Portrait Of An Assassin - Richard Godwin

by Near To The Knuckle

  “That’s all you need to know for the moment.”

  I have one question.”

  Clarkson leaned forward.

  “What?”

  “What protection do you have?”

  “In the way of?”

  “Back–up.”

  “Fire power?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough. When we meet next and if this deal goes ahead with you on board, then I’ll tell you more.”

  “Trust us,” Sinclair said.

  It was obvious who was running this show.

  I left after another drink and phoned Morris back at my hotel so he could start organising the finances.

  XIII

  I knew Clarkson wasn’t going to be easy. He was suspicious of everyone.

  I told Morris to put out some phoney background on me that would convince him to do business. He played his part well and I became the man Clarkson was looking for, with all the credentials that would hook him in.

  “I’ve put together a package saying you’re ex–military and have been working for the US and British government,” he said when he called me back. “Clarkson will have to hunt for the information, as he would expect, but he’ll find it. And he’ll see you as a fellow mercenary he can manipulate.”

  “And the money?”

  “We’ve opened an account showing ten mill in it.”

  “I hope that’s enough.”

  It would get me in with Clarkson and in the meantime I would smoke Morris out.

  I knew all along he was working for the government. There was no way he could have put that package together without being an agent. Every time he got back to me with what I wanted I saw a little more. What I couldn’t see was the puppet master’s face.

  I knew the government game was use and dispose: guys in my position eventually walked the plank toward a ticking bomb. I figured I could do the job and get out.

  Meanwhile, someone was bloodying the waters with shark bait.

  When the call came, it was from Sinclair.

  “We’re thinking tomorrow, about noon.”

  “Fine.”

  “At your hotel.”

  “I’m staying at the Al Murooj.”

  The next day they turned up together.

  I showed them into the sitting room and after serving drinks got down to business.

  “I’ve arranged my part. Are we playing?”

  “We’ve checked you out, and you seem to be telling the truth,” Clarkson said.

  He looked more relaxed than the last time.

  “You said something about arranging finances,” Sinclair said.

  “It’s all here.”

  I put the folder down on the coffee table.

  Clarkson picked it up.

  He looked through it in silence then passed it to Sinclair.

  After a few minutes, he closed it and said, “Looks good to me.

  “We need more money,” Clarkson said.

  “I know, I can arrange that for you.”

  “Fine. Then we’re on. Charles?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Okay. Now you tell me more about the deal.”

  Clarkson stood up. “We’ve been doing some trade with Syria. The people we’re dealing with…”

  “Who are?”

  “Syrian military. The government’s elite corps. They’re interested in buying into the nuclear arms race. We have enriched plutonium coming into Libya via Australia. We need you to come out to Libya with us, and then on to the sales point which will be in Damascus. Any problems?”

  “None.”

  Sinclair leaned forward.

  “This is a very delicate operation, Lewis. We need to make sure nothing goes wrong, which is why the fact that you’re ex–military has swung things in your favour.”

  “How is that going to help?”

  “Things might get tough at the borders.”

  “You’re transporting it across?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are factions, groups with their own interests who could endanger the project, some of them bandits,” Clarkson said. “We envisage the possibility of shoot–outs and we will arm you.”

  “Charles has no background, isn’t that a little risky?”

  “Charles won’t be in on the transport. I need another guy on board who can handle himself, which is why we’re interested in you.”

  “I’ll be at Damascus conducting the negotiations, and wait for you to turn up,” Sinclair said.

  “I get the picture.”

  “We’ll meet again to talk through the plans. There will be two stages.” “Which are?”

  “Delivery of the plutonium, then the other components.”

  “What weapons will we be carrying?”

  “Just let me take care of that.”

  I decided to let it go.

  “Then we’re on,” Sinclair said, standing up.

  After a few more drinks they left and I relayed the information through to Morris.

  The best way to play Clarkson was to let him feel he was in control.

  I had a plan as to how to get his trust and it would take effect at the border.

  ***

  Everything went smoothly. Until we reached the crossing.

  Clarkson and I had flown out to Libya, passed a night in a hotel talking through the next day’s movements and spoken to Sinclair, who said everything was okay at his end. We’d checked the transport and he’d armed me with a Sig Sauer pistol.

  The next day we received and checked the plutonium, connected the transporter to the juggernaut and drove off.

  Once we got to the border, we were quizzed for a long time by the guards.

  The ID they’d arranged worked and we got through, but hit a dead end when we came across an overturned tree in one of the roads.

  It was too narrow to turn, so we set about shifting it.

  As we did, we heard shots over our heads.

  Clarkson dived for cover, and I got into the juggernaut.

  I let him fire out a few rounds from behind some trees before moving in and taking out two of the guys with the SIG.

