by Ray Christie
“Good day Trevor old chap.”
Hand outstretched, loud gold rings and a heavy bracelet, whisky glass in the other, the man was the youngest of the eight, in his late sixties with a thick head of black hair and a walrus moustache.
“Nice to see you again Thomas.”
With a strong handshake, Trevor works the room. Greeting the men in order of social standing, some rising from their seats from around the roaring fireplace others feeling their age they wait in their leather Chesterfield chairs for their turn to welcome Trevor.
The room they were standing in was originally an extension of an earlier medieval cathedral. Under the wooden floor lay the original Purbeck marble from the thirteen century. An offer to buy the marble was rejected by the very man sitting to Trevor’s left on a George III Mahogany wing chair. Trevor also asked if he could buy that. Laughed at and embarrassed that day a few years ago by the men in this room Trevor knew he would laugh last.
“Thank you for the invite, it brings me great pleasure to be amongst the fine gentlemen who steer our government and our Great British values into the future. If anything, I am glad to play a part, no matter how small, I am willing to risk and fight in my service to this great country.” Trevor lifts a glass of whisky provided by Thomas and toasts the men in the room.
Andrew by now has risen from his George III chair, unamused, he ignored the toast and walked over to the fireplace, with his foot he kicked and pushed a half burning log deeper into the burning flames. He then turned around and looked directly at Trevor.
“Jolly good show, your little speech was the only thing you haven’t botched up old bean.” Andrew was letting Trevor know he wanted nothing to do with him. The men in the room have already decided it was time to cut Trevor out, in the view of the Oxford elite Trevor was unhinged, a man of questionable loyalties.
Looking around the room, wall to wall in oak panels, not a security camera in sight, such was the private lives these men required. Trevor did not come for help, he came for permission, permission to kill on British soil and kill many. Now he knew what needed to be done. Another sip of his whisky floated around his mouth, his head focused, and senses sharpened. Leaning forward casually he puts his glass on an antique leather-lined table. He picks up a bottle of vodka and throws it forcefully at the fireplace mantel, causing it to smash sending glass everywhere with the liquid splashing over the surrounding area.
Surprising the men at this baneful destruction he removes his firearm and shoots with precision and control at the men who trusted him. Shooting the youngest and more mobile until he is left with one survivor.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Shouts the eldest, a defiant cry through a trembling face.
“Andrew, this is it, all the years we have known each other, all the risk I have carried on my shoulders, while you and your men have basked in the glory. It ends today old chum.”
Trevor walks to the fireplace crunching the glass under his feet, with one hand pointing his gun at his target he uses the other to rake out some burning logs with the fire poker and tosses them all over the floor. He then makes his way back to the Whisky, another slow sip as he enjoys the triumphant sound of the fire roaring out of control. Whisky glass set back down he casually walks behind Andrew. As he patrols the lounge room, he fires a couple more rounds into those still breathing.
“Have you gone completely mad? you know you will never be free; we will find you…”
The blood splattered high and wide over the oak walls; Andrew dropped onto his knees breaking both of them instantly. The least of his worries as his head received another round.
Three more rounds left. Trevor loaded a fresh mag placing the other into his pocket then checked his Parmigiani Fleurier, nine minutes since his car dropped him off. He has one minute, picking up files from the coffee table and documents, which Andrew died clutching, stuffing them securely into his jacket. Walking over to the door he listens then unlocks the heavy iron latch, opening it quickly with his pistol raised he steps out. From the corner of his eye he sees a flash of movement, spinning around he just catches a blow to the shoulder. A dull pain rushes down his body leaving his shooting arm numb. The doorkeeper has a heavy cast iron candlestick in his hand and is setting up for a swing. Trevor reaches down with his left hand, using it to pull his paralysed right arm up, immediately he squeezes the trigger finger as he rushes into his attacker. Firing off three rounds, the candlestick drops with an almighty thud followed by a now leaking and soon to be dead man. The rounds entered his thigh and abdomen slowing him allowing Trevor to take aim. One more round in the head and Trevor makes his way down the corridor. Splashed with blood over his Navy blazer and breathing heavily, he curses while checking his watch hoping the car arrives on time.
