Chapter 62
The train pulled into Gerrards Cross just after 18.00 and by 18.15 Scott had found Butler-Jones’ house. Tucked away towards the back of the small town, it really was quite spectacular. An Edwardian mansion house covering two floors and set in over two acres of land. A quick recce of the grounds uncovered minimal security, motion sensor spotlights and infra red cameras mounted on each corner of the house. Although it looked impressive, to a professional like Scott, it was a dream come true. There were more blind spots in the system than good spots and the homeowner would assume he was safe because the lights would come on should anybody come close. Scott picked a spot in the woods just out of sight of the house and waited for darkness to fall. The sun had just set but the twilight would last for at least another thirty minutes.
By 19.00, darkness had fallen and Scott was on the move. More slippery than an eel, he was up and over the wall of the garden grounds without the faintest noise. The route to the small door he had decided was his best access point had him weaving in and out of the motion sensors until he found himself next to the door at the rear of the house. He gently turned the handle and was not particularly surprised when it opened. Gerrards Cross looked like the type of place where people were a lax when it came to locking their back doors.
Scott slipped into what appeared to be a boot room, Wellington boots lined the floor while Barbours and other waterproofs hung from pegs that covered the wall. A door across the small room stood ajar and through the gap, Scott could see a large kitchen which seemed empty although he could hear voices coming from deeper in the house. Pushing open the boot room door very gently, Scott entered the kitchen and listened to where the voices were concentrated. They appeared to be coming from the room to the right at the bottom of the corridor which Scott guessed would be the family room. Scott could see through the small gap in the kitchen door that an identically sized room lay across the hallway on the other side. Scott assumed this would be the formal lounge. Three more doors led off the hallway and it was one of these that Scott wanted. Scott pulled the kitchen door and stopped the instant it was about to creak. He quickly grabbed some kitchen oil and rubbed it into the hinge. His patch job complete, he continued and once the door was open wide enough, he quickly and silently entered the hallway.
Scott looked at the first door and noted the slight difference in the design of the door and size of the frame. It was an addition and more than likely a toilet added after the house was built. Of the two doors that remained, one was much closer to the kitchen and assuming the dining room would be nearer the kitchen, Scott plumped for the third door as the room he wanted. However, it was directly opposite the family room from where the voices continued to emanate and where the door was wide open.
In one swift and fluid motion, Scott crossed the hallway and entered and closed the third door and found himself standing in John Butler-Jones private study. If anyone had seen him they had made no noise and after waiting a few seconds, Scott walked across to Butler-Jones’ desk. As he sat in the seat, his blood began to boil. The photos on his desk of a happy family hit Scott hard, a daughter in a graduation gown and a teenage boy holding a set of keys next to a new car. They reminded Scott of all the things he had dreamt of throughout his life had he grown up in a normal family. It was not that he didn’t love the islanders nor the path he had taken but being an assassin was a particularly lonely job and in fact perfect for an orphan but at the same time not many kids dreamt of being an international assassin.
Scott retrieved the slip of paper the receptionist had given him. He stood up, walked back towards the door and began to input the phone number she had written underneath Butler-Jones’ address. He had checked that the 01753 at the start of the number was for Gerrards Cross and assumed it was the office number for Butler-Jones. He hit the green dial button and after a few seconds, the phone on the desk began to ring, as did a bell in the hallway. Obviously, Butler-Jones didn’t want to miss a call. Perhaps his father’s murderers kept him busy thought Scott as he waited for the murdering deceitful and betraying bastard to come into the study.
Scott heard the footsteps pounding towards the door before it swung towards him, blocking Butler-Jones view of Scott as he entered the study. Scott pushed the door closed, as though it had swung back on itself and moved silently behind Butler-Jones and waited for him to lift the receiver.
“John Butler-Jones,” he answered.
Scott pressed the red button and ended the call, before placing his hand firmly over Butler-Jones’ mouth and pressing one of his fingers firmly into his ribs.
“Don’t say a fucking word or I’ll kill your family too,” threatened Scott.
Scott felt Butler-Jones try to nod but Scott’s grip was so firm he couldn’t move.
Scott released Butler-Jones’ head and spun him round to face him. The man was greying, in his late fifties, almost as tall as Scott and obviously kept himself fit.
Butler-Jones’ eyes widened as the image of a man he knew twenty-five years earlier flashed in front of him but before he could react, a fist struck him square in the jaw, sending him crashing over his desk and into the arms of his chair. A crack from his side and the instant pain signalled that at least one rib had cracked thanks to the awkward landing.
Butler-Jones ignored the pain and desperately struggled to right himself and check that the ghost he had just seen was in fact as real as his punch. He had not been mistaken. The face of James Kennedy, a face that had haunted him for twenty-five years was alive and standing in his study looking even younger and fitter than he had twenty-five years earlier.
“Are you OK, dear?” a female voice shouted from the hallway.
Scott looked at Butler-Jones and indicated a slashing motion across his throat.
