He caught a bus out of the city going north towards the Moray Firth. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes he’d found himself on the Carse Industrial Estate. After getting off the bus he wandered around the various units, scanning the car parks. He wanted an old car, the kind with visible pull up locks. He found what he was looking for under trees in the car park of a delivery firm. The owner of the mid nineteen-eighties white Alfasud Ti, a classic hatchback, was going to be devastated by the loss of his pride and joy.
Mason pulled up his hood, knowing he looked suspicious, but wanting to avoid the CCTV getting too good an image. He didn’t mind that he had been seen on other security systems CCTV cameras, it was being recorded committing a crime that counted; just being around when it happened wasn’t a crime. He was shielded from the building partly by the small trees lining a pathway, which ran through the estate.
He pulled a 30 centimetre piece of nylon parcel binder from his rucksack, creased it, slid it in through the driver’s side window and worked it down to the knob topped door lock release, on the inside; making a loop, by pushing one end of the binder, he slid it over the lock, pulled both ends tight and lifted the lock. The door opened easily. He learned that trick out in Asia. Most of the cars out there were old and the security was easily by passed with the nylon parcel binder. He angled himself into the car, pulled the door closed and lay hidden below the steering wheel. His six inch lock knife did for the plastic around the key ignition and within moments of rewiring the ignition he was driving out of the estate.
It didn’t take him long to find a residential area. It was there that he swapped number plates. He’d had to find a car with a square plate at the back. Having found a Suzuki Jeep he’d had to lay between that car and the one parked behind to hide from prying windows, it being broad daylight. Walking, casually, the short distance between the Suzuki and his stolen Alfa he fixed opposite plates back on both cars, with an industrial strength, quick drying glue, also from his rucksack; Mason had a lot of neat little tricks up his sleeve, or in this case his rucksack.
With that done he checked a convenient map in the car and drove for Glasgow. Checking the petrol gauge he knew he’d make it. The little Alfasud handled really well and had a good amount of ‘kick’ in the gear box. He sped onto the A9 Stirling bound. Having looked at a map he knew he’d get the M80 into Glasgow from there. After that he’d either get a train or plane, depending on the circumstances.
Chapter 19
Glasgow
10 – 30 a.m.
April 17th
Wheeler had been on the ‘eighty-two’ all the way down Loch Lomond and was pleased. He had just enough in the bike’s tank to get him into Glasgow and he was grinning beneath his helmet as the signs for the M8 came up near Erskine Hospital. As he negotiated the roundabout at Erskine a black BMW four by four failed to give way to the right and broadsided the Honda 500 with a resounding metallic ‘crump’. Wheeler, thrown from the bike hit the tarmac and, to the eyes of witnesses, with a gut wrenching, face screwing and teeth gritting bodily slump hit the road. He jerkily tumbled and rolled in a wrenching skid, his clothes ripping, grazes appearing and finally, at just forty miles an hour, his helmet struck the metal barrier cracking and splitting it across the top, knocking him unconscious.
Already out of his dented BMW the driver was on his cell phone. He was smartly dressed, clearly on his way to work and in contrast to his groomed look his white face registered the shock of the accident.
Sure that the ambulance was on its way he gingerly headed for the slumped figure of Wheeler. Other cars had stopped, some had had to, and people getting out headed straight for the hot ‘ticking’ bike, now on its side, mangled in the road. Others headed straight to the oddly angled unconscious rider by the barrier. The BMW driver was there first about to pull Wheeler face up when a young woman called out.
“Don’t move him. He may have a neck injury. I’m a nurse. Call an ambulance. I’ll check his pulse.”
“I’ve already called.” As he said this the sound of sirens confirmed him, ‘dopplering’ their way along the ‘A’ road from Stobhill hospital.
In a few short minutes, still unconscious, Wheeler had been strapped to the stretcher, neck brace on for safety, and driven way.
