Death in the Kingdom

by Andrew Grant

  I pasted an ‘interested’ expression on my face and tuned into Bernard’s tale while I started work on the slat. Bernard’s eyes were half-closed as he searched for words. ‘It started between the wars, not with Chekhov, with another man. At first it was a sting, a homosexual thing.’ Bernard sounded almost proud of his homosexuality and there was certainly defiance in his tone. ‘I was vulnerable so I became a mole. Chekhov took over as my handler in the early 1970s.’ Bernard turned to Roddy. ‘Can you make some tea, dear boy?’

  Roddy went to do his bidding, moving between Bernard and I as he went behind the breakfast bar. With Roddy unable to see my back from where he was, I began playing with my bindings, pushing down against the tension of the slat, willing the tacks at the bottom to come free. I knew that while the bamboo wouldn’t break it could splinter, and that was what I was relying on. If I could get the fibres at the bottom end of the slat to break down and release the tacks, I could get to the knife in my boot. Once I had that, I could cut the plastic tie. There were a lot of ifs. It would be a contortionist’s struggle to reach for the knife in my boot without being seen, but there was another way if I was quick and flexible enough. Without realising, Roddy and Bernard had helped when they had stripped my jacket off before tying me up.

  As Bernard droned on I stayed slumped in the seat, pushing my hands down behind me, bending the slat, worrying at it like a dog with a bone. My wrists were killing me and becoming slippery with blood from the chaffed skin, but I could feel something starting to give. Whether the tacks bent or pulled out it didn’t matter. My life depended on getting the slat out of the bottom groove. I increased the pressure, all the time trying to hide my efforts should Roddy look my way or Sir Bernard open his eyes.

  Roddy hadn’t tied my legs. Another mistake and one I was going to make him pay dearly for, God willing! Why the hell was I thinking of God at that moment? Maybe it had something to do with my impending death if things didn’t work out. Bernard’s eyes were open but they had gone a little out of focus as he recited his memoirs. I doubted he could see what I was doing anyway because the bulk of my body shielded my hands. Roddy was still off to the side in the mini kitchen, playing mother. He didn’t even glance my way. I was no threat now. I was a beaten man slumped in a chair awaiting his fate. I pushed down again and the bottom tacks finally gave way.

  I reached up so I could get leverage on the centre of the bamboo strip and put the pressure on. Suddenly the bottom of the slat rasped out of the groove. I held my breath but Bernard was busy talking and Roddy was standing waiting for the noisy kettle to boil. I breathed out slowly and eased my wrists down. I was free of the chair. Now there was just the plastic tie to deal with. I started flexing my shoulders slowly. The next bit depended on me pulling a stunt I hadn’t done in years.

  ‘The Russian’s didn’t need to blackmail me, Daniel. I had already turned, as you say, in both ways really. I think I had always been a Communist from my school days.’ Bernard’s eyes met mine and every muscle in me froze. He shook his head and closed his eyes again as he returned to his past. I glanced to my left. Roddy had poured the tea and was bent over, looking in the refrigerator. I guessed he was probably looking for milk or something to eat while he waited for the tea to brew.

  I changed my position slightly, hooked the toe of my left boot above the heel on my right and pushed down. I got my heel most of the way out and worked on the other one. Now both boots were half off. The stunt I was about to perform would be difficult enough without the boots and impossible if they were on.

  Roddy slammed the fridge door. He looked towards me, a slice of processed cheese between his teeth, milk carton in his hands. ‘Help yourself, Roddy,’ I said sarcastically, hoping he wouldn’t focus on my unnatural position and guess what I was up to.

  ‘I will,’ he replied with a snigger as he turned away to add milk to Sir Bernard’s tea. The old boy’s eyes were open. He had a look of extreme annoyance on his face and for a moment he resembled a schoolmaster about to tick off two squabbling kids in class. I pasted a mock apologetic smile on my face, playing my own game.

  ‘What made you a dyed-in-the-wool schoolboy Commie?’ I asked, getting the old bugger back on track.

