To Kill Or Be Killed

by Richard Wiseman

  Charley checked over the boat, turned the engine and ran over the charts. He drank some strong coffee and delved into his ‘Luckies’ soft pack twice for comfort, while the engine warmed. An hour after he’d got into the country he headed out into the western coastal waters planning to use the boat as far as Liverpool at least.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Caravan Air Strip’ Plockton

  7-45 a.m.

  April 17th

  Marco Spencer, the third of the illegal entrants that Dewey had spotted, sat on a bench outside Plockton airstrip, in a suit and expensive Crombie. The suit and coat had been folded carefully in a rigid suit carrier to give his change of clothes a fresh look. Under the coat his trousers had wet spots from the sea water and his shirt was damp next to his skin. With a briefcase in his hand he waited for the chartered helicopter to arrive. It had been pre-arranged through a third party to keep his cover. He would be first into Inverness, via the airport. He was seriously thinking about a plane from there, possibly London, though Exeter was a thought. Overshoot and come back just to check for trailers. He knew there were agencies that would be looking for anyone unusual, but he and the others probably didn’t show up on the usual profile radars of the domestic protection services, they were stretched looking for terrorists. He knew of a certain agency that had a UK wide network, but so much more secretive than MI6 that it was hard to know where they were. What he did know was that it was a million for the hit and the first to the contact point got the job. They had no idea who the target was nor had they any idea who had hired them, though for his mind it looked like big business.

  The airstrip was empty and if anyone on the helicopter asked him he was just to say he was a rich business man looking at land buys in that area of Scotland; obviously not the thirty year old veteran of MI6 field work; a consummate and cold blooded assassin of the first order.

  Chapter 7

  Drumbuie

  7-45 a.m.

  April 17th

  It was unlucky for Martin Wheeler, the fourth of the men that Dewey had actually seen in his binoculars in the pre dawn gloom, that his pre-prepared transport, the 500 cc Honda was parked within sight of Michael Dewey’s house. Michael had asked about the bike at his local pub, the night before. Doing the logic link on the morning arrivals Michael made a point of watching it when he got home.

  Sure enough a moving blur walked into focus in the view finder of his Nikon digital SLR not twenty minutes after he’d got home. Michael watched the man unlock the bike. Stow the padlock, do a quick check over and straddle the bike and ease it away noisily out of the small narrow street.

  Michael Dewey had already tapped into the DIC system and used three minute’s worth of live satellite link up to look at Duirnish rail station and the airstrip. He was allowed the satellite link for short periods, given the remoteness of his location, but it was expensive and he had to account for every second. In this case he knew DIC would be happy with his use of it. He called the harbour master at Plockton and unsurprisingly found him awake and glad to talk about the unhappy reason for his ungodly awakening hour, that being an American tourist. The possibility that the four men might use a boat was one that Michael had to explore, but he had been a little surprised at finding out that they were splitting up and taking different routes and modes of transport.

  He had four of them ‘tagged’ and had sent the information at high speed via the secure internet connection available to DIC operatives wherever they lived.

  Sadly and unknowingly he had missed Stanton and was still thinking there were only four inbound ‘illegals’ when he sat down to thick cuts of bacon, creamy scrambled eggs and crunchy golden slices of toast.

  Within two hours of arrival the five men were on their way into the United Kingdom mainland, via different routes, none of them aware that they had be seen and were now being tracked by the watching machine that is DIC.

  Chapter 8

  Scotland A87

  8-10 a.m.

  April 17th

  Still on the A87 in the passenger seat of the refrigerated truck he’d hitched a lift with, Trevor Stanton, the one assassin Dewey hadn’t seen at the coastal arrival point, wasn’t best happy with the turn of events that had unfolded in the truck. When the conversation had lulled in the truck he and the driver had fallen into silence. Stanton had drifted off into a heavy doze as the truck rolled easily along the highland roads.

  Stanton had woken to find the truck stopped in a lay-by to find the truck driver with his hand emerging from Stanton’s bag with three fake passports and matching credit cards.

  On the driver’s lap Stanton’s Russian made PSS pistol sat accusingly. The PSS was small and looked unsophisticated and almost home made. It had been chosen as the weapon for the assassins on this mission because it is silent and deadly up to twenty five metres. It fired a bullet from a cartridge which stopped gases coming out the barrel and the addition of a two part barrel made the recoil virtually noiseless as well. This silent pistol with no muzzle flash was the ideal weapon for an assassin and 5 of them had been stolen to order for this mission from Russian an anti-terrorist forces armoury. Each assassin had been given two six shot, single stack clips of the silent piston drive 7.62mm x 42 cartridges.

  For a moment the truck driver looked confident and triumphant, waving the items in a finger wagging style. The moment passed as Stanton’s right hand, edge first in a chop action swept past the waving passports and struck the driver’s throat, breaking his neck and killing him instantly. The unfortunate man slumped fatly against his driver’s side window, a rasp of now dead air wheezing from his lifeless lips.