Police, having taken the Honda off the road, took names of witnesses and some short statements after which they cleared traffic and the blocked tarmac artery to the M8 slowly eased back to full flow.
It wasn’t until the wreck clearance men turned up, fifteen minutes later that the number plate was run through checks and flagged up as ‘important’.
In the ambulance the paramedic went through Wheeler’s bag. He was surprised to find three different passports, in three different names. Even more shocked after a second ‘delve’ he gingerly pulled the dull black, heavy PSS pistol from the bag. His colleague gave a low whistle. The paramedic, a little unnerved by the cold coiled potential of the oiled, hard edged and evil black item, gently lowered it back into the rucksack. He raised both eyebrows at his colleague.
“We’ll call the cops when we get back.”
They pulled into Stobhill casualty unit, just outside Glasgow, and unloaded the still unconscious body of Martin Wheeler. The sliding doors closed behind him and the paramedic took a moment to find a duty police officer. The contents of the bag brought immediate attention from detectives and began a flurry of activity. When the number plate information was added to what Glasgow police knew about Wheeler an urgent phone call was made to Euston Tower in London.
Chapter 20
Euston Station
10 – 50 a.m.
April 17th
David and Beaumont sat as comfortably as anyone can on the edge of the Euston concourse, happily eating French bread sandwiches.
“Brie is just a cheese. Technically that’s a cheese sandwich, in spite of the crunchy French bread and the exotic idea of French cheese.”
“That depends on the way you look at things. It’s all about perception and belief.” David replied after swallowing some of the topic of conversation.
“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter sort of thing.” Beaumont suggested, somewhat playfully, irony lighting his sharp grey eyes.
“Put like that yes.”
“That’s okay as an idea, but that’s just sitting on the fence. The whole ‘you say tomato I say tomayto’ doesn’t change a tomato, nor does someone believing that murder by bombing is a means of freedom fighting.” Beaumont was into his argument.
“Is state sanctioned killing murder then?”
“No because it’s done by people employed by us to do it.”
“If you had to kill today, say one of these men, would you think you were doing the right thing?” David was suddenly serious and Beaumont sensed that his seriousness was part of some inner struggle he was having about the nature of their work.
“If he wanted to kill me and I got in first, yes. If I thought I’d stopped him murdering an innocent man yes. Are you saying you wouldn’t?”
“I’m not sure I can kill. I know if it was kill or be killed I’d like to think that I would. It’s hard to say. I’m sure I’d think of myself as murderer afterwards, whatever anyone else said.” David put the remains of the French bread and brie onto the discarded paper wrapper.
Beaumont picked up it up, holding it out ready to make a point.
“See the DIC calls you Brie on French bread, but you would still think yourself a cheese sandwich.”
Suddenly David laughed and shaking his head with disbelief said “Doing a philosophy degree teach you that did it?”
“Yes it did and the years in private security, guarding rich people and politicians didn’t change it. What did history teach you?”
“That time doesn’t stop. Let’s go. We’ll be wanted.”
When David and Beaumont got back to the office there was a lot of information in. The other two week rota teams were busy at their screens. David felt guilty and received a
number of frowns in return for his watery, self conscious smile as he passed the small offices. There were six offices in total on their floor and David got the feeling that they had been missed at their post.
Beaumont closed the door of their office, sat down in his swivel chair and logged on. David stood behind him. Beaumont waved a thumb at the door behind.
“Don’t mind all that. I don’t worry myself about other people’s looks. You have to be sure of yourself to do this, guilt indicates wrong doing.”
“Looks like that one was at Inverness airport this morning.” David, feeling guilty, got straight down to work. He stared hard at the face of Marco Spencer. “That’s from Inverness watch three back tracking through CCTV. He’s dropped off the map since.”
“This one was spotted by the watcher of Inverness watch two earlier this morning; David looked over at Beaumont’s screen and the face of Peter Mason.
“He was at the railway station, but no sightings since.”
