To Kill Or Be Killed

by Richard Wiseman

  “Meet me in the restaurant in twenty minutes, my treat.” Spencer nodded.

  “I’ll expect a repayment.” Stanton added.

  “Of what kind?”

  “Information.” Stanton spoke with a hard factual tone in his voice.

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Thanks Stanton.”

  A short walk along to the next carriage and Spencer identified himself to the guard, said that he had got on the train in the last minute, having been mugged for his luggage and wallet. This also explained the state of his clothes, which pleased Spencer. When asked for the ticket, Spencer explained that the muggers had taken it, but handed over the passport, explaining that he kept it in his pants, giving the guard a good reason not to hold on to it for too long. The guard happily found the sleeper with the Townshend reservation. He let Spencer in. Spencer quickly washed and visibly freshened up went to the restaurant. His booking was overdue, but the guard, fishing for tips had already contacted the restaurant and asked them to be flexible. Stanton, already drinking a mineral water, called him over. Spencer self deprecatingly and profusely thanked the waiter and threading through the tables sat down opposite Stanton. It was nine-forty pm when they ordered food.

  Chapter 35

  Lear Jet over UK Air Space

  9 -55 p.m.

  April 17th

  On the Lear jet the teams had hardly had time to settle, all of them nervous, fidgety, chatting for distraction, when the pilot called seat belts on for the descent to Liverpool airport. The Jet bumped down and being a government flight and internal the two DIC roving teams for work in Liverpool were quickly on their way to their set destination in the car of the DIC man whose watch included the airport.

  Jack and Beaumont stayed on the Lear jet waiting for their plane’s slot in the take off queue. It was close to ten o’clock, one hour to their rendezvous in Perth when the jet once more slammed them into the seats as it took off.

  Finally less self conscious with only Beaumont there David called his wife. In spite of being in a plane and travelling fast the satellite phone was clear. It rang for a short while and his wife answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi sweetheart it’s Davy, did I wake you?”

  “No I’ve been waiting for your call. Conor was waiting too, but he’s long since asleep.”

  David felt the good father’s guilt pang flush through him and all of a sudden the distance from his home and family swamped him with the sense of a world all too big and unknown.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been that kind of a day.”

  “What’s the room like?”

  “Nice enough… but… I’m on a small passenger jet heading for Perth.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a situation, I can’t tell you about it, but we’re on the way to Perth.”

  “Dear god! No wonder you haven’t called.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. They might need this line to contact us.”

  “Okay. Hey if you get the chance drop in on your father, Glasgow’s not that far.”

  “Good idea. I love you.”

  “I love you too, especially now you’re a member of the jet set.”

  “Kiss Conor and pat the bump for me.”

  “Okay. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. I’d better go.”

  “By love.”

  “Goodnight sweetie.”

  McKie held the unconnected phone to his face a moment a huge sigh building in his chest.

  “Mind if I call my wife.”

  “No Beaumont, sorry, that’s the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

  “So far eh?”

  Beaumont dialled his number. David turned away and went to the small toilet. How did a man become so tied to his little tribe? He looked in the mirror, feeling the sting of tears begin their gathering in his eyes; he splashed water on his face and scrunched his face into the soft white towel. What was he doing here? A DIC man was missing presumed dead. One of the men they were hunting had probably killed him. What if he, McKie, were killed? What if his family never saw him again? He gritted his teeth, pushed air out his nose and lowered the towel staring straight into his own eyes in the mirror. No it wasn’t going to happen. He’d make sure. He had a choice here. His father once told him that the coward dies a thousand times, but the brave man only dies once. He nodded to himself, focus, clear your head, forget fear and do the job. You’ll be home.

  When he got back to his seat Beaumont was on the phone still except that David could tell it was Fulton on the other end. Beaumont was being briefed. He ended the call with an ‘okay Jack.’

  “What’s the plan?”

  Beaumont began briefing him on the instructions that Jack had given him.

  Chapter 36

  Mersey Marina

  9 – 45 p.m.

  April 17th

  A detective inspector from Liverpool police greeted Jaz and Tony. They showed him their diplomatic passes. The marina was lit up starkly by temporary lights and the generator feeding them was making a steady hum, creating a busy feeling at the scene.

  On the jetty two bodies were laid out, lying on the cloths they’d been wrapped in. The detective led Jaz and Tony to the bodies. Face up the watch man could not be recognised, the bullet having exited by his nose taking a lot of flesh and bone with it. A gaping, red raw, butcher’s block nightmare greeted Jaz, who on seeing the ripped and jagged remains turned away, held her fist to her mouth and bit on her knuckles, sensations of nausea and shock flooding her body with adrenalin.

  Tony had more experience. He took the photograph of Wally out. Taller than the watch man, Wally’s fatal bullet had exited his forehead, leaving his features in tact and enabling Tony to match the picture. Tony stared at the still white face, dead fish eyes dripping with Mersey water. Shot in the back of the head. Unarmed and shot in the back of the head. An unarmed family man shot in the back of the head. Tony’s face hardened and he tore his eyes away from Wally’s corpse.

  “That your man?” The detective asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask what he was doing here?”