  ‘Not surprising really, Daniel. My father was a miner, my mother a seamstress. Father died of black lung when I was three. Mother got cancer and followed a year later. I was orphaned and brought up by nuns, and that, my boy, was hell. I think it put me off both religion and women really.’ Bernard snorted. ‘My first sexual experience was being sodomised by a drunken priest in the bell tower of St Mary’s in Liverpool.’

  That second revelation didn’t surprise me as much as the first had. I’d always thought Bernard had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Apparently not, but I wasn’t really that interested in his damned upbringing. I wanted to know about the box of bugs. ‘What was the significance of that anthrax strain, Bernard?’ I shot at him. ‘Why was the British Government handing what was the most potent bloody weapon of the day to the Japs?’

  Bernard looked at me in surprise. Perhaps he expected me to sit and listen to his entire life story in an effort to buy more time. I wasn’t going to need more time. I was ready to go. I just wanted answers before I took Bernard and Roddy out of the game forever. At that moment Bernard had my undivided attention. ‘It wasn’t the government, Daniel. It was a faction in both the government and the military. It was a classified mission. Those in the Victor had no idea what was happening.’

  ‘What faction? Communists like you?’

  ‘Some were, but basically it was an anti-American lobby. There were a lot of people who didn’t regard the United States as our saviours. A lot who resented the fact they hadn’t entered the war earlier.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, suffice it to say, Daniel, that ever since we lost the damned colonies there have been many patriotic Englishmen who have hated the Americans. Anti-American sentiment was rife during the war. Some of us would have sided with Hitler, Hirohito or Mickey Mouse in order to deal the smug bastards a real blow.’

  Bernard’s face was alive with a passion I hadn’t seen in all our years of playing master and servant. I did some quick calculations. I knew he was eighty or thereabouts. Given that, he would have been in his early twenties at the start of the war. I could visualise his thin intense face, eyes flashing as he spouted whatever doctrine he had subscribed to at that time. I did know he had been in intelligence, a field he had lived and worked in all his life, up to and including that moment. Intense young homosexuals seemed to favour playing spies and spymasters, and the cynical years of playing with other people’s lives had turned them into vicious old queens like Bernard.

  ‘Yes, Daniel, there were many of us. It even went as high as the fringe royals. Some of us had political ideals, some had other agendas, but all of us wanted to see the Americans suffer. The bastards are always late to enter any war they don’t start, and then they claim the glory.’ Bernard’s voice was sharp with spite. ‘There were those amongst us who would have preferred the Japanese to win the war in the Pacific. We knew about the Manhattan Project in our innermost circles. We knew that Japan wasn’t going to win in the end, but what a wonderful chance to test our new weapon and deal those damned Republicans a truly wonderful blow.’

  Roddy arrived back with the tea. Bernard carefully laid his automatic on the side table next to the couch and accepted the cup and saucer. He raised the cup and took a sip before nodding. ‘Very nice, Roddy. Very nice indeed.’ He closed his eyes momentarily in appreciation. That was my cue to move but I needed more, so I sat and waited, my hands behind my back, feet half out of my boots.

  Over his cup and saucer, Bernard focused his gaze back on me. His eyes were tired and rheumy, but there was cunning there. ‘Yes, Daniel, imagine a suicide bomber flying down the American west coast, spraying the virus everywhere. Or people walking into places like the Pentagon with it or dropping a little present off a tall building into Times Square. So simple and it could have been
so effective.’ He sipped at his tea while Roddy went back to watching the waves.

  ‘Anyway, Daniel, luck intervened. Damnable bad luck! The available virus was transferred out of the facility to the Victor and it set sail under radio silence. Two days later, before we could move our records and duplicate our remaining stocks, some damn fool American pilot crashed into our laboratory. Everything was lost, including the scientists who had developed the nasty little bug. We couldn’t recall Victor because it was running on radio silence. When the damned thing went down we had no idea where it had sunk. The Yanks had luck on their side. Through delayed contact with our Japanese people we were sure that Victor did meet the freighter as planned. However the Japanese hierarchy didn’t know the exact location because both Victor and San Tao had plotted several rendezvous points and ran at constantly bisecting courses.’ Bernard paused again to sip his tea, his lips pursed like the prissy old matron he was.

  ‘We didn’t know if an established rendezvous point was used or if the boats met whilst on the move,’ he said as he carefully placed the cup back in its saucer and set both on the table. He picked up the automatic again and the muzzle found its unerring way back in line with my chest.

