by Robert White
The boy fell unconscious. Des looked at me, between brushing bits of lung off his soaking coveralls. “Well? I say we fuck off.”
Guess what?
We did.
I started to unhook the Landmark from the Toyota as it was the only serviceable vehicle. Joel’s prize boat was a real mess. Dozens of 7.62 rounds had devastated the luxury vessel. Des did a sweep and collected as many weapons and as much ammunition he could, together with everything he and I had brought to the hard stop. Also, at my request, he checked Tanya for any ID. There was none. As a professional she shouldn’t have carried any, but Des checked anyway. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
The Toyota still reeked of CS. Contrary to popular belief it isn’t a gas but an irritant and clings to everything it touches. The seats in the cruiser were rife with it and my nose and throat started to itch immediately.
I fired up the car and Des trotted toward me. As he reached the wounded man he stopped and knelt. Des whispered something to him I couldn’t hear and I saw the briefest movement and flash of steel.
Seconds later, Des jumped in the car.
“He’s gone,” he said.
Now you may consider Des’s actions harsh, but it was just part of the war. We were in deepest shit, and until we knew what the fuck was going on, all we had was each other. We couldn’t risk the boy giving any information to his buddies.
My mind made a brief trip back to Manchester.
Joel was going to be really pissed when heard this one. He really was out of his depth with Susan and Stern’s crew. He’d completely underestimated her and how powerful and professional this group were. She was part of the plan, no doubt. Joel had to know and quickly.
I mulled over what we knew. The guy Des had just put out of his breathing difficulties looked ex-army to me, maybe even ex-Special Forces. Joel had now lost his wife, boat, coke, and a big pile of money.
As for Susan and Mr Stern, they had just upset a psychotic multi-millionaire who would undoubtedly pay vast sums to anyone who would avenge this little lot.
Probably more scary was one of the most ruthless Yardie gangs in the UK would be buying EasyJet tickets to Amsterdam the instant they found out about Tanya. I knew her brothers would never forgive her killers.
Stern’s biggest problem though, was neither Joel, nor the Richards brothers.
He had really upset me.
As I drove the cruiser, Des was rooting through the cabin for anything of use or interest. The rear nearside window had gone and the draught blew bits of paper about the interior.
We had enough petrol and, due to Des’s expert scavenging, we had a serviceable weapon each with a few rounds. Not enough, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Finally Des sat beside me and pulled out his dreadful pipe. It was a habit he had never been able to break. I gave him the sternest look but he didn’t give a shit and lit it anyway. A plume filled the cabin before being sucked out of the broken window. Neither of us had mentioned the cock-up on the road, or Tanya, and we travelled in silence for a while, deep in our own thoughts.
“They knew we were gonna hit the boat, didn’t they?” said Des eventually.
“Hmm, yes, I reckon so.”
“Susan was in on this from the beginning, then?”
“Certainly once she found out Joel wanted her to ID Stern, maybe much earlier, who knows? Maybe she opted for the safest route and jumped ship. Either way, Joel will want her back alive.”
I spun the cruiser left and onto the motorway and I felt my voice falter for a second.
My friend saw it.
“I want to finish this job, Des, for lots of reasons. It was shit about Tanya, she was a good mate. We need to have a beer for her when this is all over.”
Des nodded in silent agreement.
I rubbed the back of my neck and considered I was getting too old for the mountain of shit we were going to climb. Then my brain came to life.
“I can’t see Joel getting anyone else, I guarantee it. He might be an arse, but he knows we’re the best he’s got. With Tanya dead, the Richards brothers will be sending death squads to Holland the second they get the telegram and I’m more pissed off than I’d care to mention.”
I looked at Des as he took a pull on his pipe. I asked the obvious. I just needed confirmation I wasn’t in a James Bond picture.
“Did you see Susan grab that radio handset back there?”
Des checked the magazine in what was Tanya’s Glock, and pushed it into his waistband.
“Aye, I saw.”
“Did you hear what she said?”
