism, national or otherwise, was the promise
d land. In terms of who should play the role of God, the evangelical atheist had no doubt pencilled himself in for the role. But only he had the vision to make things work. He could be a new Mao or Stalin, but he would learn from their mistakes. The CIA couldn’t countenance such a figure having influence over foreign or trade policy relating to the United States, Porter mused. For years the establishment had rightly treated the radical socialist as a joke. Ewan Slater couldn’t be afforded to have the last laugh however.

  The CIA couldn’t be caught carrying out an assassination of such a figure on British soil, Porter reasoned. Devlin provided them with plausible deniability. He was their scapegoat. A patsy.

  “You have both been in the game long enough to know that, if apprehended, you will be on your own. And should you feel tempted to divulge any inappropriate information your families will suffer a far worse fate than just some financial insecurity.”

  Talbot hardened his features briefly – and Devlin fancied that he looked a little like a gargoyle - but then donned his mask of civility again. For the most part, the Englishmen sat in silence, like two chastised but truculent schoolboys outside the Headmaster’s office. They would be unhappy about it – but they would take their punishment. Cutter brought a bottle and glass of wine over.

  “This is your favourite Burgundy is it not, Oliver?” Talbot remarked, as an aside. His intention however was to stress to Porter just how much he knew about his new associate – and therefore control him.

  Despite ashtrays being conspicuous by their absence – and Talbot pulling a face when the Englishman retrieved his cigarettes – Devlin lit-up and filled the pine and cranberry scented room with smoke. For his own sense of worth, he needed to assert his will and defy the arrogant CIA agent. Even it if was a meaningless victory.

  “Now I appreciate how you have planned your jobs in the past but this operation has a strict time frame. Our window of opportunity will be open in two days. But rest assured the plan is sound. Should you have any reservations – or you discern any holes in the operation – we will duly listen. But Cutter will serve Slater up on a plate for you. We will provide you with a clean weapon. You will just need to arrange for your own extraction. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you to fix, Oliver. Who knows, this could be the first of many jobs together. We could form our own special relationship… Cutter will brief you further on the details. We have a file on Slater, which we can show you. I want you to have full disclosure. In terms of intelligence, what’s mine is yours. But I am afraid I need to leave, to attend another important meeting. No rest for the wicked. If a shark stops swimming, it dies,” Mason Talbot confidentially exclaimed, like a man in control of his own fate - and the fate of others.

  Cutter was thorough and professional in his briefing. The former Guards officer and ex-Para rolled back the years – and were under orders again like common soldiers. Cutter provided them with maps and laid out when and where Devlin would execute the kill shot. He had done most of Devlin’s work for him, including recommending an escape route.

  “I have studied your service record and other hits that we’ve attributed to you. You are more than capable of making the required shot.”

  The American ran through a list of rifles, suppressors and sights he could furnish the Englishman with, depending on his preference. All would be untraceable, should Devlin need to abandon the equipment during his exfiltration. Devlin also requested he be provided with a handgun – a Sig Sauer P226 – for the operation. Cutter paused to consider the request but then assented to it.

  “We will meet again here for a final run through, the day after tomorrow. If you have any questions, now is the time to ask. Mr. Talbot and I do not tolerate failure or disloyalty. But you are both smart and professional enough to already know that, I imagine,” the operative asserted, martinet-like, with more than a hint of warning in his voice. His expression was as taut as a bowstring.

  “Rest assured, Mr. Cutter, I have no intention of ruining what Mr Talbot called our special relationship.”

  Yet.

  8.

  “Drink?” Porter suggested, mustering what little cheer he could in his being, as the two men stood outside the house on Boston Place.

  “I wouldn’t say no,” Devlin replied, with understatement.

  They headed down into the tube in order to employ some counter surveillance measures and shake off any watchers. It didn’t really much matter whether they had a tail or not now but it was another small act of defiance. Travelling by tube again reminded Porter why he couldn’t abide travelling by tube. He turned his nose up at the odours, as well as the ill-mannered and ill-dressed passengers. The great unwashed, he snobbishly thought, quoting Cicero to himself.

