“Okay Cobb. Take it easy. I’m to take you to Claridge’s Hotel set you up in a good suite, order food and get you ready for the job.”
“What is the job?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a link in the chain.”
They got to a plush and polished black Honda Accord S type saloon. The contact blipped it and unlocked the doors. Cobb looked around and let the contact get in the driver’s side. He put the black bag on the back seat and got in after it. The contact looked at his face in the mirror.
“Okay no tricks. The round doesn’t have to pass through the bag now, know what I mean?” Cobb said quietly.
“Sure enough. Look Cobb just relax a little. Even if you don’t trust me I’m all you’ve got. Without us and the job you’ll have a hell of a time getting out of the country or going home for that matter.”
Cobb lowered the PSS pistol’s barrel which had been pointing at the back of the Brook’s seat. He didn’t put it away.
The black Honda Accord purred quietly way from the bright blue fronted pub and headed into central London.
Chapter 67
Baker Street Area of London
3 p.m.
April 18th
The phone rang waking Mason from a deep and comfortable sleep. He reached out lifted the receiver and acknowledged the call. A shower, change and coffee saw him ready for an outing into London. He’d removed the self manufactured false facial hair and looking at himself in the mirror he decided to get his head shaved to the length of the shortest hairs and he decided to dye it back to his natural black. He knew he’d have to buy clothes and decided on Oxford Street. There was the matter of cash and whilst bathing he’d run through the hotels he’d seen. Mentally picturing each one led to his choice of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel on Baker Street. A visit to the laundry room in this hotel would yield enough kitchen uniform to access the hotel at the back.
He left the Bickenhall Hotel room around three thirty. He decided to go unarmed. He locked the pistol in the small room safe using a self made combination and hoped for the best.
It was all too easy to get the laundry room and staff access areas. Most people hesitated, were nervous or held back in out of bounds areas, but having the confidence to just walk through the doors marked staff only and do so with an affected air of rectitude was one of the skills that delineated the successful in the killing trade. The trick was to look like you belonged there.
There was no lock on the staff door around the corner from reception and he pushed it open and made his way down a narrow stair case to a basement area. There was a decent though not large sized open area in front of him, a small lift to his left and storage rooms behind him and to his right.
To his delight the laundry baskets were sitting waiting to be taken away near a cellar hatch hydraulic hoist. He was at the back of the hotel and there were steps up beside the hoist and he could smell fresh air. He opened a basket and without cringing waded through the linen. Sure enough there were aprons, blue check trousers and white cotton tops, even white kitchen caps, at the bottom. He held a number of them up to look at, senses alert to the possible arrival of an employee. The third pair of trousers he pulled out, tomato stained and mucky around the trouser cuffs, were his size roughly and he found a white top with a variety of splashes and smelling of stale sweat which was roughly the right size too. The sound of the lift hurried his decision. He took the items, rolled them under his arm and climbed the steps into the fresh air.
Just around the corner from his hotel on Montagu Row he found a hair salon. The girl wasn’t impressed by his badly cut and poorly dyed hair. He needed an appointment and as the receptionist had taken pity on him when he’d told the story of a stag night binge and waking to find his hair damaged and dyed. They had a stylist available and she said she’d fit him in at five. She frowned at rolled bundle of dirty chef’s clothing and his shabby clothes. He’d shrugged his shoulders knowing she’d assume the worst.
The tube took him to the Oxford Circus, where he knew he’d get some clothes. He was also looking for a launderette. He walked amongst the crowds aware of the CCTV cameras watching, but knowing that he could not be spotted in the huge crowds of shoppers. Thanks to the brown hair and even without the fake facial hair he was the wrong shaped needle in a haystack.
He picked out the Diesel shop and bought himself a much more in touch look. The shop assistant gave him sad looks, thinking that it was another middle aged man having a trend crisis. Mason spent over four hundred pounds including a leather coat and shoes.
When he paid it struck him that he ought to change now.
“Do you mind if I change here?” The assistant raised an eye brow and Mason gave him the deadest of cold stares, hardening his face. The youth looked down
“Yeah sure no problem.”
Having used the cubicle to change in and feeling more human and much more like himself out of the Oxfam clothes he strode over to the counter. The youth was serving a customer.
“Bin that lot mate. Ta.” Mason said breezily.
Mason dumped the bag full of old clothes on the counter and walked out. He was feeling fine. Tonight he was going to have fun and tomorrow he was going to make contact and make a million pounds on one hit.
It took him five minutes to find a launderette two streets away in Marshall Place. It was fully attended so he left the small bundle to be washed and ironed and decided, looking at his watch and seeing it was four thirty, to find a bar and have drink. A short walk down the road he found the John Snow Pub. It was half full. He ordered a pint of lager and sat at the bar watching the clock. He caught his reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottles on optics and frowned at himself. He looked down at his new clothes and smiled. ‘Nearly there.’ He thought.
Within half an hour he had collected his stolen kitchen uniform and caught the underground back to Baker Street. He had just about run out of ready cash.
