by A P Bateman
Grant had made them both a plate of sandwiches and was now resting in the main bedroom. He was subdued, but hopeful that he would soon be free to leave, once this last task had been completed. He had made a list of equipment he would need and King had called Forsyth on his mobile phone to set him to work acquiring it.
King heard the sound of the front door being unlocked. He stood up quickly, his hand on the butt of his pistol, which nestled tightly in the snug leather hip holster. He was aware that it was most probably Forsyth, but the months of professional training and year-long work in the field had taught him the importance of not taking chances where personal security is concerned.
Forsyth entered the flat, glanced at King’s threatening posture, but proceeded to carry two large sports-bags into the room. “Only me, old boy. You really are far too edgy, try and relax a little.”
King smiled. “Thanks, but edgy has kept me alive so far.”
Forsyth walked past him, and into the lounge, and dropped the sports-bags onto the floor. King re-locked the front door, then turned to join him.
“Where’s our friend?”
“He’s resting in my room. I think the shock has finally caught up with him.”
Forsyth sat down in his chair then took the cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Ah, the dear of him…” he commented, somewhat condescendingly. “Be a good chap and wake him up, we have rather more pressing business to see to than making sure that Simon Grant catches up on his beauty sleep.”
King made a move towards the hallway, then stopped in his tracks.
“It’s alright, I’ve had enough rest, if that’s all right with you?” Grant walked into the lounge and looked at the two sports bags on the floor. Is that my gear?”
“See for yourself, old boy.” Forsyth waved an unconcerned hand, not bothering to look at Grant until he had finished lighting his cigarette. He glanced down at the notepad and pen on the coffee table, then looked up at King. “Afraid we missed something, old boy?”
King sat down in his chair and smiled. “No. Just being thorough, that’s all.”
Forsyth smirked, then reached into his pocket and retrieved a medium sized envelope. He passed it across to him, then leaned against the back of his chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Grant’s passport,” he announced as King opened the seal of the envelope. “Under the name of Michael Roberts. Give it to him just before he needs it, then take it away again when he doesn’t. There are return tickets for Le Shuttle, along with one-thousand pounds in expenses, divided equally in pounds Sterling and French francs.”
King tapped the end of the envelope, letting the contents slip out into his left hand. Satisfied, he tipped them back inside and placed the envelope on the table. He looked at Forsyth for a moment, then turned to Grant. There was something amiss, something that he was unable to put his finger on. Forsyth seemed different, almost terse. The man projected an aura of arrogance at the best of times, but now he seemed somewhat indifferent. The man had made a grave error of judgement in allowing events to extend this far. The killing of the three security guards during the raid would certainly have been avoided, had Forsyth acted immediately on discovering O’Shea and Neeson’s supposed plan at Kempton Park racecourse. The authorities would never have found out about the planned security van heist, but then again, the death toll would have been zero.
“Outside is a grey BMW 540i. It’s a rapid yet comfortable beast, great for traveling long distances. It is two years old and registered in the name of Paul Curtis. That’s you, old boy. Your counterfeit passport and driving licence are in the envelope along with Grant’s.”
“Same details, dates of birth and so on?” King tipped out his passport and studied the photograph. He was pleasantly surprised; the photograph was an old one, dug up from his service record, to match the passport, which was four years old. Inside were visa stamps to Indonesia (Rep), Australia and Canada. He presumed Grant’s photo had been lifted from his criminal record.
Forsyth nodded. “Everything is the same, except for the names. Both aliases are short and easy to remember. You will both pose as businessmen on a fact-finding tour. Interested in coastal holiday homes for letting on a timeshare basis,” he paused, almost dreamily, then snapped back to the present. “I seriously doubt that anyone will give you so much as a second glance. We’ve supposedly got cross border freedom of movement now, but you get the odd check from Britain to France and vice versa.”
“What about the termination order?” King asked as he flicked through his new passport.