  Stanton checked the windows and mirrors. Not a living thing in sight, but knowing that this might change, he worked quickly and with collected calm. The driver was somewhat overweight and therefore would be hard to handle. Stanton went to the back of the truck and opened the doors on the refrigerated containment. The cooler wasn’t on as this was the return trip. Stanton opened the driver’s door and luckily the height of the cab allowed him to drop and shoulder the heavy body. Already the muscles were relaxing and fluids had begun to seep out. Stanton quickly staggered the body to the back, and hefted it in. He climbed in afterwards and secured the corpse to the inside of the van with straps.

  Most people wouldn’t look back; they’d walk away, climb down and close the doors without a glance. Self preservation for the mind and protection from a wounded psyche, but Stanton had seen too much death close up and he stared with intensity at the clouded, glazed eyes of the unfortunate man. Stanton justified the murder in his mind, taking in the livid purple stripe across the man’s throat and reminded himself that in his line of business, innocent or not, witnesses must not live. Having satisfied himself of the necessity of the death he dropped out the back and closed the doors. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the door handles. After doing the same on the driver’s door handle he climbed into the cab. He pulled a shower bag from his raided rucksack, took out surgical gloves and quickly put them on. In a moment with some alcohol from a small bottle he had wiped all he had touched. He started the engine and switched on the refrigeration.

  With the gloves still on he started looking for maps. He found a flask with tea and the dead man’s sandwiches. He took advantage and worked out a few facts and details about the journey whilst he enjoyed the dead man’s lunch. As he hungrily munched his way through the cheddar and piccalilli in white sliced bread, washing it down with the slightly stewed in the flask tea, all too sweet for his taste, he thought of the corpse in the back. Having noticed the worn gold band on the driver’s ring finger he ruefully, though not guiltily, thought of the wife who might have made the lunch, not to mention any children who were yet to be grieved by their father’s unsolved and unexplained murder. Ten minutes later, having wiped the flask cup and disposed of the sandwich wrapping in a hedge the truck pulled out of the lay-by and onto the roads leading to Inverness. He hadn’t seen another vehicle yet.

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nbsp; No he wasn’t best pleased. He didn’t have time to properly dispose of the body, and even if he did there were risks in that process. He knew he was going to have to hide the truck well enough for its delayed discovery to be surpassed by his having done the job and escaped. With that thought in mind he turned the refrigeration unit up to maximum. A frozen body would take time to give away tell tale smells. He had seen three car parks on the map where the truck could be dumped in the middle of Inverness. Oddly he had often found that given as long a pay and display ticket as the machine allowed a body could be more easily hidden in a built up area than a remote location. As he never left evidence and he was usually a long way away when the body was found car parks could become quite useful temporary cemeteries. Still, he had to kill a civilian and too early on. Trevor Stanton wasn’t happy with himself.

  ‘Stupid man’ he had thought, ‘stupid, stupid man.’

  Chapter 9

  Inverness

  8-15 a.m.

  April 17th

  The ride in the ‘chopper’ from Plockton air strip had taken Marco Spencer roughly as the crow flies to Inverness, skirting Loch Ness and to his mind making the land beneath him look like a rapidly scrolling version of the satellite map he’d studied as part of his preparation. The pilot had been too busy for conversation and Spencer was lost in thoughts. The ‘ride’ didn’t register. He’d been on that many helicopter flights, mostly across the Middle-East, and even then in ‘khaki company’ in semi darkness, fearing hand held missile attacks, ready to be dropped, army style, in disguise, meeting contacts and watching his own back weeks on end until ‘extraction’, usually by chopper again, to a debriefing where he had offloaded the intelligence he had gathered and explained any killing he had had to do, or at least those of note or those likely to cause any fuss.

  This chopper hovered and settled with a mild bump at Inverness Airport one hour after his arrival in Scotland. Being an internal flight, there was no clearing of security or customs. He’d entered the country and slipped into society with barely an eye brow being raised.

  When the blades had stilled Spencer climbed out, thanked the pilot and with the casual attitude of a rich man he made easy strides into Inverness Airport, to get a coffee, not to mention a good breakfast, and think carefully about his next move.

  He was going to buy a ticket for Gatwick, on a Flybe flight at nine forty-five, but that was an obvious move. There was the train, the night sleeper, but that put him behind again and Mason was booked on that train. The whole ‘not all the eggs in one basket’ situation had been made clear to all of them. Having been part of the espionage network in the UK he knew about DIC, the secretive watching agency, and was aware that he could be ‘tagged’ coming in. He hadn’t told the others, it was ‘every man for himself’ as far as he was concerned.

  Chapter 10

  Irish Sea

  8- 45 a.m.

  April 17

  Charley Cobb had not had an easy journey down the coast towards Liverpool. For a start there had been a sudden squall amongst the isles of Rhum, Coll and Tireee, a possibility well known to sailors on that part of the coast. It wasn’t stormy, but Charlie felt the small sea going boat’s engine strain as he passed Islay and pushed through the North Channel. It had crossed his mind to make a stop at the Isle of Man when the Irish Sea threw a mild tantrum, but Charlie was made of sterner stuff. He knew the sea well and took the heavy splashing rain, forceful waves and sudden dips and rises as part of the work to be done, just a journey and not an adventure. The small boat made sturdy progress towards the mouth of the Mersey with Charley’s bitter blue eyes reflecting the spray and drizzle.

