Scion

by Murray Mcdonald

  Stephen had sat and listened to Jennings describe the level of infiltration within the military and intelligence communities. It seemed nowhere was sacred, at every level and at every juncture, the conspiracy was there. Law enforcement, the judiciary, the list went on and on. Names of people under the direction of outside influence rolled off Jenning’s tongue; name after name of people Stephen Hughes thought to be of impeccable character and totally trustworthy. Cabinet members who it seemed had another paymaster. By the time Jennings finished, Stephen was surprised there was a government in power at all. It seemed anyone with any influence was batting for another team.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Stephen still reeling from the revelations.

  Jennings turned to the president, who took his cue.

  “Absolutely nothing. We have not one shred of proof that would stick in court, not that we can trust the courts. Nor do we know who’s even behind it.”

  “Holy shit,” Stephen’s mind was racing as he struggled to comprehend the implications of what was being said.

  “You realise you can’t discuss any of what you have heard here tonight?” instructed Walters.

  “Of course,” responded Stephen dismissively, his mind still working through the revelations.

  “All that I ask is that you watch your back and if you see anything you think can help us, please contact Dwight immediately,” asked the president, while Dwight handed over his business card.

  They all stood up, shook hands and slowly drifted out of the room. As they moved into the empty reception area, Stephen Hughes checked his watch and offered his apologies, he had a dinner date and was running very late. As his back disappeared out of sight, the president, Walters and Jennings walked back into the office.

  “Did he bite?” asked the president.

  “Absolutely, the greedy little shit could hardly contain himself,” replied Walters who had always warned the president about Hughes.

  “Is everything in place?” asked the president, still struggling to believe one of his closest friends was involved.

  “Yes Sir. If he so much as sneezes, we’ll know where, how hard and who to,” replied Jennings.

  Chapter 47

  The endless line of limousines outside the Chicago Hilton and Towers had not stopped all day. The private dinner hosted by Sam Baker was by no means an intimate event. The audience with the next president had cost its 1,000 guests over $25 million dollars between them. Sam had only organised the dinner following concerns over constant questioning of his funding. Suggestions of funding by the Saudi Royal family had recently surfaced on more than a few internet sites and had kicked off a debate that needed taming or else would cost Sam a few points on election day.

  Sam had finally relented and allowed his team to organise one big fund raising event but made it clear that everybody paid the same, no matter what. The last thing Sam wanted was owing anybody anything when he got the job. He wasn’t going to be like previous incumbents and spend the first few days in office paying off old debts and thanking backers with legislation that would repay them ten fold for backing him. With Transcon behind him Sam had all the money he would ever need.

  Of course, his refusal to accept donations for favours was causing more than a little unrest in the business community. Having a president in place who didn’t need their backing was something of a novelty. As such, the uptake for the fundraising dinner was unprecedented. The $25,000 tickets sold out in minutes. Resales of the tickets on ebay had caused widespread controversy with one ticket being sold for $1 million dollars. It seemed the business community had found their equivalent to Woodstock and would do anything to get hold of a the ticket.

  Eduardo Ramirez was one such ticket holder and was still enraged from his earlier call. Nobody spoke to Eduardo the way Sam Baker had spoken to him. Nobody. Initially, he had purchased the ticket as a joke, a little reminder to Sam that Eduardo was one of his backers. Many years earlier, he had lent the young Baker a large sum of money with the promise of a significant return. That return had indeed been significant. However, had it not been for the original loan, Sam Baker would not be where he was today. Eduardo liked having powerful friends and there would be none more so than an indebted American president. It had been over twenty years since he had last spoken to Sam. Their business deal had been carried out in complete secrecy and to this day Eduardo still did not know how Sam had managed to achieve the ten fold increase so quickly.

  Eduardo picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  “Get my plane ready,” he barked before hanging up. The joke was about to become a reality, Sam would learn not to underestimate Eduardo.

  “We’re going to Chicago!” he shouted over to his bodyguard who sat motionless under a nearby shade. “Get the helicopter ready!”

  Ten minutes later, Eduardo and his ever present team of bodyguards, were boarding Eduardo’s Sikorsky S76 helicopter for the short flight to the airport where Eduardo’s Boeing Business Jet 3 sat waiting.

  ***

  Fifteen miles south of Aruba, she pulled the throttles back and switched the small radar dish on. Its antenna began to rotate and the screen came to life. The small green line sweeping around an empty sky. Everything was ready. The sea was a little choppier than she would have liked but the wind not as bad as she had first thought it would be when she stepped out of the airport. All she needed now was the target.

  The job had been uncharacteristically rushed. Normally she had days or even weeks to plan a hit. This time, she had only hours. Seven hours ago, she had been waiting in Boston for a flight to Europe when the job came through. Could she make it to Aruba in five hours? Yes she responded and was told to get there asap. Everything would be in place, a long term issue needed to be resolved and an opportunity had arisen that was unlikely to be repeated.