“Yes, I’m fine, just knocked the chair over,” he shouted back, wincing as each inflation of his lung pressed against his broken rib.
“Are you sure?” she asked the door handle began to move.
“I’m on the phone!” he replied angrily. The door handle stopped turning and the foot steps retreated.
“But you died twenty-five years ago, it can’t be,” struggled Butler-Jones.
“Not me, my father!” explained Scott, his voice full of hatred, staring down at the injured Butler-Jones with fire burning in his eyes.
“My God, I never knew!”
“Would you still have betrayed him, had you known he was a father!”
Butler-Jones looked at Scott with deep confusion, “Betrayed him?”
“You switched the loan agreements, which was as good as a death warrant!”
“What agreement?”
“The loan for $50 million!”
“I’m sorry but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Butler-Jones pulling himself to his feet, his hand firmly pressed to his rib cage in a vain attempt to stop any movement.
“But my father left me a letter and told me he was betrayed by his lawyer and then named you as his lawyer.”
“I was your father’s lawyer but I’m not a commercial lawyer. I was his personal lawyer, I looked after his estate.”
Scott pulled the letter from his pocket and re-read it, his father did mention being betrayed by his lawyers and then named only one lawyer. The natural assumption had to be that his father meant John Butler-Jones had betrayed him, it had to be. Otherwise Scott had just assaulted a friend of his father’s who could help him.
“Prove it!” demanded Scott.
“Umm…OK…umm…” Butler-Jones tried to think how best to prove it. “OK, look at the letter on my desk,” he blurted.
Scott turned to the desk and seeing the letter began to read,
Madam,
I refer to our recent discussion with regard to your estate…
Scott read through the detail wondering exactly how this confirmed the man’s status. However the sign off at the end caught his attention
I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Majesty's humble and
obedient servant.
Scott moved to the top of the letter and on the letter head noted John Butler-Jones name and the name of the company under which the tag line private client specialist was clearly noted. Not only was he a private client specialist, he was the Queen’s private client specialist.
He read the letter again, there was a distinction between lawyers and his lawyer.
“Your father had a team of in-house lawyers to deal with business transactions,” explained Butler-Jones. I only dealt with private matters, tax issues, personal properties, his will and any other personal matters that he wished to keep separate from the business.”
Scott slumped into the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands.
“I’m so sorry for hitting you,” he said. “I thought you had helped them set my father up.”
Butler-Jones still holding his side shuffled across to Scott and placed his arm on his shoulder.
“At least you let me explain myself. If I were you and had thought a man had betrayed my father, I’m not sure what I would do, I’d probably have killed me.”
Scott looked up and into Butler-Jones eyes, his guilt plain to see.
“Let’s just say if I hadn’t needed information, you’d already be dead,” explained Scott matter of factly. “Sorry!” he offered sincerely.
Butler-Jones sat next to Scott. “That’s OK, I understand.”
An awkward silence fell between them as both struggled to come to terms with the news that one was nearly killed and the other almost killed the wrong man.
Butler-Jones broke the silence. “So how can I help?”
Scott thought for a second. “How well did you know my father?”
“Until tonight, I thought we were good friends,” replied Butler-Jones.
“Tonight?”
“You. I never knew your father had a son, he never told me about you. I didn’t even know he had a woman.”
“So he kept her a secret?”
“Maybe not, we only met a couple of times a year to go through any issues and usually caught up with everything then. It had been quite a while since our last meeting when he died. He kept cancelling our meetings and then…the car crash…”
“I believe I was a few days old when he died,” explained Scott. The timescales would fit, it could have been almost a year since Butler-Jones had seen his father before the crash.
“Wait a minute,” Butler-Jone’s mind began to race. “Does that mean you’re not twenty five yet? I mean your father died on the 6th November.”
“I’ll be twenty five on November 2nd.”
Butler-Jones jumped from his seat and ignoring the searing pain in his side, rushed across to the filing cabinet and after raking through the bottom drawer produced a copy of a legal contract which he read feverishly, coming to a stop mid-way through the fourth page.
“I never understood the point of this until now.”
Butler-Jones pressed the paper into Scott’s hands and pointed at the clause which his father had detailed in his letter.
Any reservations about the trustworthiness of Butler–Jones disappeared that instant. The man was a friend, not an enemy.
“Yes, my father explains it in his letter.”
“But don’t you see, we just need to go to court to prove you’re his heir and the company is yours.”
“What company? It’s disappeared, all gone from what we can gather. It was swallowed up by a multitude of different companies. Anyway I’m not interested in the company. I just want to find the fuckers who set up the loan company, killed my father and who then broke up the company and sold it for what I assume was a huge profit.”
Butler-Jones shook his head wildly. “No, no, no!!” he shouted.