  ‘The Americans didn’t have an exact location for the bombing and the damn Burmese wouldn’t let us anywhere near their waters when we fell out. So we were forced to maintain a watch on the general area for decades before a survey vessel found the wreckage. The rest you know.’

  ‘How the hell did you get away with sending the bloody virus in the first place. There must have been a fucking enquiry.’

  ‘There was no enquiry. This was wartime, remember!’ Bernard was talking to me in his schoolmasterly voice again. ‘Officially, Victor was taking our secret weapon to try it out on the Japanese. This was our Manhattan Project, our chance to see just what would happen against a real enemy. Everyone bought it, of course. Now, because you succeeded in recovering the bug, heroes will be made. There’ll probably be knighthood’s for the boys. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Okay. So why send me?’ I asked. ‘Was it so Chekhov could finally have his revenge?’ For a moment Sir Bernard Sinclair looked ashamed, then he nodded slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry to say but yes, that was part of the plan. Of course, Dimitri didn’t know who had attempted to kill him until I told him.’

  ‘You, of course, told him you’d ordered the original hit?’ I said sarcastically.

  ‘Of course not,’ came the prim reply. ‘It would have made life so much easier if you had killed him then, but that’s life, dear boy. So yes, you were set up to fail in your attempt to get the box. Or rather, Chekhov originally planned to let you retrieve it, then have his thugs board you and take it. He, incidentally, wasn’t on board the boat. The orders were for his men to take you with them. I believe he had plans for you.’ I shuddered and Bernard saw the movement. ‘I did regret the implications, Daniel, but he had me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied as dryly as my bleeding mouth would allow.

  ‘Chekhov always was a bloodthirsty one. He wanted you and Tuk Tuk out of the way. That, of course, was why I insisted you use Tuk Tuk which, of course, ended up as a big mistake on my part, or at least as far as Chekhov was concerned. The weather played against him and into your hands, along with that second boat. You never told me about that.’ Bernard shook his head and almost tut-tutted me for being a bad boy. ‘His boat was moored in the cove. The plan was to let you retrieve the virus and, when you started back to Ranong, they were going to run you down. It came as quite a surprise when they realised that you had an escort. That called for a drastic change of plan. That’s why they tried to get the box from you underwater.’

  ‘Why the hell did his men all have CIA identification on them?’

  ‘Chekhov liked to make sure that blame was never laid at his feet unless he wanted it to be. He thought a little smoke screen and unrest between the Americans, the Thais and us would be good for business. He had some difficult associates in his team on board the boat and, apparently, he planned to leave a body or two behind to be found. He was a devious man.’

  ‘And you’re not?’ I replied laughing, spraying droplets of blood from my cut lips. ‘Two of a kind, Bernard,’ I said. As I talked, I was getting ready to move. Roddy bothered me. I didn’t know if he had a gun. If he did, I would be dead. Firstly I would move sideways out of the chair and roll to get behind the breakfast bar, out of range of Bernard’s gun. I imagined he was still a pretty fair shot and that was my first consideration. If Roddy came for me without a gun I could take him.

  ‘The mobile phone,’ I said. ‘That was pure genius.’

  ‘Oh yes, that was wasn’t it,’ Bernard replied, a smug look creeping across his face. ‘That was my own idea. When did you realise?’

  ‘After Chekhov burned down the drugs factory in the old town. Things happened too fast from that moment on and it all fell into place.’

  ‘And you played me along after that?’ Bernard looked truly surprised, then he nodded and smiled. ‘Ah, Daniel, I trained you well. It’s a pity what has to be will be,’ he said sadly. ‘Unfortunately with you left alive, I fear I face a rather bleak retirement in one of Her Majesty’s institutions. Now that you have finally got rid of Chekhov, it is time we said goodbye.’

  ‘You are going to do it yourself?’ I asked in mock surprise. Bernard looked quite startled at the suggestion he would not do it personally.