“Goes ahead as expected. Sorry, old chum, but I didn’t get you any of the weaponry that you requested,” he said casually. “I didn’t think that you would want to risk taking it through customs.” He flicked a small length of ash into the nearby ashtray, then slipped the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth, leaving it there as he talked. “You should be able to smuggle your pistol through though. Try wiring it to the engine, under some gubbins or other, don’t let the ammunition get too hot though.”
King nodded, although Forsyth’s suggestion was a bit too obvious for his liking. He knew many ways to get a weapon abroad. During several close protection operations, he had met civilian bodyguards who had become experts by necessity. These operatives had no help from their governments in requesting that they travel whilst armed. Although civilian bodyguards can wade through the mountains of paperwork and legislation required to carry a weapon legally in many countries, some countries remain stubbornly unsympathetic to the bodyguard’s reasoning. However, paperwork and legislation are not the only ways; many a professional bodyguard had become an expert in smuggling handguns between countries. These civilian bodyguards had taught King a thing or two.
Forsyth looked at Grant, who had spread the contents of the two sports-bags out across the floor. “Everything to your satisfaction?”
“No picklocks,” he said. “And I can’t see the small quantity of nitro-glycerine for that matter.”
“Doesn’t travel too well old boy.” Forsyth smirked. “It’s a sure-fire way to get yourself arrested at customs as well. Sniffer dogs, for one.”
King got up and rummaged into a kit bag that was near the front door. He kept anything important ready to bug out. It was an old habit, not just from his time with MI6, but from a former life on the run. A life he had left behind. He came back with a soft leather pouch. “Here, take these. They’re a good selection of picklocks, should take care of most locks,” he said, glancing briefly at Forsyth, who was still staring, transfixed, at the wall. “You will have to do without the explosive; we’ll find another way.” Again, he looked at Forsyth. The man was deep in thought. King had known officers who had lost men during his secondment training with the SAS. They had the same look as the intelligence officer. A vacant, sorry stare. He was starting to worry about the man’s fitness, his ability to continue the operation.
Grant opened the case and studied the selection of keys and picks. He looked back at King and frowned. “You can use these?”
“Of course. Who do you think planted the listening devices and the pinhole camera? I’m obviously not in your league, but I can get past basic security systems and open most locks, although I have never done a safe for real, only in practice,” he paused, watching Grant slip the case into one of the bags, then fasten the zip. “Besides, this will be a two-man job.”
“You will head over to the farm at midnight,” Forsyth announced, suddenly snapping out of his sorrowful state. “After you have retrieved the money, you will come back here, pick up the BMW and head for Folkestone where you will board Le Shuttle. Get yourselves down to Lacanau as quickly as possible and locate Frank Holman’s property.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small slip of folded paper, then passed it across the table to King. Here’s the address. He has a French bank account, using the house just outside Lacanau as his postal address for financial correspondence, so it was relatively easy to trace.”
“Wh
ere the hell is this Lacanau place? I’ve never heard of it,” King commented.
“It’s west of Bordeaux. Have you heard of that?” Forsyth asked, tersely.
“Of course,” King answered defensively. “I’d just never heard of Lacanau.”
“Nor had I,” Grant interjected. “I can’t believe Frank has a place out there. He hates French food.”
“Yes, thanks for that,” Forsyth chided. He looked back at King. “Well, as we’ve established, it’s west of there. Nothing but dunes and pine forest. The odd little town, beaches and seaside towns with promenades and expensive restaurants,” he paused, then added, “You break in, then get the money in a place where Holman won’t come across it, but where the Irish will easily find it.”
