He refused selling to these anti-West organisations purely out of strategy—at least initially.
He watched the meteoric rise of his contemporaries, followed by the inevitable crash as their businesses were torn up by these western agencies. Pierre knew if he made ill-thought-out choices, it would result in his organisation being placed under surveillance. If he were to sell to more politically correct groups, his business would gain a reputation that would shield him in the future. Even if it meant he lost profits in the meantime.
All the while, he developed secret back-channels to these radicals who were becoming desperate and willing to pay more as their options dwindled.
Their desperation equalled financial gain for Pierre’s business. When Pierre began to arm these terrorists in early 2005, his power and prosperity snowballed.
Ironically, the London bombing that summer had for a while lessened the scrutiny on his organisation. Those attacks had been carried out with homemade organic peroxide-based devices. Still, the stakes of selling to these anti-west groups became higher than ever. His patience and guile had begun to pay dividends in the shape of Saudi Arabian oil money. He soon became one of the most powerful and wealthy arms dealers in the world.
The dojo hall echoed with the exertions of the two men grappling on blue mats; the sounds of one more predominant than the other. Posters and pictures of legendary mixed martial artists, boxers and Thai boxers adorned the walls in between windows that showed only sky. There was an octagon cage in the corner.
Connor Reed was pinned onto his back by the chest to chest pressure of the man positioned at a ninety-degree angle to him. It felt like being trapped under a fallen oak tree. The ‘Americana’ lock cranked his arm and his taps on the man’s back to signal surrender threatened to become slaps. The arm was mercifully released. He felt the cobwebs of his elbows crack.
He'd had sixty-six amateur boxing wins in seventy-one bouts. He’d boxed extensively as a civilian and had won the Combined Services Open class light-middle weight Championship for the Navy. Eighteen months before joining the Corps, he’d trained at his local Muay Thai club and won eight of his nine matches. While in the Corps, he’d taken up Judo and got himself a place on the Navy team. He won several bouts and earned a bronze medal at the Navy Championship.
However, in the seventeen minutes of rolling with his new instructor, he’d been befuddled a little and punished a lot.
The instructor whipped around him and levered him into untenable positions, before amplifying the discomfort with his body pressure. Connor felt a feeling akin to mild suffocation when ground into the mat. It bemused him that the instructor—the lighter man at around twelve-stone by ten pounds—felt like a sixteen-stone man. Because there was a time limit for when Judo matches went into Ne-waza—ground techniques—Connor hadn’t felt this type of compression when grappling on the ground before.
This instructor had made Connor suffer in position before applying an armlock or stranglehold. Connor would tap out and enjoy a few moments of respite before it began again. This lesson was the first of the unarmed combat sessions, which he’d been told would feature regularly not only in his training but throughout his entire career.
Connor wasn’t surprised he was losing. He’d recognised who his new instructor was upon meeting him.
A British mixed martial arts legend; George Follet was a pioneer of the sport back in the late nineties and early 2000’s. He’d fought at lightweight in the Japanese promotion of Pancrase. He had been only one of a handful of Europeans to do so. Pancrase had been a precursor to today’s MMA, the main exception being the rules didn’t allow for closed fist striking, forcing the participants to use palm strikes instead. He did remarkably well, winning more than he lost.
He had been contracted to compete in the illustrious Pride Fighting Championships, the Japanese MMA event that had been considered the largest in the world at that time. The promotion routinely pulled in crowds of 80,000 with the record of over 91,000.
Pride FC had been hugely theatrical with massive pyrotechnic displays lighting up the fighters’ entrances, similar to the scenes of America’s professional wrestling. The female announcer’s voice reverberated around the arena, whipping the Japanese crowd into a fervour.
Considered by many to be more brutal than America’s counterpart, the UFC; the rules had permitted stamping and kicking to the head of a downed opponent.
George never became champion in Pride but he did defeat two future champions and had been always respected.
The youngerman had been a fan of George Follet for a long time for many reasons: his willingness to test himself in an entirely unfamiliar environment, his balletic athleticism, heart and technical skill in all aspects of MMA. He remembered Liam being even more of a fan—if only he could see me now.
A thud echoed as Connor was catherine-wheeled to the mat by a hip throw.
Despite the judo training he had, the gap in the grappling prowess was pronounced. The dense physique reflected George’s physical strength, with the legs, forearms and back laden with thick, striated muscle. It was also Follett’s technical skill; the constant subtle shifts of position, manoeuvring Connor into place.
“Your stance is slightly too high, that’s one of the reasons I can take you down. When we clinch, I want you to widen your stance and bend your knees. You’re not shifting into a wrestling stance deep enough when we clinch. Your hips should be lower than mine,” Follet instructed as they clinched. “OK. Wider. Plant into the ground. Bend your legs more. Now, switch your legs and drop to your knees while pulling my arm into you, like this.”
George executed the move throwing Connor onto his back. He lay there and felt honoured to be his pupil. He didn’t kid himself it wasn’t going to be painful. They’d not even touched on striking yet.