  “He was here to check on recent boat arrivals. Seems he found the one we were looking for.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “We don’t know, but we don’t think so. He wasn’t the kind to go anywhere armed and we think he missed our warning.”

  “The man he was looking for who is he?”

  Tony pulled out a picture and some brief typed details.

  “Doesn’t look like the usual terrorist.”

  “He’s not a terrorist. He’s worse than that.” The detective went to hand it back. “No you can keep that.” Tony said.

  “We’ll put out an alert. The owner of the marina says that the watch man’s blue Peugeot 107 is missing. We’ll chase it up.”

  “So will we, thank you.” Tony turned to Jaz who was looking out over the Mersey “You okay now Jaz?”

  Jaz quietly nodded.

  “Was it Wally Tyson?”

  “The one without a face, we’re assuming is the marina watch man. He was only twenty-one. The man with a face is Wally. Call Shadz and Terry, they’ll have got to Wally’s house by now. They’re waiting outside.” Jaz nodded and took out her phone. Tony took out his and called Fulton.

  People in the watching room with Jack as he took Tony’s call confirming Wally’s death could have sworn he had tears in his eyes, some even heard a quiet sniff.

  Jack gathered his choking voice, but Tony heard the strain when Jack’s voice came through.

  “It’s half ten. Go over and see Wally’s wife with the others, sort out his loft equipment and look after her. David and Beaumont will have landed in a minute or two. I’ll call them and warn them. If they can get Spencer alive we can find out what they’re up to and who’s responsible.” Jack closed the phone and looked around the room full of people, computers and screens.

  “Jack I’ve been looking at the routes David and Beaumont pr
ojected and…”

  “Not now Amber. I’m going to get a drink.” He put a hand on the shoulder of the girl speaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I just need a drink.”

  Jack headed for his office; he held back the moisture building in his eyes until safely in the lift he let it go and thought of Wally Tyson, a man he had known many years, a good friend, a man without whose help Jack would not have lived longer than nineteen eighty seven. When Magda saw his face, she moved towards him, but he waved her away. Shutting his office door and going to the cupboard he drew out a bottle of whisky and two glasses; he poured two measures, one in each glass.

  Chapter 37

  Inverness to London Sleeper Train

  10 – 30 p.m.

  April 17th

  Spencer had eaten hungrily. Scottish salmon, new potatoes and green beans went down well and quickly. Like Stanton he drank mineral water. Wiping his face he decided to answer the question Stanton had asked just as the food arrived and Stanton, seeing his hunger, had decided to let him eat first.

  “I was MI6. I worked for dirty tricks, which isn’t an official title, just an accurate description. The thing is there’s this branch of the civil service that practically no-one knows about. They’re called the Department for Internal Concerns or DIC for short. They aren’t military. In fact they aren’t beholden to anyone but the British tax payers, who have no idea that they exist. The thing is that they’re armed and have the right to kill, under certain circumstances, to which end they have diplomatic immunity in the UK.” Stanton’s face was intense with listening and Spencer continued. “They have people in every town and city in the UK. These people monitor all digital and analogue traffic, they have the equipment to do it too, and they have access to CCTV. This is fed into a centre, somewhere in London, but no-one knows where the centre is.”

  “How have they kept so secret?”

  “Well for one they don’t advertise their presence in any way whatsoever and two though MI6 know they exist, they don’t know who the members of this huge network are so it’s hard to prove they exist. If you suggested there was such a network people would laugh. Big brother scares and all that. Top civil servants, the old ones are aware as is the queen. They’re funded from MOD money. They have spies literally everywhere. They watch everything and everyone.”

  “Can they watch any CCTV?”

  “Seemingly so, hence our drop off in Scotland.”

  “So we could have been spotted already?”

  “Yes, but odds are we haven’t or the police would have arrested us. Anyway our arrival point was too remote, which I think was the idea.”

  “Right, who do you think is behind this hit?”

  “I don’t know, but you must have sussed that it’s either military or government, the sub tells you that.” Spencer suspected his old boss Sternway, but didn’t say.

  Stanton nodded and said “We’ll find out when we are told who the mark is. It’s got to be big for a million.”

  “Listen thanks for the help and the meal. I appreciate it.”

  “That’s alright. I’ve learnt something.” He got out his card. “Is yours not working?”

  “No it’s bloody annoying.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We’ll split up when we get to London, but if we get to the rendezvous point together or close we could collaborate, two heads and all that.”

  Stanton was cautious “I’ll think about it. We might make a good team. I’ll see if we get to the rendezvous together.”

  Stanton watched Spencer head for his sleeper. He stared at the door a long time and then mind made up to get off at Perth he went to his sleeper and began packing. If Spencer was telling the truth about these DIC they were probably already compromised. In his sleeper he ditched the passports and all the paraphernalia of an assassin, keeping his weapon, ammunition and a small plastic box with a hypodermic syringe and a variety of drug ampoules though. He picked an ID from the pack which had a change of face and look and with his complete change of face paraphernalia from his rucksack he went to the toilet and locked himself in. It was ten fifty p.m.

  Chapter 38

  Perth

  10 – 55 p.m.