Chapter 68
London
4 p.m.
April 18th
After the landing at Stansted Airport David was taken by car around Long Border Road, along Coppice Road and through the Avenues to the airport plane parking area where there was a helicopter waiting to take him into central London.
The trip was different to the outward journey and David noted that London looked rather more mundane from air by daylight than it had at night. He mused on the fact that perhaps he had been full of expectation on the night journey out and on this return he was deflated and jaded.
As the helipad came into view below them David got more of a sense of the scale of the building than on the outward journey. He was not dwarfed or made to feel insecure by the sense of the huge machine of which he was a part. He felt a certain relief and comfort in coming in to land on the top of his base. He had felt alone and isolated at times on the ‘mission’, but as the helicopter bumped down the strength of the department and the threads of its power stretching across the country imbued him with a sense that the remaining assassins would be brought to book one way or another.
Out of the helicopter it was windy on the roof and he quickly made his way to the lift and into the warm conditioned air. After the short lift ride he made his way to Jack’s office. Magda told him to wait in a chair and gave him a warm smile.
David was lost in his thoughts for some minutes when the sharp opening of the office door and Jack’s friendly tones beckoned him in.
“David. Good to see you back safely come in. Magda hold all calls until further notice.”
David sat in the chair opposite Jack’s and looked at the grey sky and gloomy clouds held at bay by the thick protective glass of the DIC building. Jack sat opposite. David looked at the desk and saw a Sig 220 and two full magazines of ammunition lying beside it. They were stark against the scattered papers. He refocused his eyes on his boss’ face.
“Well the good news is that Jack Beaumont will make a full recovery. I’ll need a report, but you can type that and e-mail it tomorrow. By all accounts Wh
eeler was a nasty piece of work and the kill was necessary, even unavoidable. I’ve seen the bus station CCTV. I’m amending procedures for active rota at the moment since the last two incidents.”
“I’m sorry Jack it was all a bit intense and not at all as easy as it appeared to be at first sight.” David said.
“You needn’t be sorry. Aside from the lack of DIC fatalities you did the job well. I can tell you that everyone in this building is speaking highly of you right now.” Jack said looking at McKie with keenly focussed eyes.
David raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yes.” Jack continued. “There are less than fifteen people in this building who’ve had to kill either as a part of this job or the job they had when we head hunted them and they are the most impressed. You join an elite cohort of DIC workers who’ve had to use a weapon and the immunity to prosecution that the DIC badge bestows. If you like the David McKie legend begins here.” Jack finished tapping his desk.
“I hope it ends here too, sorry, but this is a little more brawn and much less brains than I had bargained for.” David replied quite seriously.
“I’m glad to hear that or you’d not be the man I hired, but I hope you’re not going to leave us. I know you were in at the deep end from the start, but I have every faith in you, in fact no-one could have handled that duty ‘mission’ better. Many would have hesitated to pull the trigger. Most would be awed by the responsibility of such a task.” Jack was taken aback by David’s remarks and it showed in the tone of his voice.
“Thank you. No I don’t want to leave, but I would like to go home and spend time in front of the screen monitoring.”
“And you will David. I’ve had your things packed and there’s a car waiting to take you to Charing Cross station. The counsellor will call next week to make sure that you don’t get post traumatic stress disorder.”
“Any news on Cobb, Mason or Stanton?”
“No. Cobb’s certainly in London. Mason must be here by now if the police car in St Albans is his handy work. Lord knows where Stanton is. Perhaps Monty will run him to earth.” Jack rose from his seat speaking. “Well it’s time for you to go home and I have things to do. I have to arrange for my deputy to take over whilst I go to Wally’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry about that. Did you know him well?” David asked glancing at the pistols on the desk.
“Yes he and I were partners on a DIC active rota in the eighties. He saved my life. He was one of those staff I mentioned who killed in line of duty.” Jack paused and picked up the pistol turning it over in his hands. “Sadly because of the shock of the kill he didn’t like to carry his gun after that, nor did he like the idea of killing again.”
Jack Fulton laid the Sig gently on the desk and suddenly reminded by the unused pistol David got up and grabbing his bag pulled Beaumont’s pistol, in a plastic police labelled bag, from his rucksack. He put it on the desk. He then added the laptop and cell phone.
“Beaumont’s.”
“Thank you.”
When David exited the office his overnight bag was waiting. He took the lift directly to the ground floor and went out through security. As he put his hand on the biometric pad his details were flagged up on the security screen. The desk section opened and he passed out. He felt the eyes of the security staff on him and turned to meet the gazes of the three men.
“See you soon Mr McKie.”
“Yeah safe journey home too.”
David smiled and in their eyes and across their faces he read some admiration and respect. Word really had got round the building. He smiled back.
“See you soon.” He replied smiling.
