The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  'Fasten your seatbelts, please.' Much lower now, moving over fields and roads, one of them clearly a motorway with heavy traffic moving both ways. Vibration began as the wheels came down out of their housings, and a low whine was audible from the wings where the flaps were sliding out and down. The aircraft tilted slightly, and then again more sharply as the pilot lined up with the runway centreline.

  The first offer had not been long in coming; ability was respected in these circles and the sort of talent represented by Michael Hollis was certainly not going to be ignored.

  Naturally Hollis had refused.

  'You think I'm some sort of fuckin' psychopath or somethin'?' he had ground out between his teeth. 'No way!'

  But the offers kept coming, and to a young man in his late-twenties, permanently short of money and used to such trappings of luxury as came with his employment by drug traffickers and bank robbers, the sums being dangled in front of him were mouth-watering. It took them over a year to change his mind, and then they had to resort to a struck-off doctor who had expensive requirements for white powder and teenage boys in equal proportions. He had spent 20 years teaching psychology to bored students and didn't really find the rather niaive Mike Hollis much of a challenge. Youthful principals and family morals were easily turned around with devastating logic and powerfully reasoned argument.

  Still, Hollis had been a physical and mental wreck for a week following his first paid killing. What brought him out of it in fact was the repeated phone calls from his bank manager suggesting suitable ways to invest his “windfall”. A stone lighter and ten thousand pounds richer he stepped forth into a world changed forever.

  The wheels squeaked on the concrete and reverse-thrust pressed Hollis into his seatbelt as the aircraft slowed rapidly, turning off onto a taxiway and finally coming to rest in its allocated slot.

  Two more years and he found it expedient to quit the pressures of the capitol. At the urging of a Scottish girlfriend he bought the pair of them a house in Edinburgh. Eventually she moved back to London but Hollis stayed, thoroughly captivated by the sheer elegance of the place. He moved house regularly as a matter of routine security but never strayed far from the city.

  By then he could pick and choose from the offers which appeared out of the blue, and was frequently astonished at the way his reputation quickly spread far beyond the boundaries of his adopted homeland. In recent years he had found it convenient to only accept commissions outside the UK; it was little enough, but it helped to have a base where he was not being actively sought by the security agencies. Although technically murder investigations were never declared closed until an arrest had been made.

  And so the years had passed, almost unnoticed. Nowadays his fees were so high that contracts were infrequent. But that wasn't a problem; there were ample funds tucked away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. Now in his late-forties, Mike Hollis had just about convinced himself it was time to call it a day.

  'What is the purpose of your visit to Norway?'

  'Business meeting.'

  'Enjoy your stay, Mr Sperring.' Another meaningless stamp in a meaningless passport. This, too, was routine security. Gojo had been heard to call it paranoia but Mike Hollis was still alive when many others in his trade were long dead. The Oslo flight had been the first out of Edinburgh after his arrival from Inverness. It took but moments to check the times of the next Amsterdam connection. Fifty-five minutes. He would buy a ticket immediately before departure time, as he had done in Edinburgh. For now, some coffee would be welcome.

  It was mid afternoon when Hollis emerged blinking into the bright sunshine from the comparative gloom of Amsterdam's Central Station. The rail link from Schipol was impressively fast, with only three stops, taking just twenty eight minutes to deliver it's cargo of tourists to the delights of the bustling capitol city. Jabbering excitedly in half a dozen languages the crowd seemed to spread out into the streets from the station entrance like a tide, and abruptly were gone: absorbed effortlessly into the thousands already there.

  The station taxi's were being rapidly decimated too, but Hollis had been here before. He crossed one of the myriad of bridges into Prins Hendrikkade and walked west for a hundred metres to the cab rank alongside the stretch of dirty water known as Open Haven. 'Rijnhotel on Stadhouserkade.’