Opening the door inward he looks out onto the street, catching the cool village breeze as the limo pulls to a stop outside. Waiting for an elderly couple to meander on past, Trevor then steps out and climbs into the back seat unconcerned about blood on leather. In a few minutes, the car is back on the A40 towards London, this car will be swapped over on route. The leather seats like the rest of the car will be dealt with in the scrapyard, another business financed by the service.
He has finally closed the Oxford accounts; those invoices are no longer a concern. For years they pulled the strings from their Manors, sandstone buildings around Westminster and the more secretive men’s clubs far from the prying eyes of London. No longer bound with those ancient Latin codes he had to obey, formed from the old university halls a century ago and strengthened through times. Nor does he have to prop up the committee puppet masters with their service fees in kind when he is about to make good his well-planned escape. With a slight tremble in his hands, he lights a Partagás cigar and sits back, ever closer to his ultimate goal he is reminded of one last obstacle. ‘Come out, come out wherever you are Jack, time to be put to rest, your time is up old friend.’
TWENTY-THREE
London, England
René heads to the customs area and collects his diplomatic bags, a keen hunter he has packed his favoured bow, highland ghillie suit, a recent edition of a Scottish bow hunting magazine and various other camo gear used for stalking the majestic deer at Cairngorms National Park. All looked perfect to a casual check by an officer of the law, a member of the French elite heading up to the Scottish Highlands to take part in an annual deer cull. His cover is complete if ever asked, but by whom? René knows the British government will never ask questions if his targets are reported missing. They will be more than willing to turn a blind eye to prevent any embarrassing stories to hurt their inner workings. The only causes for concern are the local police and the media, for this reason, he knows speed to clear the kill site will be paramount to his mission.
René will rely on his advanced skills for removing all evidence of a crime to good use. Six months training in the forensic labs in Ecully Cedex, Lyon coupled with intelligence wet work methods he has perfected this talent.
Stalking and killing his prey in the streets will mirror the techniques used in the wild. The setting is vastly different, wet, cold, and grey is similar but how he forms his layup position will be somewhat of a challenge due to the shape of the bow, tracking his prey who would be bleeding heavily is something that he has no time for, a humane kill is not required.
What appeals to René about this hunt is the silence offered by the arrow leaving the bow, add to this the nil requirement of acquiring a rifle in London through his off the record and very dodgy contacts.
Once he makes his kill and sanitises the scene, he will make the trip to Rome to collect and make good on the plan for a new life. A new Italian identify courtesy of the Vatican intelligence security services.
It seems so close now, for the meantime, he needs to be sharp, focused, and ready to step into his younger shoes. Out into the cold damp London smog he climbs inside a taxi and heads to a block of apartments with an underground storage facility at Twickenham. Once the
re he conducts some counter-surveillance moves before moving to a prearranged meet. He hands his mobile phone over to a specialised courier service, with the job of driving the phone to the Highland cabin in Scotland, switching it on and placing it inside the letterbox on the front door.
René waits for the courier to leave and takes up his position watching people coming and going from the entrance. Waiting for an hour he sees no activity, no one has followed him. He switches clothes from his bag and walks to his storage unit, opening it he uncovers his safety car. Climbing inside his plain-looking dark green Ford Sierra he places his luggage on the rear seats. This normal hatchback from the nineties does not win awards for style on the streets of London today, it simply blends in and does the job. Under the cover, however, the secrets it contains are many, fitted with an RS Cosworth engine, high-performance Mustang gearbox, armoured sides, blast plates underneath and a high-performance encrypted police radio. Originally part of the disbanded Royal Ulster Constabulary fleet and acquired by collectors and mid-level drug dealers in the late nineties, René made the decision to take his out of storage for this one last job.