  The pair alighted at Oxford St where Porter bought a couple of mobile phones. They decided that the best way to communicate over the next few days would be via Whatsapp. The system was nigh on impossible to crack, even for the intelligence services. After leaving the phone shop Porter hailed a black cab and instructed the driver to take them to the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge.

  Porter was a member of several clubs in London – including The Garrick, The Athenaeum, White’s and The Savile Club. Although he seldom now used the Special Forces Club he was warmly greeted by one of the managers as he entered the establishment. The spic and span figure resembled Capt. Peacock from Are You Being Served? Devlin fancied.

  “Afternoon Mr. Porter. It is good to see you again. I hope you’re keeping well. Thank you so much for the signed and personalised copy of the Frank Kitson book. It’s much appreciated.”

  There were some things which Oliver Porter still didn’t mind fixing.

  The two men went upstairs, ordered a couple of drinks and sat in the corner.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver,” Devlin exclaimed, his expression contrite and pained. If not for Devlin’s insistence on carrying out the hit on Rameen Jamal then they wouldn’t be in their current parlous state.

  Porter waved his hand in front of his face, as if brushing away a fly. Part of him was indeed upset with his friend but the blame game wouldn’t do anyone any good at present. Pragmatism was the order of the day.

  “What’s done is done. We need to concentrate on the job at hand and make sure we can extricate ourselves from acting as assets for our American cousins in the future. I have no desire to sell my soul to Mason Talbot. As little as my soul may be worth, I warrant it’s worth more than that. His leverage will remain, once we’ve completed the hit. A small mercy may be that he’s intending to return to the US next year, to run for Congress. But that doesn’t mean he won’t turn over our files to his replacement.”

  Devlin nodded his head in acknowledgment, agreement. But his face betrayed a sense of resignation to his drear fate. All is for the worst in the worst in the worst of all possible worlds, he morbidly thought.

  “We’re going to have to complete this job,” Porter continued, as he fastidiously straightened the cutlery on the table in front of him. “Are you confident of making the shot?”

  “That won’t be a problem. It seems strange that they would want to kill Slater in such dramatic fashion though. They could easily engineer things, given an extended time frame, to make it look like an accident.”

  “There does seem to be something else going on. Surely Talbot cannot consider Slater to be such a dangerous figure, who could have such an adverse effect on America’s interest? The election is some time away. It’s more fantasy than reality at the moment that Slater would be in a position to do a deal with Labour and get into power,” Porter posited, thinking how he would look into any personal connection Talbot had with their target. Something was amiss.

  “And will you be fine to arrange our extraction?”

  “Mariner should be able to immobilise any local CCTV, if needed. I’ll also contact Danny Tanner to organise a vehicle. He should be able to dispose of the car and weapons at a designated drop-off point too. I’m actually relieved that we’ll be responsible for arrang
ing our exit. I don’t wholly trust our new friends. But tell me, how have you been keeping?” Porter asked, emitting a different type of concern in his voice.

  “I’ve been better and I’ve been worse,” Devlin answered, shrugging his shoulders slightly. He’d certainly been better, though he was at pains to remember a time when things had been worse. “And how’s the family?”

  For the first time that day a fond smile shaped Porter’s features as the image of his wife and children came to mind.

  “They’re well, thank you. They’re doing far better than I am at present it seems. Have you heard from Emma?” he asked, in hope more than expectation.

  “Emma’s due to visit the flat tomorrow, strangely enough, to pick up some papers which she left there. I’m planning to be out when she comes around though. She’s engaged to be married. And you just heard today how she’s applying for a new job. I’m happy for her. She’s moved on,” Devlin remarked, but a twinge of anguish sliced through his expression as he pictured his ex-girlfriend’s face.

  “And have you moved on? Do you have anyone special in your life?”

  Devlin was tempted to reply that he had Holly, but he merely shook his head.

  Porter took in his friend once more. He was like a worn piece of carpet, where the pattern could no longer be discerned.

  “Are you keeping busy? Are you working on anything at the moment?”

  Devlin nearly replied that he was working his way through half a bottle of Talisker a day.

  “Fitzgerald said that there are no second acts in American lives,” Porter continued. “But he didn’t say anything about British lives. You’ll find someone else, Michael.”

  “I know,” Devlin solemnly replied, lying.