Red Mist

by Jan Swick

  “I have a message for you. Apparently your girlfriend has found the perfect cakes for the party. She says you no longer need to waste money buying too many. I'm to tell you, quote unquote, 'she has found the ones you need.'” He clearly found it humorous to be party to someone’s personal affairs.

  He turned to knock again. Daz glanced at Matt briefly and his Matt jerked his eyes, as if saying Let's go.

  “Wait,” Daz said to the guy in grey. “I need to speak to her. Where is she?”

  He told them she was downstairs. Asked them if this lark couldn't wait half an hour. The manager has a strict timetable. Are cakes really that important?

  “I can’t piss her off,” Daz said. “You don’t know what she’s like. Women.”

  He clearly didn’t like his time being wasted. He led them back down, and got on the radio and ordered someone else to give Orbach the news that his guests would be delayed by ten minutes.

  He left them outside the black door after pointing across the room. They saw Lisa at the cage, where the chips and cash were kept. She was talking to the woman sitting in there. When she saw them, she jerked her head towards the entrance. They met her halfway, but said nothing. Lisa remained silent, too. Ears were listening, of course.

  They went to the Merc. Once there, Lisa said, “I know who you need to kill to avenge your sister. Get in and I’ll explain.” Lisa took the front and Daz and Matt the back. And then she told her story.

  *

  “We’ve all heard of the Ejection Tie club, right?”

  Both men nodded. It was an exclusive club, although there were thousands of members. To qualify, you had to be a pilot, and you had to be sitting in a Martin-Baker ejection seat when an emergency forced you to bail of out the aircraft. Oh, and you had to survive. Your reward was a membership card, certificate, a patch and a tie and a pin, or a brooch if you were female. Members often wore the ties and pins so they'd known each other. You got invited to dinners and air shows.

  "Anderson Orbach was one of them."

  She had their attention fully now.

  I followed him today," she continued. "He went to a pool. That was when I knew, because I saw his body. He had a scar along each collarbone. Very faint, the sign of good surgery, but I saw them. I had already heard about the ejector seat. Sometimes men died ejecting from aircraft, and sometimes they got out unscathed. But there were injuries. A common one was, upon launch, the shoulder harnesses cut so tight they often snapped both collarbones. Same time, same type of break. Hardy already told us Orbach was ex-army, and the odds were too high a soldier could receive the same kind of break – to both collarbones – some other way than by ejector seat. Anderson Orbach definitely got those scars because of an ejector seat. But the Ejection Tie Club has no member called Anderson Orbach."

  Here both men furrowed their eyebrows – hadn't she just said that Orbach was in the club?

  "He must have cast aside his old identity. But if that were the case, then when Anderson Orbach came into being, someone else must have disappeared off the face of the earth –"

  Matt understood that notion perfectly well, having left a series of identities in limbo as he travelled around Britain over the years.

  "- so I did some checking based on Orbach's age, when he was likely to have served, and cross-referenced it with similar-aged Tie Club members with whereabouts unknown. There were a few ejector seat survivors who were later listed as Missing In Action, but only one man's story jumped out at me. He was Lieutenant Colonel Teddy Riley, 3rd Infantry Division. He ejected from an F16 over United States army base Fort Stewart in Georgia, in 2001. He healed up and in 2003 he was in Iraq, and that was where he went missing.

  “This was in Fallujah in June 2003. Attacks on American soldiers were down. The role of the 3rd Infantry Division was turning to peacekeeping, although they weren’t happy about this, being an offensive unit. They were helping with trash collection, electricity maintenance, water supplies. Attacks were still happening, but there is no record of such an attack in the case of Lieutenant Colonel Riley. The Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency lists him as missing, but they have no idea what happened to him. On June 21st he was in a vehicle, manning a 24-hour guard post in the city when he went missing. The vehicle was where he left it, untouched. No damage to the guard post, no evidence of weapons discharge. He simply did not respond to his radio and was not there when they went to look for him.”

  On her phone, she showed them the website of a news agency called Al Bawaba. It was in English. The date was June 23rd, 2003. Page 4 of a section entitled simply YOUR AREA. She passed them the phone and each man read.