“Got himself a car?”
“Or a boat?”
“Watchers are doing walk by on Marina’s down the west coast. There’s a nil return from Clyde Marina, the whole of the Irish coast, Isle of Man and Welsh coast is a nil return.”
“That leaves Liverpool.” David replied.
“If I was doing the west coast I’d go further than Liverpool.”
“That depends on where you were heading for.”
“Well London is obvious.”
“Yes,” David agreed, but suddenly struck by the oddness of the situation said, “but then why not come in closer and why Scotland?”
“Good point.”
“Well Inverness could lead to the east coast.”
“That’s true.”
David frowned then his brow cleared.
“There are four of them. They separate, but two turn up at Inverness. If they all have the same job splitting up means they’re harder to chase, plus if they’re working together whoever gets through to wherever meets at a rendezvous point.”
“If they’re terrorists then Midland industry, what there is of it, would be a good target.” Beaumont suggested. David immediately thought of Maisie’s words about the chemical works.
“Let’s see who they are then we might have some idea of where they’re going.”
David logged into the decryption link to MOD sites when Jack Fulton came in.
“Good you’re back. We’ve just had a message from Glasgow watch, a little late, that the motorbike man has been tagged. Came off his bike outside Glasgow and is being watched by police, he’s unconscious. I’m just waiting for a call to say they’ve locked him up and I’ll send a team to Glasgow to interview him.”
“Why would the police let DIC do that if they don’t know who we are?”
Jack grinned. “We just say we’re civil service, show our diplomatic badges and they leave it at that. They think we’re secret service or some such, practically everyone does, except of course the secret service themselves who know we exist and hate us.”
David looked back at his screen. He loaded the images of the four men into the secret service computer system and was amazed at the return speed of information.
“Talking of secret service look at this,” Marco Spencer’s image came up on his top secret MI6 file, “this one is ex secret service, dirty jobs section by the looks of it.”
Jack Fulton clapped his hands loudly and nearly shouted.
“I knew I’d seen him before. I was watching him eat breakfast at Inverness airport. Yes there was a big problem over him two years ago. He killed a member of the cabinet in rural Scotland. Of course he’s freelance now.”
“The cabinet? Why isn’t he in prison?” David asked incredulously.
“Well we know he did it there’s just no proof, so no case to answer. It went off as an accident, heart attack hill walking.”
“Robert Cole the disgraced Home Office Minister, I remember that.” David was amazed.
Jack became serious.
“Of course that’s top secret and unrepeatable. We knew it was him. DIC watchers tagged him in the area and leaving. Of course Sternway, head of dirty tricks had a hand in it. It’s one of those cases that got by us. Cole must have had some story or information to put out and was first disgraced by the news then bumped off. The press treated it as a tragic accident. I liked Cole, I don’t like his replacement Tarquin Robinson and quite frankly as one of the few people in high power who know about us he doesn’t like us either. It was a bad business and no mistake. No I still haven’t got over that failure, but yes Marco Spencer. He knows about us and he’s a hired assassin.”
“That means that the other three are too.” Beaumont added.
They looked at the screen and checked the other files. In each case the file of hired assassin came up. Jack Fulton’s face became angry and seriously white.
“Four assassins have entered the country on our watch. You two had better get ready to go to Stobhill Glasgow. Go armed. I’ll call the police there and warn them.”
“We’re going to e-mail our watchers, especially the ones going to Marinas. They’re to go armed. I’ll e-mail that instruction around the building. I want you two to focus on the MOD sites especially the submarine movements. I want to know who brought them in. I’ll get the others looking for missing persons.”
“Why?” David was rather taken aback by the serious turn of events on his first day.
“These are hired killers. They don’t leave witnesses. If they’re compromised they kill first think later. Spencer is a cold blooded killer. They all came to get someone. There are four, or possibly more of them, so it’s a multiple attempt, to make sure one gets through. One of them might have killed already. Get on to that sub question.”
