The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  It was early afternoon before Mike Hollis guided the Range Rover out of the SECC car park and onto the Clydeside Expressway, heading west away from the city centre. Heavy, squally rain showers were still blasting intermittently from the gray sky, driven by yet another depression skulking out in the Atlantic. It looked as though Spring was late again as it always was nowadays. Hollis remembered reading an article in a respected science magazine demonstrating how all the seasons in the northern hemisphere had shifted forward by at least one month. Needless to say, the Global Warming was blamed, even though its very existence was still being disputed.

  In between the showers the sun would shine from a surprisingly clear sky until the next frontal system appeared over the rooftops. During these clear spells the wet city streets glittered as if they had a coating of ice.

  Hollis had sat hunched in the car for quite some time, part of his mind watching the rain drumming on the bonnet while the larger part of his attention was elsewhere––fitting pieces into the jigsaw puzzle.

  The first piece involved a travel agent, and a mile or so along he left the Expressway and threaded his way through between the jostling buses and parked cars of a busy shopping area. Finding a parking space in a side street at the second attempt, he walked the remaining distance to collect an accommodation guide for the Orkney Islands.

  On his way back to the car he stopped at a pay phone and dialled Gojo's number, hanging up after ten rings without response. The Purple Contract had finally started running.

  At about the same time as Mike Hollis stood in a perspex and aluminium phone box in Glasgow, an Irishman walked out of an elderly warehouse in the outskirts of Stuttgart. It had been raining here too and he shrugged into his coat as he watched Klaus Ditmar carefully locking and padlocking the door behind them. The windows had long since been bricked up, as had the smaller access alongside the main loading door. From outside it was just another dilapidated warehouse in a row of similar buildings. But inside it was a terrorists paradise.

  The Irishman was impressed, although he would never have dreamt of saying so. Bloody hell, these people weren't fooling around. It was a long time, a long time since he had set eyes on a bigger stockpile of lethal weaponry. Wherever it had come from––and he certainly couldn't ask––it was all good, up-to-date kit. A lot of it brand spanking new.

  And some American stuff too, that was a bonus and no mistake. The boys were getting a bit fed up with the junk coming out of Russia and the Republics of late. What with the incessant local wars, not to mention rabid boundary and territorial disputes, there was precious little in the way of decent weapons finding their way to freedom fighters in the West these days.

  Some of the old stalwarts might be respectable politicians nowadays, and Ireland may have calmed down from the heights of the Struggle in past years, but frustrations were growing again. It was all taking too long. And there were mighty suspicions that the aims and ambitions they had all fought––and many had died––for were being pushed under the carpet. Tidied away and stifled by the new veneer of respectability. Well, that was about to change!

  In the car, driving back to the airport, Ditmar said reassuringly, 'We can bring the stuff across to you all right, just tell me where I'll be able to get it ashore without any prying eyes.'

  'Don't you worry about that, old son. There are a thousand places; we'll set something up and let you know.'

  'And the money?'

  'I'll see the accountant tonight and make the arrangements. The funds will be in your bank by this time tomorrow.' The price was high but he wasn’t about to quibble, not with these folk, they were far too good a source. Only a fool would risk upsetting them with petty haggling over money. With Ghadaffi dead, funds were more difficult to come by––but they weren’t strapped just yet.

  ‘Good. I'm sorry about the missiles, but you understand––'

  'Sure, Klaus, don't worry about it.’ The Irishman grinned across at him. ‘We could have done some good work with three of those things, but there's always tomorrow. Keep us in mind next time, all right?'

  'Of course.' Klaus wasn't about to admit that getting hands on three Russian SAM-7 shoulder launched missiles was just a fluke. You had to get lucky sometimes, didn't you? Anyway, two of them had been snapped up by another contact before they even reached Germany! On occasions he wondered just who the Sicilians were planning to use them on. Not that he cared much.

  And the third one was reserved. Ditmar planned to use that one himself.