  In the Jolen district of Fallujah, a local man called Mulik Ralik was found dead in a juice bar he ran with his brother. The windows were barred due to the volatile environment and the doors were locked from the inside. A noose hung from a rafter. Ralik was found on the floor, under the noose, dead by strangulation. Yet the death was no suicide, because around Ralik’s neck was one of his own belts, tied tightly.

  The prime suspect was Ralik’s brother, Abdel Maslih, who was missing along with all his savings and most of his clothes, although he left behind a wife. It was common local knowledge that the brothers did not get on, for Maslih often accused Ralik of some underhanded event or trick in their past, something to do with ownership of the juice bar.

  Matt handed the phone back, none the wiser. Lisa said, “The day before Riley went missing, soldiers from the 3rd Infantry were working on electricity problems in that portion of the Jolen district.”

  Here she paused again before her final sentence: “Lieutenant-colonel Riley was with another of his rank when he went missing from that guard post, and both men have never been found. Lieutenant Colonel Teddy Riley and Sergeant Damon Mason. Two soldiers from the same unit, both vanished at the same time.”

  She was done. There was no more to say, but then she didn’t need to. Matt understood what she was getting at. He needed to pace, as he often did when things were tumbling and forming in his mind, but stuck in the car all he could do was fidget.

  Matt said, “So it’s not a leap to assume this is how it started. Two guys, good friends, fellow infantry soldiers, are doing their civic duty in a war-torn city when they get some tale from a local about his bastard brother. Maybe they overhear him, or maybe he just starts complaining to the nice fellows from America who are rewiring his kitchen. Maybe he’s seen how tough and merciless the soldiers are, or he just feels they have nothing to lose in a city full of so much violence. Surely, he thinks, these nice American men who laugh and joke with him and drink his tea will help him. They have guns, and he’s seen some of them kill men before. What will one extra kill matter? It’s nothing to them, but for Maslih, he will have his revenge against his evil brother.

  “So Maslih offers to pay them to kill his brother. They say no, but they offer to help. We’ll get you in, and out, but you do the killing. Or maybe they offered to off Ralik, but the brother said he wanted to do it. You just help me escape. Maybe that’s exactly how it started. So the two soldiers make good money for a day's work and then realise they could be on to a profitable enterprise. So they do it again, and again, and word spreads. By now these guys are Missing In Action, but they don’t care, because they can hide in Iraq. Money gets good, it becomes a business, and business blooms, to the point where these guys leave that country and set up here, and open a casino. They don’t advertise, but they don’t need to. Because their casino gets thousands a week through the doors, and the microphones and cameras watch everything, and now and then some guy lets slip something. I want to steal my dad’s car, I want to rape my friend’s daughter…or I want to kill a prostitute. They watch, they study, and when they know the guy is legit, they step in and say, we can help.”

  Lisa was staring at him. “Which means you now have a number, Matt. Maybe these guys employ a hundred guys to help with the dirty work, but it’s those two we’re looking at. They are the bosses, the ringleaders. They shoul
d be the only two you need. Two men." She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezed it tight. "Don't blame the switch for the bomb release doors.”

  He understood. And he thought about this. Two men, former soldiers. And the guy who paid to kill a prostitute. Three men. No more wires or cogs. Hopefully that would satisfy him.

  A Pause. She watched both men. "So what do you do now?"

  “We go back in, pick up where we left off," Matt said. He saw Lisa about to object and added, "But we stand down the bombers.”

  Daz nodded and pulled out his phone.

  Anderson Orbach’s deep tan gave him an Hispanic look. He was stood behind his desk in a pale green suit and a black tie, a friendly arm extended over the mahogany desktop. There were two chairs in front of the desk. Daz shook the offered hand and sat. Orbach did not offer the greeting or the second chair to Matt, obviously well aware that Matt was nothing but a bodyguard. Matt stood behind the free chair, upright, stern, playing the role. He got a glance that was long enough only to register his size, but after that the casino manager’s eyes never left Daz. Behind his shades, Matt tried not to look at Orbach. The very presence of one of the men who might have orchestrated Karen’s murder was unsettling. He put his gaze on a wall safe behind and above Orbach’s head. Tried to clear his mind. It was all he could do to avoid leaping over the desk and grabbing the man by the throat. He knew how good it would feel to choke the life from him.