7
The American watched the Frenchman through the busy vibrancy of the Parisian street. He was about to surprise this potential client in his inimitable way—his standard operating procedure with potential customers who insisted on meeting face to face.
Usually, his intermediary made the arrangements. In his experience, clients who wished to meet face to face had one of two agendas. Either they wanted to be as certain as possible that there would be no leaks, or they were control-freaks who hated ‘middlemen’. In any case, these were the clients he deemed to be the most dangerous. Upon completion of the assignment, their need for control might extend to trying to eliminate him, to tie loose ends.
The American always sought to unbalance them from their very first meeting and maintain the upper hand. Surprising them before the designated meeting place gave credence to his skill level of which they were hopefully already aware. It also gave them a fleeting glimpse of their last moment should they ever double cross him. He’d done this several times, and it had always produced the desired effect.
The American, appeared almost slender in clothes. His tremendously sinewy musculature had grooves of definition throughout it. His blond hair and blue eyes were visual magnets to an otherwise unremarkable face. With the short beard he now wore, he resembled a Nordic Viking. Today, he dressed in a thin brown leather jacket with a light blue hoodie underneath.
He crossed the street, now approximately twenty metres behind the businessman, letting the snub-nosed Walther PPQ 45 pistol fall into his palm. He would press the gun into the Frenchman’s back as they stood at the crossing lights. He’d order him to an outside table at the coffee shop where they were to meet. With taking a seat behind the prospective client, he’d preserve his anonymity.
He was now a mere ten feet from the man known to be Pierre Gaultier.
Shock rippled through his body like a brick thrown into a still pond, as a muzzle pressed into his own lower back. Simultaneously a right hand gripped his sleeve and forced his Walther to point to the ground.
“Libérez votre arme ou vous mourrez dans la rue,” the voice growled—Release your weapon, or you will die in the street.
&nbs
p; This disconcerted him; not only had the figure managed to ambush him but also spoke fluent French—meaning he knew he did too.
After a quick assessment, he allowed the hand to slide down and take the Walther away from him.
“Marchez vers le café et asseyez-vous,” said the man, —walk to the Café and sit down— and Carl began to walk across the street. After thirty yards he took a seat in front of a seated Pierre Gaultier, outside the café.
“Well, Monsieur Wright—Monsieur Carl Wright, that was not how you thought this would turn out, no?” said Pierre smiling. His French-inflected English superb if a little text-book.
A vanilla latte sat in front of Carl—his coffee of choice when away from home. The man with the gun sat at an angle so the three of them formed a triangle around the table.
Pierre Gaultier sat casually, still looking the part of the flamboyant French businessman, while Carl remained the tourist. He mused that the Frenchman could be mistaken for a relation; his hair sported a comparable colour of blond, and his lean physique was not dissimilar to his own.
The gunman, with his hand now empty, looked more like a lawyer—suited and professional. The glasses offset the man’s compact build, and his eyes were alert.
“I wish to congratulate you with your style. Your plan would have worked had we not already seen it in action, mon ami,” continued Pierre. Wright remained silent and fought the impulse to tense his jaw.
“OK, to business,” said Pierre with a dramatic clap and a triumphant smile.
“Who says I want to do business with you now? My anonymity is gone.”
“Your anonymity is gone with us. It does not however have to go any further than this.”
Carl silently cursed; they had him over a barrel, and he didn’t know how. He took a sip of his coffee with it being the only good thing in his immediate vicinity.
“Took a time to track you, we set up three assignments for you before this,” grinned Pierre.
Carl recalled the jobs he’d taken in Switzerland, Italy and Nigeria.
“So why the insistence of a face to face now?” he asked, locking eyes with the Frenchman.
“Because this assignment is rather delicate. I wanted to measure your professionalism before giving it to you,” Pierre replied evenly.
“Meaning that it’s so delicate that you wanted something to hold over me as a semblance of control?”
“I would word it more, let us say, precaution than control, Mr Wright, but you are quite correct. However, this assignment does not have to be any different than any you have done before.”
The attractive young waitress approached to check if the cups were empty. She seemed to sense the atmosphere and backed away.
Carl weighed up his options. He could just tell them to go to hell. For sure this Frenchman wouldn’t have me shot right outside a café in daytime Paris? However, they had his identity now. That meant he’d be looking over his shoulder which didn’t bode well in his line of work.
“The trick is to blend in, to be forgettable by your normality. This doesn’t simply mean dressing in black like some fiction writers would have you believe. It means regular clothes with no loud or unusual motifs. No bizarre haircuts or eye-catching accessories unless the situation calls for it,” said the instructor to Connor.
He was at a facility in the suburbs of Cambridge.
This began his first lesson in urban and counter surveillance. The curly-haired instructor was a member of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment that had formed the eyes and ears of the UK’s Special Forces since 2005. Connor had been led to believe that the SAS, and to a degree the SBS, resented SRR’s formation at first as they’d handled the role themselves for many years. However, the SRR’s worth had been proven over the years albeit with some teething along the way. Such was the nature of the unit that their successes did not often get highlighted.