He exhaled plumes of smoke out of the window, wiped his teeth with his tongue, and savoured the taste of his favourite shag.
“Nope, but I gathered that someone had fucked up, and got to the party late.”
“Yeah, I reckon Stern’s plan was to take us all out, leave Joel without protection, and then attack his business. I tell you, Des, he doesn’t just want to rob Davies of his money,” I pulled my mobile from my pocket. “He wants him wiped off the face of the earth.”
I punched Joel’s private line into my handset. There was a long silence, then, a metallic message. I hardly heard Des’s voice.
“Do you think that Susan could have been in on this from day one?”
I let the message repeat in my ear.
“Dunno mate, it’s possible.” I said absently.
The robotic voice was clear. Joel Davies private telephone line was disconnected.
We needed to be out of the country, soon as. The moment I hit the red button Des knew. He bagged his bloodstained jacket and chucked it out the window. We had to dump the cruiser ASAP as it did a fair impression of a mobile cheese grater. We were wet, filthy, had no money or passports and no transport.
We managed about thirty kilometres before we decided our luck was at a premium and turned off the motorway. We found a nice looking suburban area and parked the cruiser in a large car park that serviced four blocks of private flats. The perfect moon made one last effort to frame our sorry-looking souls and we could see our breath in the chill. Des had found a length of plastic parcel binding and a screwdriver in the cruiser. All we needed was an old-ish model car to boost.
Sure enough we found an ’80’s Ford Escort just ripe for the picking in a corner of the car-park, shaded by conifers. Whilst I kept a casual eye out, Des folded the parcel wrap in two and pushed it between the door frame and centre pillar of the car. Seconds later he had wiggled it over the old-fashioned door lock button and with a deft tug, we were in.
The screwdriver took care of the ignition barrel. Within ten minutes we were back on the road.
Wet stinking overalls and brushed nylon seats. I was more pissed off than ever.
Stern’s crew would come after us, no doubt. Joel was either dead or on the run. This was the mother of all takeovers. We had a window of opportunity to get some miles between us and them. Also, we didn’t have any petulant passengers to contend with, so we’d be much harder to find.
Des drove in silence I turned up the heater, got my head down and said a little prayer to the nice dream God.
When I woke, the first signs of dawn shone into the old car’s filthy windscreen.
We had pulled into a supermarket car park and Des had worked more magic and got us both a brew.
“Where are we, mate?” I stretched and took the polystyrene cup. “And how’d you pay for these?”
“We’re less than a mile from Rotterdam and I found some change in the glove box.”
I took a sip of tea. It was probably shit but to my bird cage bottom of a mouth, it tasted great. My clothes had dried on me and I was left caked in mud that smelled as good as it looked.
“You’re a star, Des.”
“Yeah right.” He rummaged in his pockets and produced three Euros.
“This isn’t gonna get us over the water though.”
I took another drink of the warm brown liquid that passed for a brew.
“True,
but I think I know how to manage it.”
“How?”
“Well,” I turned to him. “You’re going to have to punch me for a start.”
He did, and it fucking hurt.
Another thirty-minute drive brought us to the port of Rotterdam. With the Escort left burning all trace of us some two kilometres behind, we wandered the concourse close to the ferry terminal, keeping one eye out for any sign of anyone who looked like one of Stern’s cronies.
The ferry port of Rotterdam teemed with travellers. Dozens of unwashed hippies with braided hair, smelling of petunia oil, mixed with cheap-suited businessmen.
What looked like an organised party of American cruise ship pensioners was being led toward a coach. They were probably there for the Dutch Flower Festival and I watched the tour guide with interest.
He wore a navy blue uniform with gold trim. The jacket was slightly too small for him, but he was smart with a grey crew cut and a big white smile. I shivered at the thought that he would have to keep thirty overweight geriatrics happy for days on end, listening to their endless complaints. He looked like a good guy, an all American boy. He’d probably served his country too. I could see it in his movements. His stature gave him away.