  She reached behind her, feeling for his ankles and supporting herself to take the strain off her abdominal muscles. not as young as you used to be Cathy. But the angle was a little acute now and shortly he slipped out of her completely. That was all right, she could do with a change of posture anyway.

  When he sat up, she flipped over onto her knees on the bed, giving him the grandstand view. He took the hint and knelt up behind her, pushing the short skirt up onto her hips. She felt the astonishingly erotic touch of his penis as it swung under it's own weight and brushed the inside of her thigh. Reaching down between her legs, she guided it back in again, pushing back on it as far as she could go and smiling as she heard him gasp quietly. Such power over a man!

  He began to move slowly at first, slowly and deeply, responding to her own movements and gradually building the rhythm. His left hand was busy now as well but this was her third year on the high-class circuit and she hadn't climaxed since the very first time she had done this for money. So there wasn't much hope, but then she was pretty good now at faking it …

  Her breasts began to sway back and forth, in time with the impacts of his pelvis on her buttocks, the weight jerking her forwards slightly each time against her braced arms. She had always liked it this way, from behind. Then he groaned and she felt the pulsing deep inside her as he emptied himself into the condom.

  They collapsed forward on the bed and lay tangled in companionable silence. One of the good things, she thought, about being expensive was that it was surprisingly easier to establish a group of regular clients whom she actually liked. Long gone were the days of standing against a cold brick wall with her panties round her ankles while some smelly layabout grunted in her ear. Cathy regularly felt a strong sense of pity when she saw young girls on street corners, picking up whatever trade they could find. Nowadays she wouldn't even talk to a man who didn't have a personal recommendation from someone she knew.

  Top of your game, honey.

  She rolled out from under him and stretched on the way to the en-suite bathroom, where she disposed of the still-warm condom she had removed from him with practised ease. Then she used the bidet and the toilet. When she came back through he was dressing. Another happy businessman revitalized and ready for the boardroom, she thought cynically.

  Mike Hollis kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Thanks Cathy, as always,' he said. 'See you next time I'm in town'.

  'Any time, Edward, you know that. Just phone'. She closed the door behind him and sighed. It took all sorts. She unbuttoned the white gym skirt and dropped it on the floor beside the matching tunic and navy blue knickers. Kicking off the white ankle socks, she made for the shower. As long as they paid the fee, she was quite happy to wear whatever they wanted …

  'Damn!'

  Hollis hung up the pay phone with a clatter and climbed back into the Range Rover, muttering to himself in annoyance. This was the fourth time of trying and there was still no answer from Gojo's home. Mike Hollis had never owned a mobile phone, and never would.

  After dinner in the hotel, he had spent some time in his room with the Orkney tourist brochure. There was no shortage of what he was looking for: a quietly rural self-catering cottage or small house where he could live anonymously and without fuss until the big day. It was a reasonable certainty that security procedures would be stepped up noticeably in the week leading up to the Royal visit, and he did not want any last minute delays or problems of that sort. Much better, surely, to take up residence a wee
k or so in advance, then just sit there and watch the fun from the inside. He planned to stay at least two weeks after the event too, long enough for the fuss to die down somewhat. Despite the fact that Mike Hollis was not wanted for any crime in the UK he was far too long in the tooth to take unnecessary risks.

  It was his need of a longish rental period that caused all the trouble––at this point in the year most folk only had isolated weeks left vacant in the diary. So he was running out of options when he finally struck lucky. Sorry, she couldn't help, said the lady in Orkney, but her daughter had recently started renting a small house which wasn't in the tourist brochure this year. She thought there had been few bookings so far and would he perhaps like to phone this number?

  He dialled again, waiting impatiently through five rings before a younger version of the same lilting voice answered. Five minutes later Hollis had solved his accommodation problem. He knew little of Orkney but he expected to find no trouble disappearing into the landscape for whatever time was necessary.