  He was impressed.

  “You’re good,” he said. “Better than a lot of the guys I used to work with.”

  “I like to think I’ve still got it.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “I told you I can handle myself.”

  He stretched out his hand. His grip was firm, but more relaxed now.

  “Okay, how about moving the tree?” I said.

  We arrived that evening and parked the goods in the lock–up before heading to the hotel.

  We had something to eat then discussed the plans for the next day before retiring for the night.

  Back in my room I called Morris on my mobile.

  “You’re in Damascus?”

  “Yes. And the guys you put in the hills did a good job. Fired just close enough to convince him, backing off when I came out.”

  “I told you we wouldn’t let you down.”

  “The tree was a nice touch.”

  “So you have his trust now?”

  “Think so. Close enough to find out what we need.”

  XIV

  As it turned out, Clarkson was not the only person I was to rescue.

  Lauren Smiles was Spengler’s personal secretary. He employed hundreds of them, but used her as his PA because of her languages and people skills. She had a way of putting people at their ease. She inspired confidence, a useful commodity to the tricksters who paid her salary.

  Spengler treated her badly, paid her as little as he could get away with, and backed off from touching her up, having had his face slapped, but made endless sexist jokes about her when she was out of the room.

  He shuttled her around on business, never consulting her, and used her as his general dog’s body.

  It was at the offices of Global Nexus in Damascus that I first met her.

  They were trading under the name of United Investments
, but it was just an outpost of Global.

  Clarkson had asked me to come to a meeting at the offices to look over some paperwork relating to future investments in the deal.

  Lauren greeted me at reception. She had a pleasant manner and a warm voice and there was something about her that made her stand out from the crowd.

  “He’s not here yet, can I get you a coffee?” she said.

  “That would be nice.”

  She was neatly dressed in a designer suit which hugged her figure.

  Her manner immediately put me at ease.

  “Would you like to wait in the office, Mr Carmichael?”

  “This is fine.”

  There was a sofa in the reception area and I sat down as she returned to her desk.

  She seemed to be the only employee working there and the offices had an isolated feel about them.

  I listened as she took various phone calls, noting how unflappable and calm she was. She had something about her, some allure I couldn’t put my finger on. I also realised as I sat there she was someone I didn’t come across too often in my line of work: an honest, professional woman unpolluted by crime.

  She was almost lulling me into a relaxation I consider dangerous to my need for alertness.

  I decided on conversation as an antidote.

  “So, how long have you been working here?”

  “Well I don’t, Mr Carmichael.”

  “Please call me Lawrence.”

  “I work in London, Lawrence, at Global Nexus’s head office, but Mr Spengler sends me out here from time to time.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s hard work, but I enjoy the variety.”

  Behind her professional charm I detected strain: an uneasiness.

  “Is he a good boss?”

  She looked at me for an instant and said, “I’ve got no complaints.”

  “Well, I’ll be doing some work with Sam Clarkson, so we may well meet again.”

  I saw her look away when I mentioned his name.

  “You’ll see me more likely in London. What do you do?”

  Just then the phone rang, and Clarkson walked in.

  I was ushered into the office, where we went over the brief.

  They were outlaying a billion on this project, intending to rake back ten times more.

  It had been immaculately planned out and I was definitely riding in on the crest of a wave and could blow this thing sky high.

  Clarkson’s mobile went and he left me alone for a few minutes. While he was gone I downloaded a lot of information from the computer onto a memory stick.

  When I left, Lauren was still on the phone. I waved at her and left the building.

  ***

  Once we’d delivered the plutonium over at the outpost, we returned to London.

  The last stage had been easy, no hold–ups, no checks, and I suspected that Global had a major insider in the Syrian government who was controlling all the movements. These were definitely top names. Self–protection and secrecy surrounded every level of the operation like a barbed wire fence.

  From London to Damascus a miasma of lies choked the truth out of the situation like a still–born baby.

  We had a de–brief at Clarkson’s hotel, then parted for a few weeks before stage two.

  I’d got quite a lot from the stick, trade routes and financial figures, some other business deals and a lot of personnel information, but there was a whole lot more.

  I passed on everything I’d gathered to Morris.

  He had one question:

  “When’s the hit?”

  “I can’t tell you. When I’ve got what you need and I can exit safely.”

  I needed to corner Clarkson, but there was a lot to do before that happened. Also, I wanted to find out more about exactly what I was involved in.

  Although he was less wary of me after the shoot–out, he continued to be suspicious and closed. Habit of a lifetime serving in the army and killing, I guess.

  The second stage of the deal was to deliver parts for the plutonium enrichment programme the Syrians were planning.

  They’d constructed huge underground factories, where workers, some of the Syrian, many defectors from the Soviet Union or smuggled out of North Korea, laboured in anonymity and un–spendable wealth.