  Chapter 11

  Loch Lomond

  8- 45 a.m.

  April 17th

  Martin Wheeler had enjoyed the Honda’s responses to the highland roads. The bike really kicked and he had lost himself in the rollercoaster adrenaline experience of a fast bike on empty open roads. The south bound route he took went over a short stretch of the Grampians. The empty mountain scenery flashed by in his peripheral vision. At those speeds, even with a couple of stops he knew he’d be in Glasgow in two or three hours. He pulled the hot bike over, ticking and sizzling in the drizzle, at guest house on the northern shores of Loch Lomond. The cooked breakfast, with Scottish sausage rolls, firm pork patties with a distinctive flavour in heavy rolls, washed down with hot sweet tea, took him a good half hour to enjoy. He felt good and the thrill of being the killer amongst the low chatter and clatter of forks and plates in the rest house dining room brought sharpness to the day and the business in hand. He enjoyed the feeling of being the outsider, the mission man, amongst the everyday people.

  Well fed he went back to the bike and his race to the London meeting point. His thought was that it was all too easy. He slipped into traffic on the eighty-two and twisted back his wrist. The bike and the money pulled him south. Dewey’s alert had the motorbike registration listed as a wanted vehicle; stop on sight being the instruction.

  Chapter 12

  Rail Line between Duirnish and Inverness

  8- 45 a.m.

  April 17th

  Even under the shelter the niggling drizzle had blown at Peter Mason. When the train did arrive, fifteen minutes late, it was gone eight am. The train journey seemed to wind on forever. He bought tea and biscuits from a trolley, which surprised him at that time in the morning. Mason was bored and cursed the straw picking ceremony for transport. His mind turned to Stanton as he waited for the scalding hot, watery tea in the too thin cardboard cup to cool, cursing his hunger for opening the short cake packet, leading to thirst and ultimately burnt fingers and a scalded mouth. Stanton had chosen to hitch; the slowest possible means. Mason wondered why? Did Stanton know something or was he just avoiding any camera spots? Stanton was the oldest, he looked it; maybe his face was registered in places?

  Mason mused on the British Navy submarine drop off. There was influence in the mission he was sure. Though they’d only given them thirty pounds cash and a fake credit card, though a working one. Because his train was pre-booked he had the ticket. It was all very well organised.

  Thirty quid though. He smiled, cheapskates, this had to be a government funded kill, but why have them enter that way? It didn’t add up. Mason took a speculative sip at the tea and winced. Still too hot a small wave of tea burnt his fingers as the train jump stopped and jolted into the next station in what seemed an unending chain of ‘dree’ stops.

  Chapter 13

  London

  8- 45 a.m.

  April 17th

  McKie stepped from the fuggy train onto the London concrete slipping into the salmon throng of commuters working their way up stream one way or another. They all threaded their way through the eye of the ticket barrier McKie amongst them. The stream of commuters spread out into the city and he headed down into the underground for the quick hop to Warren Street.

  On the underground platform he looked up at a CCTV camera and wondered if any colleagues were tuned in. It was one of the amazing facts about DIC that they were able to access every closed loop camera network in the country. The firm that serviced the national and business cameras was in fact a front for a branch of DIC whose bid for the job was secured by underhanded dealings. The front firm meant that DIC technicians placed digital microwave transmitters which used the cell phone network to feed all the captured images, which were bled from the camera, into the computer storage systems of local DIC operatives. The DIC job of monitoring the entire country was helped enormously by the system. Scanning through hours of CCTV footage is more interesting than one might think and being paid well to do so at home a good way of making a living.

  The tube train from Charing Cross on the Northern Line shook its way into Warren Street station.

  For McKie the city was full of potential; miles and miles of streets and buildings full of rooms, full of humanity, with all the chaos and turbulence that goes with it. The day was just beginning and he felt invigorated by the l
ife around him. He followed the map in his head to the building two streets away.

  If you look at a satellite map search of Euston Road you’ll see the top of the fourteenth largest office building in London; Euston Tower, number 286 Euston Road. What you won’t see on a satellite image nor on the 3D image of the well known office block is the satellite dishes, radar scanners and microwave phone masts which cover the top of the building, all of which still leaves enough space for a helipad. It took a certain amount of underhanded doctoring on the quiet to eradicate from the satellite photograph the mass of surveillance technology which might arouse curiosity as to what was going on in that building. That in turn would lead to unwanted interest and publicity, something that DIC have managed to avoid since 1940, though they didn’t move into this building until 1970, when it was built.

  David turned into building’s concourse and entered through the revolving door. The door moved very slowly on its revolving pivot. It was an annoying experience for anyone coming in who felt the need to hurry as the door could only be made to move faster by controls at the security desk. The slow moving door allowed security to photograph and check every entrant to the building, from different angles, and have time to appraise any threats. As no-one from outside DIC, the espionage services and certain government ministers knew they existed it might have seemed unnecessary to go to such lengths, but it was such an exact and pedantic approach to secrecy that had kept DIC out of the public domain for so long.