The clear morning had turned cold, and the stiff breeze was causing havoc for the elderly passengers. They held on to all manner of hats with thin, veined hands whilst the tour guide helped the coach driver to load masses of luggage into the hold.
Finally a couple of the old dears pointed in our general direction. One covered her mouth with shock at our appearance. Des and I staggered along, both covered in mud and the usual bumps and grazes associated with a fire-fight. I sported an obvious fat lip courtesy of the Scot. He was shouting obscenities at the old buggers and doing a fair impression of a drunk.
Within seconds, the coach driver was prodding at his mobile for the coppers. My tour guide watched us impassively, totally unfazed by the din. For a split second he caught my gaze. He had pale grey eyes that matched his crew cut. His tourist smile broadened and became real. I staggered left and Des and I fell to the floor with a fair wallop. I hoped it looked as real as it felt.
The American strode over, doing his best to hide a limp, and knelt by our exhausted bodies.
“Say, you guys better get lost before the cops arrive.” He held out a ham-sized hand to me. To my surprise I took it and he pulled me to my feet with ease. The guy was strong as an ox.
“Thanks.”
“No worries. You guys English?”
“Ah’m no English,” growled Des in thick Greenock.
He shrugged patiently. “Brits then.”
The guy looked me up and down. He knew something wasn’t right.
“Wherever you’re from, you’d better go now, the Dutch harbour police aren’t noted for their hospitality.”
Des sat back onto the concrete. “Fuck ’em,” he slurred.
Once again the big guy shrugged and smiled. “Suit yourself, buddy, just moderate your language around my old folks, eh? Elderly people deserve a little respect.”
I nodded and Des mumbled an apology. “Aye, sorry there, big man.”
The guide offered his hand again. This time my arms stayed locked in place. The guy looked mildly embarrassed.
“Jerry Mahon,” he said, tucking his hand back into his pocket. ”Navy Seal, before I lost my kneecap.”
I heard a voice below me.
“Des Fagan, drunk and happy, before I lost my wallet.”
The three of us burst out laughing. It was the most natural laugh I’d had in years. The guy turned and limped away. I would never meet him again, but he was one of the good guys.
Before he had reached his coach, I heard the first police siren. Seconds later a meat-wagon came into view, driven by a very sour-faced cop. The van was closely followed by a squad car which contained four uniformed officers.
We were unceremoniously dumped onto the cold concrete by the contents of the car, cuffed, with a little too much vigour, and driven to a holding centre that looked like a training centre for suicide bombers.
Neither Des nor I had been prisoners before. We had decided on a story, part truth, and part fiction. This was the standard operating procedure of the Regiment. It was accepted that any man would eventually give in to torture. A holding story was essential. Once the enemy bypassed the tale, lives were at risk.
We stuck to our task. We had flown to Holland via Amsterdam. Our passport swipes would confirm it. We had travelled to Rotterdam and we had been duped by a man in a large saloon car. He had purported to be a taxi driver and had turned out to be a robber. He had stolen our luggage, our money, our passports, indeed everything of worth. He had forced us to stand in a freezing ditch as he drove away. We were poor destitute white European tourists.
We were treated like the latest batch of Eastern Bloc illegal labour. Seventeen hours in a freezing cell did little for my humour.
You need photographic ID to get on a ferry. That or the relevant documentation from the coppers to say you’ve been robbed. After twenty-six hours of dicking around, we smiled sweetly as we got it.
Once aboard, we ate from a decent buffet, courtesy of a Dutch police voucher and dressed our minor wounds from the ship’s pharmacy. Later Des and I climbed the metal stairwell to the upper deck of the ferry. As it lolled along, piercing the dull grey sea with its blunt nose, my thoughts turned to Tanya. My mind played horrible tricks as she flashed into my conscious, wearing fabulous clothes and a wonderful smile.
I had known her for four years and we had been intimate for two. I knew it wasn’t love, but she knew too. She accepted me for what I could give. She never asked me for more. It was enough for us both and she understood.