  At ten o'clock the following morning Mike Hollis left his hotel, walking south past the endless offices, terraced houses and hotels. The rendezvous with his contact was at twelve o'clock, plenty of time. Plenty of time to make sure neither of them had picked up any ticks. At Constantijn Huygens Straat he turned right and counted fifty paces before abruptly turning around and heading back the way he had come. No-one took a sudden interest in a menu or felt the need to tie their shoe laces.

  Arriving at Van Lennep Kanaal he turned left along the footpath, walking until he came across a wooden bench with a tarnished metal plaque on it. He sat there for fifteen minutes, checking the environment and paying particular attention to the blue Opel that cruised past twice in the same direction.

  Paranoia.

  Yes, all right then, so we're getting a bit twitchy in our old age. Better than not having an old age.

  Another ten minutes but it didn't appear again so he got to his feet, moving along the canal footpath away from the city centre and started counting bridges. By the time the sixth one came up the seemingly endless city had given way to peaceful semi-suburbia and the only noise Hollis could hear came from his own footsteps on the gravel path. This was the appointed place sure enough.

  There were still twenty two minutes to wait but that was all right. Hollis eased into the doorway of a disused building that may have once been a storage shed or something similar. One good Scottish gale would surely have flattened it. Finding good shadow cover, he settled down to wait and watch.

  Five minutes to twelve and the short man was close enough for Hollis to note his appearance and the newspaper carried in the single-gloved left hand. No-one else was in sight in either direction but Hollis made no move. The newcomer stepped across the grass verge from the path to the roadway. Hollis noted with approval the way in which he casually but carefully checked the area before walking up onto the bridge. At least he wasn't having to deal with a total amateur. He stayed put and waited. Five minutes, ten. Nothing moved anywhere in sight.

  Fifteen. The grey haired man, who appeared to be in his fifties was checking his watch impatiently for the seventh time and making up his mind. When he started walking back Hollis did one more check of the area and moved to meet him. 'Is this where I get the bus for the Keukenhof Tour?'

  'Only on a Friday. You're late!'

  'It's a hard life.'

  Len Harrison took in the medium height figure with a scrub of thick sandy coloured hair and the hard, rough-hewn features. The expressionless grey-blue eyes, lined at the corners, watched him steadily, with total equanimity. Jesus, thought Harrison, I wouldn’t like to play poker with this guy.

  'It's a nice day, let's take a walk.'

  Harrison noted with interest the American accent. When Manson had told him that the rendezvous was arranged there had been no mention of nationalities. Not that it mattered at all. 'Very well.'

  They made no attempt to introduce themselves. Names were irrelevant––neither would have given his real one anyway. Hollis, for his part, was trying to figure whether this contact was just a flunky or his main, possibly sole, employer. Prospective employer, he corrected himself.

  'Do you know Amsterdam at all?'

  Hollis shrugged. 'I've been here a few times.'

  'It's a strange mixture of the beautiful and the ugly. I thought of living here some years ago, when my wife was still alive.' Harrison waved a hand in the general direction of the city. 'A remarkably cosmopolitan place, truly European. But then it also has another side, riddled with crime and corruption. You can buy anything here, anything at all.'

  'You sure can,' Hollis said, trying to read between the lines.

&nb
sp; Privately, Harrison thought his companion probably knew more about the Amsterdam underworld than he himself ever would. Or ever wanted to. 'I represent a group of people who believe very strongly in the concept of a free market. No stupid trading barriers, no petty legislation, no interfering governments shouting dubious morality whenever an election year comes around.'

  'There's been a free market in Europe for years. Look how many countries now use the Euro––'

  Harrison shook his head. 'These things mean nothing, Mr … um … Smith. The supposedly “free” market is only as free as the authorities want it to be at any given time. The European Community has never achieved true union, despite the best efforts of a few far-sighted people who have spent their lives working towards making Europe a real power in the twenty first century.' Harrison paused for comment, but there was none. He was pleased to see that the other man was listening intently.