  ***

  Eduardo increased the power and lifted off. He loved flying and was in the process of completing his airline training which would let him fly his airplane but for now he had to make do with the helicopter. He spun the nose around and pointing due north dipped the nose and increased the power. Queen Beatrix International Airport, home to his Boeing Business Jet, lay just 20 miles to the North.

  ***

  The first blip on the screen announced the target was approaching, 5 miles to the South. In less than two minutes, he would be in range. She lifted the Walther WA2000 rifle which against her petite frame looked even more ridiculous than normal. It’s bull pup design giving an uncharacteristic stocky look to the rifle. As the scope came to her eye, her body relaxed, her breathing controlled. Her mind began to think of nothing other than a perfect shot. The motion of the boat became rhythmic and entered into the factors that her mind calculated and re-calculated.

  Within a minute, the target started to come into sight of the scope but was still well out of reach. As each second passed, the detail became greater and greater until still over half a mile away, she had the perfect shot. The pilot of the helicopter became clearly visible. Her breathing stopped and as the boat reached the pinnacle of its sway, she depressed the trigger. The 7.62 mm round exploded from the barrel and flew through the air, dipping slightly as it arched towards its target. The front screen of the helicopter stood no chance as the bullet tore through it like tissue and continued relentlessly towards its target. A fraction of a second after the window had exploded, the pilot’s head bore the full brunt of the metal bullet’s fury. His head had gone.

  With perfect impact and a confirmed kill, she fired one more round. This one fired slightly lower and to the right, the huge bullet tore through the petrol tank and the resulting explosion ensured nothing but small pieces of debris would be left of the aircraft and its occupants.

  By the time the explosion ripped through the helicopter, the engines of the Sessa were already at full power. Twenty minutes later, she was docking the speedboat in Oranjestad, the main town on Aruba and disembarking with one small bag, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. A ten min
ute cab ride deposited her at the front door of the airport and thirty minutes later, she was handing over her boarding card and passport for her flight to Amsterdam with KLM.

  “I hope you enjoyed your stay,” the stewardess checked the boarding card and passport, “Miss Martinez.”

  “Couldn’t have wished for better, thank you.”

  Miss Long’s driving licence had disappeared to the bottom of the Caribbean sea along with her rifle and radar system. Miss Martinez would last until Amsterdam where she would disappear never to be seen again. She was not one of the world’s most prolific assassins for no reason.

  As she waited patiently for take off, a slight tremor in her bag announced the arrival of a new message. Retrieving her small blackberry-like device, she noted with some surprise her new target referred to simply as PM, London.

  Chapter 48

  Scott’s little detour involved a taxi, a bus, two ferries and a taxi and was nothing short of a major diversion. Their ultimate destination was Bandar Seri Begawan, the capital of Brunei which Ashley now knew was just South of Sabah and five hours away if you didn’t have a passport or forty minutes by plane if you did. Ashley had tried to understand what difference a lack of passport made in Brunei but Scott was staying tight-lipped offering nothing more than a ‘you’ll see’ response which, after a number of hours, had infuriated her so much that she didn’t even care any more what they were doing.

  As the taxi pulled to a stop at the airport, Ashley couldn’t help but wonder what they were going to do. She still didn’t have a passport and they needed to get to Geneva, preferably unannounced.

  “I just need to make a quick call,” announced Scott as he stepped out of the cab.

  Ashley followed Scott as he made his way to the nearest call box. Two minutes later, he was leading her down a corridor and through a door marked ‘no entry’, another ‘no entry’ door and before long they were both stood at the foot of steps leading to an aircraft.

  Scott, without hesitation, began to climb and was welcomed warmly by a man dressed in a captain’s uniform. Ashley followed and shook the captain’s hand as he offered it to her and as she stepped beyond the captain, an equally impeccably dressed stewardess guided her into the body of the aircraft. The captain shut the door behind them.

  Ashley stared in disbelief as she realised they were the only two passengers on the huge and it seemed very private Boeing 747 VIP, one of the newest products available from Boeing. The 747 VIP was based on the latest configuration of the Jumbo 747-800 Intercontinental and was the ultimate private jet, the perfect accoutrement for one of the world’s richest men, the ultra rich Sultan of Brunei.

  After showing Scott and Ashley to their seats and offering them a drink, the stewardess disappeared.

  “OK, what the fuck is going on?” asked Ashley, a cocktail glass in hand.

  “Let’s just say the Sultan owes me a favour.” Scott took a sip of his cocktail and smiled as the plane began to power down the runway. “Next stop, Geneva,” he said raising his glass to Ashley.

  Ashley however didn’t move. “Enough now, just please tell me what’s going on,” pleaded Ashley, suddenly realising what ‘sure travesty’ meant. She had misheard what he had said, it had obviously been ‘your majesty’.

  “OK, OK.” Scott downed his cocktail in one and turned to face Ashley.

  “I’m an assassin for the British government,” he said completely straight faced.

  Ashley looked deep into his eyes and waited for him to crack but after a few seconds gave up.

  “Fuck off, just tell me what’s going on, enough of the games.”