  He had dialled Gojo without success before searching through his mental phone book for Cathy's number. 'Sure,' said the sultry contralto in his ear. 'Whenever you like, good to hear from you again …'

  And now, at 11.30 pm, Gojo was still not at home. 'Damn!' said Hollis again, with feeling. He needed the services of a reliable metal-working outfit and he needed them now. That it had to be strictly hush and very definitely no questions asked was an added complication. Not for the first time, he was relying on Gojo's widespread contacts within Glasgow's shadier strata of society. A network that he often pictured as resembling a gigantic underground spider's web reaching across the sprawling city.

  Gojo would know where he could get the job done safely and with no strings attached. But Gojo seemed to be unavailable and that was very odd. Hollis didn't like unexplained events: they tended to blow up in your face if you didn't take great care.

  Driving back to the hotel, on the western outskirts of the city, he reviewed yet again the viable options should Gojo prove unobtainable. The best of them meant moving the whole project down to London, where Dave Jordan could no doubt come up with suitable facilities. But he resented the extra delay and anyway, the less his face appeared on the streets down there the better he liked it.

  He would phone once more at breakfast time tomorrow. If there was still no answer then he was in deep shit.

  There was no answer.

  Bright morning sunshine flooded the wide dual carriageway of Great Western Road, flickering through the windscreen as the sun passed behind buildings or trees. Hollis turned left at the complex junction of Anniesland Cross onto Bearsden Road, chugging slowly up the hill behind one of Glasgow's multi-coloured buses. Half a mile on he left the busy main road, turning right and running along the northern bank of the Forth & Clyde canal. In due course this brought him to another major thoroughfare called Maryhill Road. He turned right and headed downhill, passing underneath the same disused canal again. There was more traffic here, the rush hour was well under way and this was a primary route into the heart of the city.

  In due course the Range Rover turned off into Bilsland Drive and shortly made a very sharp U-turn into Murano Street, alongside Ruchill Park. Where the park ended, Hollis swung left into a narrow street with park railings forming one side and typical four-storey tenements the other. Benview street had been named because Ben Lomond could in theory be seen from here, or more truthfully from the higher windows.

  Hollis found the appropriate number and climbed the cold stone stairs to the top floor where the doors of two flats faced each other across the small landing. There was no name on the left-hand door and the bell wasn't working so Hollis rattled the letterbox instead.

  Since that produced no visible result, he started knocking, loudly. Was the silly bastard still in bed? Sleeping it off maybe. In his frustration he felt like shouting through the door, and he might have tried it if the other door on the landing hadn't opened behind him.

  'He isn't in' She was frowning at him impatiently, what on earth was he doing making this fuss so early in the morning.

  Hollis knew from Gojo's anecdotes, not to mention wincingly accurate mimicry, that this was Mrs Danter. Firebrand with a heart of butter, who still laid a place for her husband at the dinner table although he had been dead more than ten years.

  'Do you know when he'll be back?' It wasn't likely that Gojo would keep Mrs Danter appraised of his movements, but it was worth a try.

  'Not for a while,' she came across to stand facing him. 'What do you want him for?'

  'We've been friends a long time. I usually look him up when I'm in town, and we have a few beers.'

  'You an American?’ She remembered Gojo mentioning an American once or twice in passing.

  'Not really.'

  'Well, if you’re a friend of his, you'd better know then. He won't be back for quite some time, I'm afraid.'

  'Why not?' This wasn't good.

  'Because he was attacked in the street the night before last by two young thugs. They gave him quite a going over,' she glared at Hollis as if it were his fault. 'He's in the hospital!'

  9

  7 – 9 July, 2013

  'It's a pretty tenuous pattern, if it exists at all.' Frank Wedderman threw the pencil down in disgust. He had been pinning his hopes on getting a positive lead from the list of previous targets supplied by Greenside of SIS. Did their man specialize in politicians?

  It was much more likely of course that there was no set pattern for them to find. A professional killer would surely just accept the jobs he considered an acceptable risk and refuse the others. Presumably money would have to be a factor in making the decision, and that would depend on what the principal was prepared to offer. So did that mean higher fees were available on the world market for killing politicians? Now there was surely a fascinating point of view. But the days were passing and they were really no further forward.