  Hollis was in fact listening very carefully indeed. He had always been pro-European. Bringing together the various states and territories and forming the United States of America had been a long and tortuous process, but it had conclusively proved the maxim which said that the whole can indeed be greater than the sum of the parts. He could see little reason why a United States of Europe should be any less successful.

  'The problem is that one or two countries are extremely resistant to giving up any degree of national sovereignty. And by doing so they undermine the whole European economic process.'

  'Give it time, show them what they're missing.'

  'Quite so. But there has to be a limit, an end to the prevarication: a deadline if you will.'

  'I'm having difficulty seeing what this has to do with me.'

  'I'm sorry, maybe I'm putting in too much background, but I was hoping you could appreciate the sense of frustration that has built up in recent years. Let me speak plainly: the British Government has caused major delays at all stages of this inevitable process. Whingeing about loss of sovereignty, refusing to relinquish their precious Sterling. Spreading doom and despondency about monetary union and the dire consequences of a common fiscal policy.

  ‘Generally, if the truth be told, doing everything possible to both have their cake and eat it. They want to be part of Europe, but not a united Europe. They like being able to tap into European funds, but for God’s sake don't ask them to make any firm commitments to the ideal.' Harrison had stopped walking and the two men stood side by side on the footpath, watching two teenage girls with a dog on the far side of the canal.

  Hollis kept his face immobile but his thoughts raced. He was beginning to see why such a large financial carrot was being dangled. 'The man in Downing Street has become surplus to requirements, has he?'

  Harrison was impressed. This was no ignorant psychopath––his nagging worry all the way from Edinburgh. Manson had indeed delivered the goods and no mistake. 'Good God, no! The poor sod's hands are tied behind his back, as were his predecessors. Who in the UK do you think has most to lose in a truly United Europe? A single economic and political entity.'

  Hollis was beginning to feel a psychological chill down his back. The options were narrowing, but he wasn't about to make any more guesses. 'I'm an American, what do I know about British politics?'

  They resumed walking, Hollis with his hands in his pockets and Harrison with his tucked behind his back. 'The Establishment has most to lose. Their function would be entirely removed; they would become an irrelevance. Even an embarrassment. They won't allow that to happen, not after God knows how many centuries.'

  'Who won’t?'

  'I'm talking about the British monarchy, Mr Smith. It is clear to me that they have a marked reluctance to encouraging further European progress. There is, after all, little place in modern society for the sort of appalling privilege they have always enjoyed. And certainly no place in a Republican Europe for the pompous British aristocracy. The people I represent believe strongly that successive British Governments have been advised, in the strongest possible terms, to do everything and anything necessary to prevent the formation of a true European State. Not for any actual political ends, but rather because it would decrease still further the monarchy’s already fragile role––not a situation I would expect them to take lightly.'

  'There's no way they could have that kind of control over a democratically elected government!' But Hollis was ahead of the game now. He could see what was coming and it scared the hell out of him.

  'Don't be a bloody fool, man. How do you think they have managed to survive this long?' Harrison didn't wait for an answer. In a gravely voice, he continued: 'The Queen has announced she will abdicate in favour of Charles due to her grave illness. The newspapers have been full of little else for months. While of course we must sympathize with her situation, this means the beginning of a new monarchy. The reign of King Charles the Third.

  ‘It is our intention, myself and my colleagues, to turn the British Establishment on it's head at that time. To remove them as a meaningful force in the European equation at least long enough to bring about the essential changes. Permanently if possible, but that doesn’t matter. To do this it will be necessary to strike a mortal blow at the very heart of that Institution.'

  Unconsciously they had both stopped walking again, this time standing facing each other on the peaceful canalside.

  'We want to you to assassinate Prince Charles before he becomes King!'

  4

  Largs

  'You want a paper, pal?'

  'What?'

  'Fifty pence.'

  Hollis looked down at the teenager and the off-white, poor quality newspaper he was thrusting forward: Flag of Freedom on a red banner emblem.