“Look, let me tell you what happened when your father died. I was his personal solicitor and his appointed executor. But almost as your father drew his last breath, this contract was presented to the courts and your father’s known assets were handed over to the loan company. His last will and testament was ignored as it predated the contract and as such I was excluded from the hearings. Don’t get me wrong, I kicked up one hell of a stink but after a while even my Senior Partner told me to calm down or he’d be forced to let me go. I was becoming an embarrassment to the firm. It was also obvious I was dealing with some very powerful men, everywhere I went doors were slammed shut. The press refused to run the story despite it being sensational. Anyway after a few months, I realised I wasn’t doing myself, my family or in fact any living soul any good. So I went into the office one morning, apologised to my senior partner for my behaviour and went back to doing what I do.”
Scott shrugged his shoulders.
“But I didn’t entirely drop it, you see. I didn’t know about the scam and the betrayal but I did know what had happened was definitely not like anything your father would ever have agreed to. It’s been a bit of a secret hobby ever since, keeping track of what’s happened to your father’s company. I’ve tracked every transaction, traced back every shell company and trust fund they’ve tried to hide behind to one company.”
“It’s still one company?”
“Yep, although it’s grown quite a bit but everything was founded entirely on your father’s business. Everything it is today, is grown from what your father started. Which means every single bit of it belongs to you!” he stated tapping the clause in the loan company’s contract. “They can’t have known you existed, otherwise they’d have sold it off and started again,” mused Butler-Jones. “You’re going to cost them billions,” he laughed.
All the killings over the last few days were instantly explained and it was all to do with Scott. Some very rich men had discovered his existence and had tried everything within their power to kill him and save their precious investment. Scott couldn’t have cared less about the money or the business but whoever was trying to kill him had killed the islanders and his father and he realised perhaps even his mother. They were not going to pay with their money but with their lives.
“Who?” asked Scott angrily. He was about to issue a few sanctions of his own.
“The largest privately owned corporation in the world, Transcon.”
Chapter 63
The motorcade drew to a halt at the steps of the world’s most recognisable aircraft, Air Force One. The heavily customised Boeing 747-200B was a symbol across the world of the power and prestige held by the leader of the world’s last super power. President Dan Mitchum stepped out of his armoured Cadillac Limousine and began the walk towards the aircraft. Normally, he’d just stride across the tarmac and up the steps. However, that day was to be his last official trip aboard the aircraft before the election. It would be the last time he’d board the aircraft as the undisputed Commander-in-Chief and he was going to savour every last second.
As his photos were snapped, a car drew to a stop nearby and deposited Gerald Walters, the President’s National Security Adviser and FBI Special Agent, Dwight Jennings. Walters wasted no time and walked directly towards the president, commanding Jennings to follow him.
“Sir, we need to talk.”
“Right this second?” mouthed the president out of the side of his mouth maintaining his smile for his last chance photo session.
“Yes.”
“OK, come on board, we’ll talk on the way.”
“I’m sorry Sir but we’d rather talk here.”
“What here, on the steps?” asked the President, bemused.
“Well actually on the tarmac nearer the engine would be better,” explained Walters walking back down the steps.
The President followed and the bizarre scene of the President, his NSA and an unknown man standing in front of one of the huge engines on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base unfolded. They seemed to be having an argument. This photo was guaranteed front page news the next morning.
There was, in fact, no argument. The gesticulation and raised voices were just an attempt to be heard over the noise of the idling jet engine.
“
What is it Gerald? And it better be good!”
“Oh, it is,” replied Gerald. “We got a few hits on tracing Hughes’ calls.”
“Go on,” prompted the President.
“The first call was to a cell phone, registered to an elderly lady but it was a man who answered. His voice was sort of warbly so we couldn’t run a trace. However he told him he’d call back following Hughes’ revelation but never did. The cell phone has since been disconnected.”
“So you’re telling me we don’t know who he called.”
“Not exactly but earlier today, Hughes tried to call Max Ernst, an Executive Assistant at Transcon. He sounded desperate to talk to him but Ernst isn’t taking his calls. Once he realised he couldn’t get Ernst, he tried Henry Freeman.”
The President immediately took note at the name Henry Freeman. He had been one of the party’s largest contributors over his time in office and someone he regarded as a friend.
“What did Henry say?” he asked guardedly.
“Nothing. He didn’t take the call either and made it quite clear through his secretary that he wouldn’t accept any calls from Hughes.”
“So what exactly do we know from this?” asked the President irritated.
“There’s more,” offered Jennings.
“Hughes got a call from a notorious bookie based here in Washington, big hitter. A man you don’t mess around with. It seems our Mr Hughes is into him for a couple of hundred thousand. As soon as the call was over, Hughes phoned a bank in Panama to check on an account we knew nothing about. Seems it was emptied last night by some anonymous company based in Luxembourg.”
“So we may be able to get him to talk?” interrupted the President.
“Sorry Sir, there’s more.” Jennings broke back in. “Hughes made a call just a short while ago, desperate, cut off and fearing for his life. He called…” Jennings paused for effect but succeeded only in irritating the President, “…Sam Baker!”
Scion Page 26