  I never went down there, only Clarkson did that, but it was surplus to my needs.

  I kept reminding myself of the two things I needed to do: get the information and take Clarkson out, after which I planned to retire. That was about as easy as crossing a minefield for a loaf of bread.

  The personnel information I’d downloaded made interesting reading: complaint after complaint by disgruntled employees. Spengler had worked his way through a long list of PAs, all with top professional credentials.

  All of them had left to get jobs elsewhere, often for less pay.

  Checking through Lauren Smiles’ pedigree was educational: she was highly employable. Also, she’d taken out an official grievance procedure against a member of staff whose name was classified, alleging sexual harassment. It had been resolved via a pay rise. She seemed too good for the job.

  The word classified appeared several times: there were a lot of female staff who’d complained of being left alone in offices where incidents of sexual harassment had occurred, while the perpetrator was never identified.

  One even went to the police with a rape allegation. The CPS never prosecuted.

  Still, what did Spengler care for the workers? If his right hand man liked rough sex, he’d just add a fat tip.

  We flew back out a month later and stopped off in another border town hotel. Sinclair as usual was dealing with things at the Damascus end.

  Clarkson informed me that we would need to take another route this time.

  “After what happened last time, I’ve found another way round.”

  The parts arrived on schedule and we drove through the night on deserted roads, taking it in turns.

  No danger presented itself, and even the security guards sleepily waved us through.

  We delivered the goods and left.

  Then came the series of protracted negotiations where we had to ensure adequate funds were cleared.

  That was when the funds had to be certified, and was always the part of the plan that worried me the most. Morris was not going to risk parting with that amount of money, so the figures were all smoke and mirrors.

  Clarkson left me alone in the offices of United Investments for a couple of hours while he went to take care of a couple of things.

  It was my second meeting with Lauren.

  She looked different, worn out somehow.

  “See you’re still stuck out here,” I said. “I thought you’d be back in London by now.”

  “Too much to do.”

  Compared to the first meeting she seemed strangely uncommunicative and I tried again.

  “Work getting you down?”

  “You could say that.”

  She was feeding reams of paper into the photocopier. I walked over to the water cooler and as she turned I noticed a livid bruise just under her left eye. It was heavily made–up, and had I been standing any further away I wouldn’t have noticed it.

  She stopped.

  “Has someone hit you?”

  She turned her head.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No it’s not. Someone’s punched you, Lauren.”

  Behind the professional persona were stifled tears. An isolated employee who I could see wanted to talk.

  “Who was it?”

  Her eyes were brimming now.

  “I’ve just had enough,” she said. “If it wasn’t for the money, I’d quit tomorrow. That bastard–.”

  “Who? Spengler?”

  “No. Clarkson, your business colleague.”

  “What happened?”

  She sat down.

  “I don’t know if I should be talking about this. What the hell? Last week I was working late, as usual, and he comes in. Dr
unk.” I didn’t know he’d been back to Damascus since our last visit. “He starts saying how beautiful I am and can he take me out for a meal. Look, he’s really not my type. I’m a professional woman, do this job, and try to have a life.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, he starts making innuendos. I bet you’re a bit of a goer, that sort of thing. Have you ever fucked a squaddy before? I just ignored him, and then as I’m making to leave, he grabs one of my boobs.”

  “No one else around?”

  “No. I slapped him as hard as I could. He punched out instantly and that’s how I got this.”

  “Squaddies, eh?”

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t end there. He pushed me up against the wall, put his hand up my skirt and started feeling me up. I started screaming at the top of my lungs and although the building was empty, it unnerved him.”

  “You shouldn’t be put in that kind of position.”

  “Tell me about it. All the people Spengler sends for me to deal with are scum, right bastards, present company excepted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really. There’s something different about you.”

  “Nice to know.”

  “Look, I’m a professional woman, but this job’s been getting me down for years. Staff are not treated correctly. People are frightened. Clarkson’s been hassling me for months. He’s got a reputation. And as far as a grievance procedure is concerned at this company, money is seen as a fix for everything. I’d quit tomorrow if I could.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I don’t have time to look for anything else.”

  The phone went and a few minutes later Clarkson came back. I suggested going to my hotel to finish the meeting.

  He asked why.

  “I’m not sure. I think that secretary’s ear wigging us.”

  “Her! I can believe that. She’s a real little tart, fucked just about everyone in Global. I don’t trust her. I want her out of the way.”

  ***

  In all the hits I’d carried out for Martoni and privately there were zero opportunities for casualties. Mixing in the legitimised world of businessmen and secret services I saw how careless they were with incidental damage: staff and passers–by were all part of the area of fair risk as far as they were concerned.