  Orbach wasn’t one for small talk. He got straight to business. “You need my help, so would you like me to explain what I can do for you, Mr McKinley?”

  Matt flinched, couldn’t help it. Orbach knew Daz’s real surname, somehow. Must have had him checked out. Daz, though, remained motionless, as if he might have expected this. There was nothing to worry about. Any look into Daz’s life would reveal exactly what they wanted these guys to know: that he was a Scottish businessman down here for a mini holiday. As long as their scrutiny had been cursory, it should remain a secret that Daz had once served in the British Army with one Matt Armstrong, brother to one of their victims.

  “Your men, when they rudely accosted me last night, mentioned something about, shall we say, making luck. Now, in my mind, that sound like a veiled accusation of cheating. Is that what this is about, Mr Orbach? I have a little lucky run here at your casino, so of course I must be cheating?”

  Good. Matt was impressed by Daz’s performance. They had discussed their tactic for this meeting. Orbach’s men had at no time mentioned why Orbach wanted to see Daz, and nobody was supposed to know about the little side business Orbach operated. So they had decided that complete ignorance was the way to go. Daz would assume, as anyone would, that the matter at hand was a casino one.

  Orbach leaned back in his chair. The monkey in grey who’d escorted them here (they had relocated him once back inside the casino) was beside and slightly behind his master. Now each powerful seated man and his standing protector looked like a strange reflection of the other pair. Matt noticed that the monkey was glaring at him. It wasn’t mistrust. Matt gave him the same stare back, turning his head to point his nose directly at the man, so he would know Matt was looking. Two alpha dogs sizing each other up.

  “Cheating?” Orbach said with a laugh. “No, Mr McKinley. If you were a cheat, you would not be in this room. You would be in a room far less cosy.”

  Daz laughed too. “So why am I here?”

  Now Orbach leaned forward. Matt tore his gaze off the monkey. Orbach’s head was five feet away. The distance Matt had practiced with his belt. The urge to do it now was hard to resist, but resist he did. He could grab the belt, yank, whip, and send the buckle into a fast and lethal arc into the throat, tearing it open. Blood everywhere. But the image was a fancy, he knew. He needed Orbach standing, same distance. He had practiced at that exact height and range, worked it until it was imprinted upon his muscle memory, like driving, and he couldn’t trust himself to achieve a killing blow if he aimed for a sitting man. So he would wait.

  “Mr. McKinley, do you know how many people last year were actually imprisoned here in Britain for traffic offences?”

  Daz laughed. “Mr. Orbach, you are not cold calling at doors selling double-glazing. Drop the sales pitch. I’m sitting here because you clearly have something to offer me that I’m interested in. Why don’t you get straight to the point? Let me help you. Some of your men gave the impression this is about cars and driving fast. I’ve made no secret of my love of such things over the past few days. What are you offering me? A race?”

  “A chase, Mr. McKinley. A Chase.”

  “Tag with cars, you mean?”

  “London is the most heavily populate city in the world for CCTV cameras –“

  He stopped when Daz, with a laugh, held up a hand. “Sales pitch, remember? Tell me what you’re offering me. And since you aren’t a charity, what it will cost me, too.”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

  “You’re offering?”

  Now Orbach laughed. “That’s what you’ll pay. For that, you’ll climb into a fast car and drive fast around London.”

  “I do that anyway, Mr. Orbach. All for price of one pound and thirty five a gallon.”

  “You’ll weave in and out of traffic. You’ll jump red lights. You’ll mount pavements. You’ll turn heads. It’ll be a thrill-a-minute the likes you have probably already dreamed of. You’ll take up space in the local newspapers.”

  “And I’ll take up space at Her Majesty’s convenience.”

  “All you’ll ever see of the police is their flashing lights in your mirrors, Mr. McKinley. That’s what I’m offering you. Blunt and simple. A police chase around London, with no comebacks. That’s the thrill you desire, right?”

  “And you control the police, do you? You’ll arrange it so they just chase me, make it look real? Is that really the same thing? That’s like having sex with a blow-up doll, Mr. Orbach. Excuse the foul imagery.”