“Yes, I know,” King said. Forsyth’s manner was worrying him. “It was my idea. But it’s not going to be easy with just the two of us. What will you be doing?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, old boy.” Forsyth extracted a handmade cigarette, then passed the case to Grant, who accepted and waited for a light to be offered. “I shall be keeping an eye on Holman and informing you via mobile phone of his movements. I will also be checking that our Irish friends don’t catch up with him too soon.” Forsyth flicked the wheel of his lighter and reached it out in front of Grant’s face. He waited for Grant’s cigarette to catch. Grant hadn’t smoked for ten-years and was out of practice. Today was a good day to start again. The two-inch flame flickered perilously close to Grant’s eyebrows. Forsyth then brought the flame back to the tip of his own cigarette. “Alex, you know what you have to do; just get it done. When everything has been seen to, you get back here.” He released out a thin plume of the pungent, scented smoke, then turned towards Grant, who was wincing at the distinctly acquired taste of Forsyth’s blend of tobacco. “You will have to sign the Official Secrets Act upon your return, after that, I will see to it that you leave with sufficient funds, purely expenses. After which, you will simply disappear. Remember, if you talk you will wish the IRA had got hold of you instead. Your payment is your freedom, not to mention, revenge on your old friend Frank Holman.”
“What about a rendezvous?” King asked. “In case I can’t raise you on your mobile.”
Forsyth shrugged benignly. “You will have to come back when the job has been completed, it will be difficult to arrange a specific time. We’re not even sure that they will follow Holman immediately. I will be here to give them a push if necessary. They may well cut their losses and return to Ireland. If so, then I’m in deep you-know-what.” Forsyth smiled. “The deadline will have passed. In any event, we will meet back here. I have a contact in customs at Folkestone passport control, he will let me know when your alias is back in the country, but we shall be in touch by telephone on a regular basis; so there should be no problems as far as communications are concerned.”
King nodded, then glanced down at a nervous-looking Grant. “Don’t worry yourself, we’ll treat it like a bit of a holiday,” he laughed. Grant tried to force a grin at King’s attempt of humour, but it was not convincing.
Forsyth got up and looked down at King. “I will be off now, there are a few more things that I need to do.” He held out his hand and stared sincerely into the specialist’s eyes. “I am sorry that this whole operation went pear-shaped, but with your help, I hope we can get some sort of positive result.”
King caught hold of the man’s hand and shook it firmly. He knew that deep inside, Forsyth must be suffering emotional torment. Innocent people had died, their deaths could easily have been prevented, but for a gamble which had not paid off. He felt compelled to accept some proportion of the blame, after all, he had pushed for further intelligence. But then he remembered field standard operating procedure – volunteer for nothing, admit nothing unless asked and keep your head down. “We’ll do our best,” he replied.
34
Irritated, he picked up the remote control unit and pressed the button, switching to another channel. There had been no mention on BBC One’s six o’clock news, but then again, he had not watched from the beginning. The Channel Four news programme would not be starting for another half an hour, so he decided to switch over to satellite channels and tried his luck with Sky News.
The correspondent was in the middle of her report, standing in the entrance to the racecourse grounds amongst the broken and scattered debris of the explosion. Fire-crews tended their appliances, while uniformed police officers were searching the exterior of the main building behind a barrier of blue and white tape. Forensic teams in white coveralls could clearly be seen on their hands and knees inside the building, carrying out their fingertip investigation.
The correspondent explained that the bomb would appear to have detonated prematurely, taking with it the group of terrorists. There was no confirmation of how many terrorists had been killed in the blast, but the police could confirm that a steward in his early-fifties and a security guard in his late-twenties had been killed prior to the explosion. No terrorist organisation had claimed responsibility, but the security forces had not ruled out the ALF, or other animal rights activists.
“Bah!” Keith Parker switched off the television and walked into the kitchen, where Lisa was giving David his tea. He looked over at the boy’s plate and frowned, as Lisa dished up the food from a saucepan. “Baked beans? They’re no good for him, he wants proper food.” He stared down at the boy and smiled, but already Lisa was wary.
“It’s a treat for him, his favourite. Cumberland sausages, baked beans and mashed potatoes.” She tried to return a smile, but her eyes held no humour.
By now he had vented his anger upon her over the last incident. Even after she had questioned his sexual performance, he had taken her - as usual - roughly and without caring. There seemed to be no way to deter the man’s advances; not even humiliation had worked. She turned her back on him and went on preparing her son’s meal.