“It’s mainly a person’s demeanour that allows him to blend into a setting,” continued the instructor. “You need to have a plausible reason to be there, which will masquerade your real purpose. Continually remind yourself of that. The best lies are the ones believed by the liar. If you duck into an alleyway to wait for a target to pass you, you’re going for a piss, understand?”
Connor nodded and the instructor continued.
“Then, if the worst comes to the worst and you’re challenged, you are more likely to respond how your ‘alter ego’ would; saying, ‘What the fuck are you staring at?’ It may not seem wise at the time, but it may be more like the response you would give if someone were watching you taking a piss.”
Connor was sure he’d read that already in a former SAS soldier-turned writer’s book. It pleasantly surprised him that his first lesson had revolved around the human aspect of surveillance and not the use of technical devices.
He supposed that would come.
“The most important thing I can impart to you is this: if you think you’re in danger of being spotted, discontinue. We can almost always pick up the target’s trail again, but if they know that they’ve been compromised, they will go to ground. I have lost count of the amount of times that’s happened. What it leads to is thousands of man-hours going up in smoke, never mind the enemy strengthening their security protocols, you understand?”
Connor did understand. He too had come across that before, but not in his life as a Royal Marine.
Stanton sat in his office and observed the Prime Minister’s advisor’s attempt to mask just how upset he was. The breaths were a little more pronounced and the speech a little enunciated.
Costner was fifty-one years of age, silvery-brown hair swept into a neat side parting and blue eyes framed by black rimmed glasses. He wore a smart but not-too-expensive suit as most politicians were required to do—smart enough to appear professional, not too costly to alienate the electorate.
As a politician, he’d learnt to mask his emotions. Stanton could see it in the eyes though—Henry Costner was furious.
“Suicide by burning himself alive? Not pills, not throwing himself off a bridge, not hanging himself—no—apparently, he doused himself in petrol, climbed into the boot of his car, closed it—I mean, shut it from the inside and set himself on fire Roger?!”
“You’ll also know that a suicide note was written, and this is substantiated, by his own hand.”
“Save it, we both know that Stephen Hardcastle would never kill himself, and certainly not in that manner. I want to know whether it was the Scotsman’s doing.”
Stanton stared at Henry Costner for a few moments. He sympathised with his frustration. The Prime Minister would have been putting Henry under pressure in anticipation of the media fall out.
Nevertheless, Stanton knew that to give in to any strong-arming would set a dangerous precedent.
Stanton had used his influence to prevent the fact Hardcastle had been shot twice from spilling out. It was obvious that this was unknown to Henry. The fire had burnt away the evidence of the other injuries the MP sustained.
“You could always ask McQuillan yourself, Henry.”
Costner shifted in the seat before saying, “I am asking you.”
“And I am telling you, I will never confirm or deny operations undertaken by an unofficial unit to anyone, not even the Prime Minister.”
The politician exhaled, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Roger. You can only shield him so much. One day he’s going to crash…and he’s going to take you along with him.”
“Duly noted,” said the MI5 chief. “You can leave now.”
“Hi stranger, how are you?” the redhead asked Connor. They stood on the doorstep of her warm, neat home.
“I’m all right, I have just been—”
“—busy with work, I know,” Grace interrupted, in her light North-East of England accent.
Her closed-mouth kiss on the lips made him tingle a little. He stepped inside and handed her the bottle of red wine.
“Well, I was going to tell you that I have been busy with an
other woman, but whatever makes you feel better.”
“We both know I’ve ruined you for other women. This will help ease my guilt,” she said, holding up the bottle of wine.
“That’s the other woman’s wine. She gave it to me as a thank you.”
“For leaving?”
Connor laughed.
Her wit often surprised him. She was the only girl who could make him laugh consistently—apart from Rayella.
“Now do you want a cup of tea before or after the sex?” she asked.
As he watched her brilliant smile reveal straight white teeth, he suddenly felt lucky to have met her. Her soft auburn hair fell just below her defined jaw. The hair colour accentuated large green eyes, framing high cheekbones and full-bowed lips.
Connor’s childhood household consisted of his mother and his aunt, both of whom were considered beautiful. Attractive women did not overawe him. He thought this one of the reasons he seemed to be successful with them, despite looks he reckoned were good but hardly head-turning.
She never put pressure on him which he greatly appreciated. He never wanted to be put into a position of lying and knew that would happen if he got into a serious relationship. He enjoyed the chase of sex with different women too much. Walking into a bedroom with a game girl he hadn’t yet fucked, remained one of his favourite feelings.
He loved visiting Grace, she had this combination of being warm, yet outrageously sexy. She was intelligent and funny, had a high-powered career but down to earth. Better still, she was deliciously quirky without being weird.
These characteristics kept him interested.
As she walked to the kitchen he admired her. She was a little taller than average, with D-cup breasts, a toned stomach, and shapely legs supporting a tight bum. She had a figure born of natural athleticism without the hardness of an obsessive dieter.
The Bootneck Page 5