His Journey to the heart of London took longer than expected, the heavy traffic did little to calm his nerves. Longing to be settled in the Amalfi Coast in a few days, in time for the Ravello festival he cannot rush this hit, work from the German composer can wait. He switches off the police radio as the boom gate rises allowing access to a deep basement carpark. Trevor has pulled favours and has secured an office space on the corner of Throgmorton and Old Broadway. With the car parked René takes a moment to look around at other vehicles, he makes a mental note of the cars and layout of the building its exits and security cameras. Pulling his Fedora hat down on his brow and slipping on a pair of leather gloves he pulls open the dash of the Sierra and yanks out his concealed firearm. Getting out of his car he pulls his bag with him while maintaining a reactive stance. Choosing the fire stairs to the fourth floor he moves up with controlled speed. His bag slung over his shoulders the Heckler & Koch USP compact tactical pistol raised following his line of sight. Third floor, moving up to the last, now on the fourth he grabs the door handle and eases it slowly open. A line of office doors, well-worn carpet, light fittings with the smell of fresh paint, a toilet door at the end, communal. No one in the corridor. He conceals the H&K under his sports jacket while moving out and along the corridor to the office. The brass plate reads 4F, this is it, René removes the key from his inner pocket and enters. The room is in darkness, he quickly steps inside with the weapon raised and allows his eyes to adjust bringing the layout and objects into view. No red infrared lights, no electronic sounding devices coming into life. He was prepared for the smell. Then he sees it, the previous tenant had been visited last night by Trevor. In order for this vantage point to be used, a deal had been struck. The tenant’s life for nothing in return except a raging fire when the job was done. Wrapped up well in plastic, baggy enough to expand with the gases and capture the liquids René reckons the smell will get worse by tomorrow night. By then he hopes to be far from London and on his way to his new life.
Confident there are no others in the office René removes a small torch from his jacket and proceeds to check the room for any booby traps. He covers the torch with his fingers allowing only a slight amount of light and meticulously examines the area. A small bathroom leads off the main room and a separate office containing a desk, filing cabinet, a small fridge and a couple of jerry cans of fuel complete the inspection.
René opens the blinds and slides open the solid wooden sash window; the cold damp wind blows steadily into the office bringing with it the constant noise of the London traffic. Looking down at the entrance to Trevor’s place on Old Broad street he calculates the distance as about 50 meters, well within the range of his own handmade arrows. A direct hit into the target's core will rupture his insides leaving him unable to run, collapsed and bleeding heavily. The plan is then for René to descend from his office and slice his neck open without the requirement of needing to place a bullet into the targets head. The fewer gunshots the better, René favours the personal touch.
Removing his compound bow and arrows from his bag placing them on the office sofa he maintains his distance from the window. Checking his Breguet wristwatch he finds himself comfortably early. Trevor is due back in Old Broad Street in sixty minutes, the trap is set with Trevor playing the fox, the hounds will follow the tune of the hunting horn. Settling into the world of a grim reaper René lowers his breathing and focuses on the street below.
***
The call which Anjeze made from Frank’s phone in Strasbourg was very much required, however it was one which had a different objective from which she was led to believe. Trevor did not need Franks number, he was not too fussed at this time, his death was coming. What he really wanted was Jack to get his number, leading to his location. Those that have been hunted for so long and now becoming the hunters will trace Trevor’s movement to within a couple of meters. Like a beacon of destruction travelling through London, his position would light up like a lighthouse to actors well-resourced in the cyberworld. His trap has been set; a backup plan being orchestrated as standard. Trevor is days if not hours away from settling this, calling in favours a Gulfstream 700 has been left in the hanger for his final departure. The Genovese family from New York pays their gratitude, years of conducting their business safely around Europe would not have been possible without Trevor’s assistance. Turning black money into white was a sideline he was working on for years, despite his reluctance to step on the toes of those in the FBI, he knew his days there were numbered.
Arriving in Old Broad street he never looks up at the window where he knows René lays in wait. If Jack has him under surveillance, he cannot allow a mistake in showing his own protection. Trevor knows this is a risky plan, but the only one which affords him the upper hand. He jumps out of the car swiftly, his fresh clothes lightly cover the smell of blood, some which had not been cleaned thoroughly gives him a light pink glow. The baby wipes were not designed to remove dead men’s blood from a heartless killer. Walking up Old Broad street he stops at a European Bistro to pick up some fresh blueberries, melon, a baguette and for his sweet tooth a soy hot chocolate with a splash of coconut milk. Enough to attract attention to the Bistro’s waitress. The first stop for a budding detective armed with a photograph would have all the information required, the target is at home enjoying his light breakfast. Trevor does not view Jack as someone trotting around streets checking neighbours, but he does have Émilie and a number of Albanians looking for his hide. Crossing the street, he makes no attempts to look around him, the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear is providing all the information he needs. René provides a full commentary on his surroundings, and shepherds him as he enters the heavy door and off the street, leaving the uptight pedestrians and aggressive bike couriers wrestling for dominance over the grey wet pavement outside.