  ‘Of course I will do it, Daniel. This is not the sort of thing one has others do. That is just not proper,’ he added as he raised the gun. I planted both feet on the floor and launched myself sideways. The chair and I parted company about the same time the silenced automatic spat. I heard a shot ricochet as the slug hit the tiled wall behind me. As I rolled, something broke with a glassy clatter. Once behind the breakfast bar, I pushed my arms down as far as I could. Thank God for a relatively small arse and tight jeans. I worked my behind through my bound arms and then went for my feet, pushing my right boot off as I squirmed to get my legs through my arms. The left boot held me up for a precious second or two, then it was off. I pulled the stiletto out of the sheath and held it in a double grip, blade-upwards. I didn’t have time to cut the cable tie because Roddy was coming around the corner of the breakfast bar.

  Roddy didn’t have a gun but his cosh was raised high. It was a clumsy move on his part because, crouching where I was on the floor, I had him open from his groin to his chin. Maybe I’d overestimated the talents of Bernard’s little sleeper. I lunged forward and up under Roddy’s downward swing, feeling the cosh hit me more or less harmlessly behind my left shoulder as I drove the knife straight into the V of Roddy’s rib cage. I was going for his heart, and I got it.

  Roddy staggered back a pace and then stood, staring down at me with wide eyes. The cosh dropped from his fingers as he gripped his chest with both hands, trying to stem the flow of dark blood. His face had become a big white shock-filled blank.

  As the late Roddy Thomas sank to his knees and started to draw his final last breaths, I hunched behind the kitchen counter and twisted the bloodied knife so I could sever the cable tie. It was done in seconds. Now where was Bernard? There was no sound in the room but for Roddy’s departing moans. As he started to fall forward, I planted both feet into Roddy’s chest and propelled him back out into the room. There was the muted thunk of a silencer and Roddy’s falling body took a hit.

  I risked looking around the edge of the bar. Bernard was still sitting in his seat, the gun in his hand. I pulled my head back as his automatic spat a bullet. The bullet missed me and hit the wall behind and to my right. Roddy, meanwhile, was lying on his back on the tiled floor. The poor sap raised his head to look at Bernard and opened his mouth but no sound came out. His head made a meaty sound on the tiles and Roddy Thomas was no more. The only movement was a growing pool of dark blood under his body, an echo of poor Babs’s final moments.

  There was silence in the room, but for the sound of
water dripping into the basin in the mini kitchen unit behind me. I realised I’d not noticed that the tap needed a new washer until then. I’d have maintenance look at it when this was all over. Once again, a stupid irrelevant thing like a dripping tap had crept into my mind during such a tense moment. Maybe it was stress. Bernard eventually broke the near silence.

  ‘Very impressive, Daniel. Poor old Roddy. He used to be such a lovely boy,’ he added sadly. ‘You’ll have to come out some time.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Bernard. You may have to come to me,’ I replied as I squatted behind the breakfast bar, keeping the dishwasher between Bernard and I. I reached up to quietly ease open the utensils drawer. My Walther was out of reach in the safe in the bedroom. However there was a set of very sharp steak knives in the kitchen drawer. I lifted them out quietly and laid them on the floor beside me. My stiletto was an excellent throwing knife but I wanted that in my hand when I sliced Sir Bernard’s throat from ear to ear.

  I had spent a lot of time learning how to throw knives well. Waiting in the bush for a meet with some bandit or other often meant days of doing nothing. Because nothing and I had never been really good companions, I used to practice throwing knives to pass the time, sometimes for hours on end. I got very good at it. In the movies a single thrown knife, when accurately pinpointed, can cause instant death. In real life it never usually works like that. However a thrown knife inflicting a hit of any sort can distract the recipient. It can cause pain and, occasionally, serious injury. What I wanted was to buy a few seconds of valuable time. Time to get to Sir Bernard.

  I would throw the heavy steak knives in flights of three. The range from the counter to the couch was, I judged, almost perfect for one rotation of any decent knife. He would be struck and he would be cut. That I could guarantee. Immediately after I had thrown the second set of three, I would follow.

  I pushed the drawer closed and moved so my back was against the cupboards and I had the dishwasher and counter in front of me. I waited for Bernard to make his move. I hoped he wouldn’t for the moment because there was one last thing I wanted to know. What was my price? To kill him without knowing that would piss me off. Everyone wants to know their worth—don’t they?