Parker watched her as she spooned out a portion of creamy mashed potatoes. She was wearing a snug-fitting black cotton skirt, which came to her knees, and a red silk blouse. The outfit showed off her slim figure and proportionate curves; with each movement, the silk would hug her skin, outlining the contours of her slender, well-toned body. Parker waited until she turned around, and then he looked at her quizzically. “Are you putting on weight? I swear that each time I see you in that outfit, your hips look a little fuller,” he smiled pleasantly and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it’s to be expected at your age. What have we got for dinner?”
Lisa looked aghast at his malicious comment. She was thirty-three years old and had kept at the same nine and a half stone for the past five years, finally returning to her usual weight after a three year struggle to lose the two-stones which she had gained during her awkward pregnancy with David. It took hard work to maintain, and she felt she looked pretty good.
“Did you hear me?”
Lisa looked up suddenly. “Sorry?”
“Damn it, don’t be sorry, woman, just tell me what’s for dinner.” He shook his head despondently. “God, woman, your head is forever in the clouds!”
She stared at him pitifully, then turned her back to him. “Sirloin steak, new potatoes and a mixed salad with basil and flat leaf parsley.” She picked up her son’s meal and placed it down in front of him. He smiled up at her, then started to tuck in greedily.
“Manners?” Parker stared at him expectantly.
David looked up meekly. “Thank you, mummy.”
Lisa smiled at him, then turned back to the sink, where she had started to prepare their meal by washing leaves of rocket and endive lettuce. Keith Parker had always insisted that David be fed separately, and that he and Lisa should eat later in the evening, never before seven-thirty. He was not concerned that this meant twice as much work for Lisa, and never once had he offered to share in any of the domestic chores.
Parker sat down at the kitchen table and watched David, as he shovelled in large mouthfuls of sausage and baked beans. “I thi
nk that it is high time you learned some manners, young man. Manners and discipline,” he said, glancing at Lisa who had just turned around from her work and was looking at him. “That is why your mother and I have decided that it would be better if you were to be sent to a boarding school.” David stopped eating and looked over at his mother earnestly. “It’s a nice place, in Scotland. Mountains and lakes nearby - rugby, cricket, golf, football, horse-riding, you name it. All boys, and seriously big on academic and sporting achievement.”
“No!” Lisa stared vehemently at Parker, then rushed over to David and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close. “Don’t worry darling, mummy won’t make you go.” She smoothed a comforting hand over his head as the boy started to sob.
“You bloody well will!” Parker fumed. “This school is going to cost me a small fortune, so don’t ever say that I don’t love you! Your boy will have a terrific start in life.”
“You just want him out of the way!” she screamed at him.
“Of course I bloody do. The little bastard’s not mine!” He looked over at the tearful boy. “Go to your room, your mother and I have matters to discuss!”
David shook his head defiantly. “No! I want to stay with mummy!” He held on to her, clutching her firmly around the waist.
Parker stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over behind him. He charged forward and grabbed the boy by his arm, pulling him violently from his mother’s grasp. “I said go to your room!” He lifted the boy clean off his feet and swung him towards the door, before releasing his vice-like grip. “Now go, you little bastard!”
The boy landed in a heap on the tiled floor, then slid into the doorframe. He got to his feet quickly and ran out into the hall, screaming mournfully as he bolted up the wooden staircase. Parker turned to Lisa who was crying and screaming, near the point of hysteria. He walked calmly towards her, then smiled reassuringly as she backed away into the corner. She tried to get past him, but he pushed her back against the kitchen counter and pressed her there. “Don’t cry, my darling. It will do him some good, it will give us a chance to be alone together, to sort things out. You’d like that, wouldn't you? We could try for a child of our own. I get the impression that you’re not happy. Perhaps it will be better for you without having to run around after the boy? He’s too much like his father,” he paused and wiped away the stream of tears on her face with the back of his hand, before quickly glancing at his watch. “Now, there’s something I want to watch on the television. How about having dinner earlier for a change? I think I’ll have mine in the lounge.” He turned and walked to the door, then glanced around as he reached the doorway. “And make sure that my steak is cooked rare, you know that it upsets me otherwise.”