  April 17th

  Informed by the pilot that the Lear jet needed eight hundred and seventy-five metres to land and the runway was closer to eight sixty the two men held their straps tighter as the plane screamed in and juddered to a halt. Being a small airport the steps went down and grabbing their bags the two man DIC roving team ran towards a waiting police car.

  “Evening gents I’ll brief you on the way.” A senior police officer greeted them at the waiting car.

  They sidled into the back seat and the police car light flashing and siren blaring rushed them to Perth, down the 94 from Pitroddie, the Perth Road, into the city centre across South Street Bridge, round Marshall Place and finally through a police cordon into Leonard Street.

  In the car they had been told that there were armed police surrounding the station, staff at the station had been evacuated and the signals were red from Perth on so that the train’s automatic systems wouldn’t let it move. The police were going to take over the engines, staff would be asked to leave first and the speaker system would explain that there was a fault with the engine and people had to get off. There were police in Scot rail uniforms, some in boiler suits with luminous vests, on the platform ready for each door to open, but they were going to empty the train a carriage at time in single file. There were snipers on roofs and a dog handler ready to sweep the train when the passengers were off if they didn’t find their man and in case of booby traps.

  It was all in hand.

  David nervously checked his weapon, but he needn’t have worried, he wasn’t allowed to the front and in the open. He and Beaumont were standing at the gate ready to spring and call if Spencer got past the police.

  The station was lit up clearly and everyone tensed, radios crackled and went quiet as the train slowly cruised gleaming into the station’s stark lights, it was eleven fifteen. In well timed movements the disguised police manned the doors, the men allotted to the engines swung into action and the drivers were the first to leave. At the barrier they passed McKie and Beaumont.

  On the train there was a stunned silence, followed by a babble of complaints and annoyed groans when the instructions to detrain were given including instructions to have a ticket ready to be examined at the gate. The staff came out of every door of the train and passed the DIC men, the first in what was to be a long line.

  In the toilet Stanton finished his disguise with a frown. He felt sure that the engines were fine. He walked into the corridor and looked out of a window. On the platform there were a lot of staff, too many. He looked at the boots and knew they were police. Hasty disguises didn’t always include the foot wear and men of action liked their sturdy comfortable boots. He didn’t know that they weren’t looking for him, but now with a disguise and identity that didn’t match the name on his ticket he didn’t fancy his chances. He went back to his sleeper and sat down.

  Spencer had been asleep. He was muzzy headed. He too looked out the window. He was sure it was a trap. He decided to get out the train on the track side, using the emergency opening. He’d alert them, but it was a chance he’d take. He knew he’d get caught for the taxi driver once they took his prints and there were other kills besides. He didn’t fancy thirty years in prison.

  The passengers passed through the barriers a coach at a time with Police checking tickets and ID and McKie and Beaumont watching, searching each face. They were down to the last coach when they heard a shout and two shots.

  Spencer, rucksack on his back and loaded weapon in hand, had opened the door and spotted by a sniper, who called out to stop, had fired a round at the voice, then dropped off the train, his dropping so quickly meant the sniper missed. Police marksmen with Enforcer rifles and those with Heckler-Koch MP5 sub-machine guns opened up as he ran down the track, zig zagging.


  By the ticket barrier the people panicked, but were shouted at to calmly continue through the barriers. David looked past the crowds and saw the muzzle flashes. There were clangs, zipping noises and then a call to cease fire.

  Spencer stood in the middle of the track, no less than nine rifles trained on him, hand with his weapon, still held tightly, at his side. He had to decide; capture or death. He ran through his mind the possibilities; the shouts to drop the weapon came thick, fast and with urgency.

  The detective nearest McKie had a crackling voice from his receiver, someone breaking radio silence.

  “We’ve got your man.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” David’s voice came out stronger and more directed than he himself had intended and his customs confidence surfaced. He had a badge and an office. The police here had been called by his boss, the man who sent him. Authority surged through his mind and pushed his shoulders back. David called Beaumont and they pushed through the crowd and onto the train. The two of them walked down the train, but were stopped by two armed police just opening a door via the emergency handle. David looked out the window nearest to him at the figure of Spencer, near enough dead parallel standing below on the track, his hand instinctively reached inside his coat to pull the SIG P220 Rail from its holster, but Beaumont’s hand gripped his wrist. David looked around sharply and saw the warning in his partner’s wise eyes. He nodded and pulled his hand out empty.

  “Is that him?” The policeman asked.

  On the track Spencer steeled himself. Perhaps he could drop and roll under the train he thought. A dive under the train seemed futile, but it might give him time to think. He looked to his left at the train and saw a door open two metres forward. He looked direct left straight into David’s eyes. He read David’s lips.

  “That’s him.”

  As McKie spoke Spencer swung his right arm round and up aiming straight for the door, two shots sped through the space where the ducking armed officer’s head had been and into the woodwork, David and Beaumont watched stunned as all nine rifles hit their target and jolted Spencer like a puppet; in the bright white light fine mists of blood and ripped skin surrounded him for a second as the Enfield Enforcer sniper rifle rounds tore through him.