  Before Scott could respond, the captain knocked on the wall as he approached, announcing his presence.

  “Sir, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion,” said the captain to Scott.

  “Not at all,” Scott turned towards the captain and smiled.

  “I just wanted to offer my sincere gratitude for what you have done for my country and our highnesses, the Sultan and Crown Prince,” he said bowing deeply.

  Scott blushed and before he could speak, the captain continued. “May I also apologise for offering my gratitude as my highness asked that I do not say anything to you but as I was the pilot of the plane hijacked that night, I am also greatly indebted to you.”

  Ashley didn’t know who to look at, the captain or Scott.

  “Please, it was nothing, I’m just happy nobody was hurt,” replied Scott bashfully.

  “You are too kind, what you did that night required true courage and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” The captain bowed again and left.

  Ashley just stared at Scott in search of an explanation.

  Scott turned and looked out of the window.

  “As I said, I’m an assassin for the British government. I solve problems that nobody ever wants to admit happen. I am the ultimate deniability. I don’t exist within any organisation, I’m not an intelligence officer, I’m not a double ‘O’ agent. I’m an assassin. I only go in when all other options have been exhausted and even then only when it’s not appropriate for official involvement.”

  Scott turned back towards Ashley and noticed the doubt had gone and for the next few hours he told Ashley everything he could think of about his life. She too opened up and by the time they were nearing the outskirts of Geneva, both had opened themselves to each other like they had to no one ever before.

  Although having talked for hours, their intimacy the previous night had not entered the conversation and without either saying it, they knew it had been a mistake. Not that they regretted it, far from it, it was just both knew they had to be on top of their game and any relationship would have to wait. Sex was off the menu at least until some serious revenge had been dished.

  It was only as they were on the final approach to landing that Ashley remembered the words of the captain.

  “So what exactly did you do to warrant this favour?” she asked waving her arms around the cabin.

  “Oh nothing much, just rescued the Sultan’s eldest son from some crazed hijackers that were threatening to kill him.”

  “Nothing much?! Why you?” asked a very impressed Ashley.

  “The hijackers took refuge in North Korea, no official forces could go in. Myself, Kirk and Kyle went in as mercenaries by HALO (High Altitude Low Opening parachute jump). We killed the hijackers and flew the plane out without the Koreans ever knowing we were there.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Not really, just a bunch of two-bit amateurs trying to make a quick buck.”

  Ashley had a feeling Scott was underplaying his part ever so slightly.

  Both were surprised when the call from the captain announced their imminent arrival in Geneva. The control tower noting the royal call sign had cleared the plane for landing and cleared its route to the VIP reception centre.

  Within minutes, the plane had powered down and the front door opened to allow Ashley and Scott to leave the plane. Thanks to a call ahead from the Sultan, passport control was unmanned and after a cursory welcome from the manager of the VIP reception area, they exited the building and were met by a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce.

  “It seems the Sultan is very appreciative of your nothingness!” exclaimed Ashley as she climbed into the back of the luxuriously appointed car.

  “Hmm,” said Scott refusing to rise to the bait.

  The chauffeur turned as he closed the door and said. “The Sultan has reserved a suite for you at the Rocco Forte Le Richemond. I hope this will be OK.”

  Scott turned to Ashley who, checking the time, nodded her agreement. It was at least eight hours before the bank would open.

  Chapter 49

  Sam kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the huge sofa that dominated the lounge of the Conrad Hilton Suite. The dinner had been a great success. His speech went down a storm with both the guests and more importantly the press. Initial polling showed an increase of two points and that was only on the back of the initial television rep
orts. After the morning papers, that would rise further.

  “Can I get you anything before I head off?” asked John Harding, Sam’s campaign manager.

  “No thanks, I’m just going to watch the news and hit the sack.”

  “OK, well I’ll see you in the morning.”

  As he headed towards the door and to his own room, he stopped. “Oh I almost forgot, Max Ernst has been calling, he said it was urgent.”

  Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial button for Max. It was answered before the end of the first ring.

  “Hello?” said Max.

  “Hi, it’s Sam, what’s up?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes…”

  “I’ll be there in one minute,” said Max breathlessly.

  “But I’m in Chicago.”

  “I know, I’m on the floor below you but nobody knows I’m here. I’m coming right up.” Max hung up.

  Sam was left wondering what the hell was going on. Max was unflappable and from the day he had met him, Sam knew he was a man that would prove invaluable to him. His position as right hand man to Henry Freeman had been carefully and skilfully engineered. Max Ernst was Sam Baker’s eyes and ears not only in Transcon but also amongst the shareholders. Henry Freeman trusted him implicitly, unfortunately the trust was not reciprocated. Max knew who was boss and his allegiance had (and always would) lie with Sam Baker.

  Sam opened the door and was brushed aside by the over eager Max.

  “Jesus, what’s the rush?” exclaimed Sam, closing the door.

  “Nobody can see me here,” Max scanned the room for anyone else before continuing. “They’re on to us!”