When Fulton left Beaumont gave David a raised eyebrow look.
“Serious stuff,” David said quietly, “you ever experienced this before?”
Beaumont shook his head slowly.
Both of them quietly began searching MOD sites for relevant information each suddenly intent on the screens in front of them.
Chapter 21
Glasgow Stobhill Hospital
11- 30 a.m.
April 17th
Wheeler rose through layers of unconsciousness to the sound of rattling cups and unfamiliar voices. To the watching police officer, sitting in the armchair near the bed, as he had been for the last hour, the stirring body was a relief. The constable was bored by his watch. The suddenly opening eyes and look of fearful unawareness were reassuring for the officer too.
Wheeler felt his way round his body, wiggled toes, waggled fingers and reassured that everything was okay he tried to sit up. Pain from his bruises made him wince. The memory of the bike skidding away from him and realisation that he had a hospital gown on, added to which his certainty that his bag would have been opened, brought a rush of adrenalin which enabled him to sit up quickly and bypass the sudden pain from the bump on the top of his head.
“Hello.” The constable said dourly.
The voice was Scottish. Wheeler took in the uniform.
“Where am I?” Wheeler feigned a vaguely foreign accent, somewhere Eastern European.
He took in the room. Standard hospital single room, window to his right, bedside table in that corner, red string for calling help above it, and to his left, other side of the bed, the door. At the foot of the bed an armchair for visitors, in which was seated the constable; young, he noted, about twenty-five.
“Stobhill hospital Glasgow.”
Wheeler nodded.
“I’ve to call in, for a detective to interview you.”
Wheeler feigned a lack of understanding, crinkling his brow, a slight shake of the head.
“For what? I am sorry?”
“The hand gun and fake passports matey.” The constable said flatly indicating his certainty of Wheeler’s guilt of some crime.
“I’m sorry I do not…” Wheeler touched his head and looked confused.
The constable spoke into his radio. Wheeler looked around the room. His clothes were not there. This was tricky.
In the background to his inner voice planning he heard the constable call for the detective.
“He’s on his way.”
Wheeler looked at the plastic jug and cup on the table by his bed. His throat was very dry. He poured water and the idea came to him. He leant over to the bedside table He shakily held the pitcher, poured and drank some water. Then again, more desperately, with more exaggerated shaking, he poured more water, feigned a pain in the head, let the jug go and eyes rolling slumped off the bed on to the floor by the table, between the bed and the wall.
Instinctively, as he had gambled he would, the constable came over and stood over him. Then to his annoyance the constable pulled the red cord to call for help. Clearly no fool, thought Wheeler, but too youthful to be wise and experienced.
Wheeler’s left hand shot out and grabbed the PC’s belt, as he did so his right leg swung up behind the policeman’s legs, caught him behind the knees tipping the man back. Wheeler rose up on the man’s weight going back, his right palm extending out into his victim’s chin. The policeman crumpled back unconscious in a heavy heap.
Wheeler, dragged the man under the bed, arranged the covers on the door side to cover the view from there, hiding his crime; he hopped into the bed and pulled the cord again.
A young Italian looking girl, round in hips, dark hair in a bun, bulging in her blue uniform, just under the obese side of portly, rolled in.
“Hello. You’re awake.” She saw him holding jug and then quizzically looked for the constable.
“I spill water. He go to get help.”
Wheeler indicated the other side of the bed hoping she was too busy to look.
The nurse took the jug “I’ll send someone to mop up.” She left with a withering ‘you’re wasting my time’ look.
As soon as the door closed, Wheeler was out of bed. The constable was just coming round, his head emerging from under the bed. Wheeler karate chopped him across the back of the head where it joined the spine, not hard enough to kill, but enough to knock him cold again. Wheeler could have killed him, but he knew that they had his description and too many people had seen him. Killing witnesses was pointless at this stage.
To Kill Or Be Killed Page 5