***
The ninety-five feet of luxury berthed in St Katharine Docks on the north bank of the River Thames provides Jean-Baptiste with the perfect vehicle to escape the cramped and dangerous streets. For now, the two lovers lay in each other’s arms, an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon rolls along the floor of the flying bridge while nautical charts blow freely in the breeze. A moment of passion hit them moments earlier and their love for each other could not be contained any longer, their slightly sweating bodies lay under the rolling black clouds as the seagulls squawked and crowed from the sidelines. Maps are plotted for a safe course to Porto Cervo, yet Jean-Baptiste is in no rush to leave. His work is almost complete, all that is required is complete confidence, bravery, and trust in a fellow warrior.
***
After losing sight of Émilie at the Harrington Road book shop a few days ago the surveillance operator made a newfound attempt to track her down. Encouraged and motivated by the beaten handed out by Skënder last night and with fewer teeth, what feels like a broken rib and threats on his family the man
has a lot riding on his intel. Two thousand Euros paid to the Albanian cyber freaks, the crypto mathematicians who combed the deepest corners of the dark web bringing up from the depths a few interesting leads on Émilie. Hacking into the French embassy and the DGSE proved no problem. For European work, the fee was the same, to hack into Israeli agencies the fee would have quadrupled, such is their fear. An hour of matching and cross-checking Émilie’s full name and date of birth plus her recorded aliases retrieved from the agency found a wealth of information, from university papers, credit card transactions, utility connections, taxation reports, rental car GPS tracking, flight movements, dental records, IP addresses and hospital procedures. What they did find did not mean anything at first glance. An invoice paid for five litres of four-stroke Marine Engine Oil SAE 25W-40. What did perk their interests was a courier fee of twenty pounds and an address showing delivery to St Katharine Docks.
Muji rubbed the printout between his fingers, he must have read the invoice copy several times but could not get rid of it. Somehow this piece of paper was the connection between his two bare hands and Émilie’s soft body. He finally was going to have her body for himself before dispatching her. Staring out the side window of a recently carjacked Range Rover he watched the masts of the yachts swaying gently from side to side. The bound, gagged, and drugged Range Rover owner in the rear allowed them plenty of time to use his wheels. There are ten yachts in total but three of which looked like they would have to be investigated. Those ones looked prepped for movement. On the floating dock sat numerous boxes, dive gear, tanks, frozen food, bottled water, champagne, fresh vegetables, and fruit plus explosion resistant jerry cans. Unknown to which yacht the supplies were headed. Between him and Skënder with their obvious Albanian features or quite frankly, ‘menacing-looking gangster heads,’ they thought the locals may get suspicious of them sitting there watching so they got out of the vehicle and split up. This allowed Muji to get in for a closer look, pulling down the hood on his black Helly Hansen Parka he made his way along Mews Street past the pub and over the footbridge. Thanking the British rain as this allows him to keep his hood up which covers his greased-up hair and the top half of his broken looking face. Keeping his head straight in front and walking at a meandering pace he strains his eyes to his left to watch for activity on the stern. Closer now he can see plainly the supplies sitting only about twenty meters in front of him, stopping short a Cohiba is produced from his jacket pocket. The ceremonial lighting of Fidel Castro’s favourite brand of cigar allows his eyes to settle on the jar of marine oil next to the jerry cans. ‘I got you, you dirty stinking dog, your little sweet body is mine’. With the cigar in his mouth, his right hand moves inside his jacket feeling for the freshly stippled grip on his Glock. His focus on the yacht left him with tunnel vision, a failure on his part. He never seen the blade and neither did he feel it, his body just went numb. His trachea and carotid artery was sliced open like a sword through a watermelon, blood gushing from his neck and then the choking started. He dropped face down, his arms unable to protect himself, knocking his head heavily on the cold tarmac, the cigar bounced under his leaking neck. He had about a minute of life left in London. Drowning and bleeding out before the angels came to decide if he was one of theirs, he died alone, no Parisian dream.