The revolving door eased him slowly out of the building and into the waiting car. The driver pulled into traffic, knowing where they were going. There was no talk, but David saw in the mirror the glances from the pool driver and in his eyes he read admiration too. The word had certainly got round that was for sure. David didn’t feel all that comfortable with such hero worship though.
Chapter 69
London
4-58 p.m.
April 18th
Mason arrived at the hair salon two minutes early and was shown to his seat straight away. They were cleaning up and had obviously considered that shaving his hair short would only take a moment. The receptionist looked startled at his appearance. The story had got around the salon and so his description had been fixed in her mind.
“Who butchered your hair like this?” The hair dresser asked.
She was an attractive Asian girl in a standard black skirt and white blouse, a foot shorter than him, slim at the waist and rounded in a fulsome, but not heavy way, around the her backside. His eyes followed the contours of her body, flat stomach and small rounded breasts, up to the smooth dark skin of her neck and her hair which was spiky and swept around and under her chin in places, showing her high cheek bones. He looked at her face and thought it slightly Eurasian. Behind the dark eye make up he saw professional disdain in her eyes and her dislike of the job she was going to have to do. She looked at her watch and sucked on her teeth. She looked over at the receptionist.
“Tara I can’t do this quickly. If you leave the keys I’ll lock up.”
“Are you sure Aliesha?”
“Yes.” She turned back to Mason pulling at his hair gently in various places as she spoke. He mentally stored her name.
“I’ll clip the back and sides shorter and try and give it some sort of style, but they’ve cut the top and front too short and that’s the worst part to have done. What’s your natural colour?”
“Black.”
“I suggest we wash it and dye it black. It’ll cost, but you won’t look middle aged any more. I take it you aren’t middle aged?”
“No.” Mason said smiling.
For the first time she looked into his eyes via the mirror. He smiled in a wry, lop sided way. She smiled back with a little warmth, appraising his face, thinking it handsome and mulling over the confident cat like animal way he had walked over.
“I heard the story. Not your stag night?”
“No my friend’s.”
“Come this way. I’ll wash your hair.”
She covered him with a robe, which tied at the back, and he was a little surprised when her hand smoothed the crumpled material across his back with an all too tender touch. He mused that perhaps it was his build or his eyes that had created a mild attraction. It had been said by other women that he had an animal magnetism. He sat in the chair and rested his head back. The warm water coursed through his hair and tingled his scalp, a tingling which increased in intensity as she lightly massaged her fingers over his scalp. She spoke gently in a soft teasing voice.
“You a naughty boy then?”
“Yes.” Mason sighed the word out.
“Like to get out and cut loose?” She pursued.
“Not all the time and I don’t get that drunk often, in fact I can’t remember the last time that happened.”
She made him sit up with a light push of her hand and dried his hair lightly with a towel.
“That’s good, can’t have you winding up bald.” She took him back to the seat, mixed up the dye and wearing plastic gloves applied it to his hair.
“It’ll be ten minutes before it takes to the right darkness. Can I get you a coffee?”
“Have you got anything stronger?”
“I’d have thought you’d had enough.” She caught his eye in the mirror.
“Well I was planning on a night out and a drink before hand always goes down well.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know really. Is there anywhere good around here?” Mason asked catching her eye in the mirror.
“I usually go to the Underworld. That’s good if you like to dance and there’s a friendly atmosphere.”
“What’s the action like there?”
“Oh you are a naughty boy aren’t you?” She looked at her watch. “Time to rinse, back to the basin.”
He sat down and tipped back his head her hands gently caressed his scalp.
“Not too hot?” She asked.
“No fine. So what’s the action like?”
She leaned over close to his face. “It depends on what you’re looking for?”
Back in the chair she clipped away at his hair. He kept his gaze steadily on her face. She caught his eye from time to time and in her look he saw the decision making process building its way to a conclusion. When she was done they went to the reception desk. He paid and told her to put on a big tip.
“It’s nearly half five. I’ve kept you.”
“Couldn’t send you out looking like that, you’d definitely miss out on the action.” She looked at the card before she handed it back. “Mr Townshend. M is for?”
“Marc, with a C.”
He took the card.
“Thanks. Where’s that club?”
“It’s on the high street in Camden”
“I’ll give it a try.”
She handed him the receipt and he felt her fingers brush his hand. He looked in her eyes and she gently bit her lip, putting her head to one side.
“I would if I were you. I’ve a feeling you’re going to find that action you’re looking for.”
“Bye Aliesha. Thanks for the lovely hair cut.”
He said no more. He picked up his plastic bag with the kitchen clothes and without a look back walked to Baker Street. He felt good. It was going to be a good night and the girl looked like a sure thing. Even if she wasn’t a sure thing he knew the club he was going to start the night out at.
Chapter 70
London Euston Towers
5-30 p.m.
April 18th
The CCTV cameras on Baker Street picked up Mason’s image as he walked back to the hotel, but it was rush hour. The large number of Central London CCTV cameras was being watched by an unusually extensive team at Euston Towers and the recordings were being racked up and watched in detail by an extra team dedicated to the task.
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