  “It will be real, Mr. McKinley. I will not pay the police off, I will not dress up my own men in their uniforms. They will be real police officers and they will really try to throw you in jail. I will make sure they do not catch you.”

  “And how could you do that?”

  “If I told you, it would probably sound like a sales pitch. You don’t want that.”

  “And if it goes wrong?”

  “It never goes wrong, Mr. McKinley.”

  It went bad for Manno Bellile, Daz almost said, meaning the Haitian man that the Watchdogs had failed to protect – and then possibly killed to ensure his silence. And that would have ruined everything.

  Instead he just nodded as if liking the idea.

  “So you have men who can fool the police? Drivers who will throw them off? Men who can arrange it all so that I’m untouched?”

  “I have experts as my disposal, yes.”

  “Then I’m in. But if the police grab me, I might have to mention your name. You understand? Your promise is not fit for purpose if I end up in a cell. Giving your name in that situation would be akin to complaining to Trading Standards if a toaster does not toast.”

  “It will not go wrong. I promise you that. If the police capture you, I will compensate you five times what you paid. That shows my confidence.” He smiled. “I always toast.”

  “Then let’s do it. Right now. I’m game.”

  “Two days, Mr. McKinley. This needs to be set up. I need to arrange the arrival of my expert. He’s a plane ride away and will not perform if suffering from jet lag. Surely two days is adequate?”

  “One expert? I thought you meant a great team. Men with radios at every corner, men with binoculars on tower blocks, men in cars to block the police and clear a path.”

  “No. One man can do wonders these days with a computer that has sway over other computers. There will be other players in this production, of course, along the lines of what you just said. But I require my expert. So, two days?”

  “I want to meet this superman.”


  “You will not meet him. No one meets him. He is not a sociable chap, I’m afraid.”

  “Two days? Okay. I was being rash. I need time to think about this anyway. So what do I do?”

  “Go away and think. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Got a pen?”

  “No, Mr. McKinley. Please go and hide. My finding you will at least partly prove my skill.”

  Daz paused. Here it was. The moment. He had agreed, in part, to the deal, and now they had to do what businessmen did after a deal. But he did not move forward. He stuck out his hand.

  And Orbach rose. Daz felt Matt beside him, ready. Orbach circled the desk, stood before it, and stuck out his hand.

  “Shake my bodyguard’s hand, please. I don’t touch other men.”

  Orbach’s face grew puzzled, and maybe a little suspicious – or did Daz imagine that part? But Orbach turned slightly so he was facing Matt. Four feet between them. Daz put his eyes on the goon in grey, who was still behind the desk. Daz would be over that desk and on him before Orbach’s body hit the ground.

  But Matt did not step back to create the five-feet space he needed. Instead, he stuck out his hand and shook Orbach’s. Shocked but hiding it, Daz watched Orbach return to his chair and the goon move into his place, one hand raised and open as if to say it was time to leave.

  Daz looked at Matt as they turned to go. He saw nothing on that face that said fear, reticence, cold feet, or even anger. The chance to kill the man who had helped kill Matt’s sister had passed, but Matt didn’t seem bothered at all. Daz was puzzled.

  They left.

  “After the car chase, the police will know the car, and it will have to be torched or abandoned because of evidence. The police will swarm all over the crime scene, and they'll stand there and talk. And the Watchdogs will want to know what's said, just in case there's a problem they have to fix. And so they'll have a man watching the crime scene and the cops. And that man will be the expert Orbach mentioned. He’ll be at the end of the chase route. Ground zero. He'll be somewhere nearby, but watching through a telescope. Just like he was in a tower block and watching the place where my sister's body was left. It's him, it's the same man. Sergeant Damon Mason, the other Watchdog, the other man I need. He was a ghost back then and he's a ghost now, and if I had killed Orbach, we would never have found the guy, but now we can get him because he'll be at ground zero and that's why we’re going to do the job. We'll do the job and we'll find him, and I'll kill him, and then I’ll go back to Orbach’s office and slit Orbach’s throat, and I already know how I’ll do it, I worked on it, I planned something that would satisfy me and satisfy Karen, and I know what to do, and then that will be that and it will be over.”