The Regiment had its own way of dealing with loss. In general, you accepted it and had a piss up. There was usually an argument over the ownership of the soldier’s boots.
Tanya would be no different. My mind would not allow it. I would miss her, that was true. I knew that I had to meet David Stern and I wouldn’t rest until that day came. My doleful thoughts and fat lip were lifted by a familiar figure striding toward me carrying two brews. Des looked pissed off. The coppers in Holland had given him some clean jeans that were all of three sizes too big. He looked a proper twat. That said, it wasn’t the denims that were bothering him.
“You’re going to take Stern on, aren’t ye?” He shook his head in irritation as he handed me black tea. “You always were a mad bastard.”
I looked into the distance and saw the first shapes of the English coastline. “I can’t let the fucker get away with this though, can I?” I said to no one in particular.
The wind made my eyes water. Des stepped in front of me to get my attention. “What you gonna do about that bitch Susan? She wanted all of us dead on that road, mate. No question. If we’d not been on our game, she would have succeeded.”
I took a drink from the polystyrene cup.
“She had bottle, though. More than I gave her credit for. She could easily have been killed back there. She handled herself pretty well.”
My guts turned over.
“You have to admit it, Des, I should have seen her coming.”
“Aye, maybe.”
I leaned over the rail of the boat and took a few good breaths of sea air. “I think Joel’s already dead.”
Des nodded slowly.
“Maybe, but he’s no great loss though, eh? He disnae concern me. Live by the sword an’ all that. What concerns me is what happens next like.”
“True.” I could see why Des was reluctant to get involved any further. I changed the subject.
“So what are you going to do now, Des? You’ll get your cash as planned, of course.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Me and you need to have wee drink for Tanya. Then I’m going back to Scotland to catch some fish. You know where I am if ye need me.”
I’d lost the best part of sixty grand in expenses, the weapons, surveillance kit and wages. I
’d been shot at, been forced to stand in a freezing dirty ditch, Susan had pissed me right off and Joel, my best source of income, was probably in several pieces holding up a section of the M60.
I always had Des.
The crossing to Hull took us just shy of twenty-four hours. I really wanted a shower, but even if we’d had a cabin, we couldn’t have risked some hairy-arsed Dutch drug dealer coming flying in during routine ablutions. So we sat and stank.
Rules, you had to have rules. If you stuck to them, you lived longer.
Once back on home soil I organised two seats on an internal flight from Hull to Manchester simply by blagging twenty pence for the phone and being able to memorise Mr Colletti’s credit card details. Our flight would take a little under forty minutes. We were flying BA. I liked BA. They did it right.
When you sign up for the Parachute Regiment, not only do you agree to jump out of an aircraft, but any aircraft HM Army suggests. In some countries, planes fall out of the sky before you can jump.
Believe me; never fly on a Russian aircraft. I was once stuck at Charles de Gaulle and the only available flight was Aeroflot. I managed to obtain a seat, but when the air hostess started a collection for spare parts for the plane, I was off. Jumping out is one thing, making sure the thing stays in the air is another. I trust us Brits, personally.
Still, I digress. Des and I sat drinking in the less than comfortable lounge of Hull Airport waiting patiently. Two real Hooray Henrys boasting ‘rugger shirts’ insisted on quaffing ‘champers’ as if grapes were endangered. They were lolling at the small bar and were unfairly abusing a young girl who was serving them.
She wore the BA uniform, which I had to say, was flattering. She had long straight black hair to her waist and typical doll-like Philippine features. Her attempts at politeness were lost on the overpaid louts as they continued with Chinese restaurant humour.
“Say fried rice!” one of them ordered.
“Fried rice, sir,” answered the girl. This seemed to tickle the boys no end.
“Flied lice! Flied lice!” they bellowed. One made chicken impressions and added, “Chicken flied lice!”
Rules you have to have rules. I was in no position to make any kind of scene. The grey man had bigger fish to fry as they say, so I, like the waitress, listened to the inane shit. Everything was bearable until ‘Geoffrey the fried rice man’ decided to invite me into their soiree.