  'Get lost!' The Communist chicken had long since lost it's head––it just didn't know it was dead yet. The boy glared at him and moved off around the bar, in search of easier prey.

  Dave Jordan shook his head in disgust, lifting the two glasses of beer and handing one to his friend. 'Jeez, what does it take to fill a kid's head with that crap? What is he: fourteen, fifteen?' He followed Hollis to a table at the far end of the L-shaped public bar, set in a semi-circular booth.

  The Essex Bar graced a lengthy street of seedy shops in Islington, not one of London's more salubrious areas. It had once been a favourite haunt of Jordan and Hollis, had been in fact been an important meeting place and clearing house for most of the local criminal fraternity. That had been a lot of years, and several owners ago. Nowadays it was a much more civilised, although just as noisy place to enjoy a glass or two with an old friend.

  'His parents could knock it out of him easily enough––but then they may have put him up to it in the first place,' observed Hollis cynically. 'Anyway, in a few years time he'll probably be at some University or other and the gooks can just brainwash him again at their leisure.' He swallowed some beer and shrugged. 'The world's goin' to shit, Dave, and that's a fact!'

  'Yeah, sure is.’ Jordan hesitated before adding the next bit of news. ‘Did you know that Dilly's back in the UK?'

  Hollis looked up, surprised. 'No.' Dilys Fenwick was the girl he had lived with when he first moved from London to Edinburgh. He hadn't seen her in ten years.

  'Uh-huh. Second marriage didn't last either. I don't think she liked the weather in Finland much anyway, pretty cold in the winter.' He watched the expressionless eyes opposite. Nearly expressionless, he cautioned himself, this is sensitive ground; better watch it. 'If you'd like to see her before you leave––'

  'There isn't time.'

  'Right.' Not true of course, Jordan would be taking Hollis to Heathrow to catch the Edinburgh Shuttle in a couple of hours, but the booking could be changed easily enough. Change the subject. 'What's this I hear about you wanting to retire? Don't you know you can't claim old age pension until you're sixty-five?'

  Hollis snorted. 'Gojo been shooting his mouth off again?'

  'Nah.' Jordan grinned. 'It was mentioned, that's all. He thinks the world of you, Mike. I think you've got h
im worried.'

  Hollis sighed and drank some more beer. 'Yeah, well, I've had a good run, but it can't go on for ever. Sooner or later I'll open the wrong door, or turn my back once too often, or walk out of a hotel into a gunsight.' He looked around the crowded bar. 'I get tired of watching everyone and everything. Checking every doorway, sitting in a bar with my back to a wall just so I can have a beer and a chinwag.' He flicked a thumb round the booth they were sitting in and saw his friend's eyes narrow: it had never occurred to Dave Jordan that Hollis' choice of seating was anything more than convenience.

  'Jeez, I never thought––’'

  'Don't worry about it. But, yeah, sometimes I think I'm getting too old for this sort of thing––not as sharp as I used to be. That's why I'm not sure I want this one, or any other one for that matter.'

  Jordan was making rings on the varnished tabletop with the wet bottom of his glass. ‘That bad, huh?’

  Hollis said nothing.

  'Seriously, Mike, if you feel that way about it then I'm not goin' to sit here tryin' to talk you into it. Fuck it, it's only money!'

  They listened to the hubbub around them. Another good thing about a busy pub; you could discuss most things in reasonable safety even in the midst of this crowded room. Precisely because it was a crowded room.

  'This one got you worried, has it?' Jordan had known Mike Hollis a long time and the vibrations were unmistakable. For example there had been not so much as a clue as to the identity of the target. Despite the fact that there was no possibility of Dave Jordan being a security risk. Not that Hollis had ever been known to boast of his achievements, Jordan knew his friend’s conscience bothered him too much for that. The German thing was case in point: Jordan was totally sure Hollis had carried it out, but he had yet to hear him admit it.