  It was disturbing.

  'Two politicians out of eight deaths. It's not much of a link,' confirmed Chief Inspector Durrant.

  The eight names on the CIA document ranged from a Swiss bank manager to the despotic leader of the German Neo-Nazi movement. It was true that a French communist politician was also listed as having been killed in mysterious circumstances some years past, but two swallows had only a slim connection with summer.

  'No. Well, it was worth a try.'

  The usual morning meeting had developed into a marathon. The two men had agreed they would work through this minefield until they came up with an acceptable and workable plan of action. Both of them shared the same concern that they were simply not getting a handle on this one at all. It was difficult to take it seriously. It was almost ludicrous for two senior police officers to be doing this sort of thing.

  'The target just has to be on here,' Chief Inspector Durrant waved the A4 sheet of yellow paper for emphasis. 'One of these people is in imminent danger of losing his life. It's time we started doing something about that.' Neither of them had thought to comment on the fact that all the tentative candidates were male.

  Both men looked up at the tap on the door. An appallingly young-looking officer handed Durrant an official message form with Urgent visible on the top right hand corner. ‘Thank you.’ Durrant read while he listened.

  'I fully agree, sir, but there are still four names to choose from and they all appear to be equally at risk.' Wedderman stepped across the deep pile carpet to the white scheduling board on the wall and began to write on it with a dry-wipe marker pen.

  Korak Mintushi

  He turned round and expanded: 'Japanese rock singer. Possible revenge attack for deaths in the Tokyo subway nerve gas attack.'

  Senator Villeken

  'Thoroughly disliked by just about everyone from Mickey Mouse upwards.’

  Igor Norevny

  'Ostensibly just another Russian businessman looking for export trade with the West. However, it's a well known fact that he made his millions in t
he early Yeltsin days, when organised crime practically took over the whole damned country. Nowadays he's more or less legit, likes to think of himself as an international entrepreneur but he still travels everywhere with a rake of bodyguards. Bound to be a price on his head at home, don't know about abroad.'

  Durrant shook his head in disgust. 'Another damned terrorist in a silk suit.'

  'He's got a damned cheek, that's for sure. But I think he's an outside chance for our purposes.' Wedderman put the felt pen back on the clip and turned to face his superior. 'The other two, though. I feel we have to take them equally seriously. Either of them––'

  'Three'

  'What?' Wedderman stopped, confused.

  Durrant held up the message form he had just received. 'I'm afraid there's another complication,' he sighed. As if things weren't bad enough already. He handed the slip across to Wedderman. 'I think you'll agree we simply have to put him on the list.'

  'Oh Christ!' Wedderman swore. The unwanted complications of what he was reading hitting him all at once. He looked up and met his boss's eyes, his face serious. 'This could be the one, Bill,' he waved the paper in the air. 'He made a lot of enemies while he was Prime Minister. And he’s never been forgiven for the Gulf War debacle!'

  'My thoughts exactly. At best it's a hell of a coincidence. But like it or not, Tony Blair will be opening the new Chamber of Commerce in Aberdeen on the twenty-fourth of August.'

  By mid morning the sun was shining from an almost totally clear blue sky. Mike Hollis was glad to pull the Range Rover up the ramp into the shade offered by the multi-storey car park above the shopping centre. He had no difficulty finding a space on the second tier, the car-park was barely half full at this time of day. As he walked away from the car, the double beep confirming the alarm was active echoed from the bare concrete walls.

  The elevators were as disreputable as Hollis remembered them from previous visits, although both were, unbelievably, working on this occasion. On the ground floor, he took the main door out onto the world-famous Sauchiehall Street. Jokes are legion: such as the story claimed by many to be true, that a policeman, about to arrest some unfortunate for being drunk and disorderly, dragged him round the corner into Hope Street because it was easier to spell in his report.