To Kill Or Be Killed

by Richard Wiseman

  “He wants to go now and anyway I said Mona was picking us up at ten.”

  “Okay MacDonald’s breakfast it is. Get him ready I’m on my way down.”

  He heard Conor’s sweet voice shout ‘Yay’ and Mary telling him to get dressed in his outside clothes.

  The DIC ‘traffic’ was mostly about traces on Mason and the search for ‘Priory’ in London. There was good news about Beaumont. He was stable and doing well. David felt better. He read the newly posted report on Cobb’s death and felt glad that he’d been put out of harms way. He left the computer running and climbed down the ladder, closing the hatch.

  Conor was in the hall, wrapped in puffy coat, blue wellington boots, hood up over woolly hat and strapped into a buggy.

  “We ready for an adventure wee man?”

  “Yeah. Go and see the boats, get old MacDonald’s.”

  David put on a warm coat and threw a scarf around his neck. Mary opened the door. The rain had petered out during the night and the April day was cool and damp, with a touch of watery sunshine. David wheeled the buggy down the path and smiled back at his wife.

  “Be good and back by ten as I’ve to take him with me, okay?”

  “We’ll be good!”

  David walked the buggy down Markland Road, turned left then right, passed the pub and Mr Patel’s, the newsagents. He sped down Elm’s Vale road and slipped onto the Folkestone Road. His fast walking pace made Conor whoop with the speed and laugh when David splashed the buggy through puddles. Within minutes they’d passed the entrance to Customs, zoomed past the Station steps to Dover Priory and past Dover College. David wheeled his son into the town centre and they arrived giggling and breathless at the MacDonald’s.

  David bought them the breakfast, to take away, with coffee for himself and milk for Conor. That done they went up the pedestrian shopping centre, down into the underpass, David letting the buggy go and running beside it down the ramp, Conor squealing with fear and delight. A short push up and into the open concourse of the harbour front, to the right of the ferry terminal and the left of the Marina and they pulled by benches, near the swimmer statues, the harbour wall in front of them. They settled on a bench, Conor’s little legs dangling and David got the food out.

  It was a fresh morning and seagulls hung like mobiles on the buffets of close to shore breezes. The harbour was calm in its own way, the water frothed only at the edges by the shore line, but David could see heavy swells and rabid frothing out by the Dover Harbour wall. The sky was a mix of speeding white clouds and grim heavy grey ones, the sun flashing through when space allowed. David drank in his son’s fresh face, chewing on hash brown potatoes and scrambled eggs.

  “Look a big white boat!”

  “That’s a liner.” David said looking at the big ship docked to their right.

  “Liner, yeah, it’s hooj Dada.”

  “That it is. Would you like to go on one day?”

  “Yeah, I’d be a pirate and capture it and steal all their treasure.”

  “That’d be bad. I’m a police man now. I’d have to stop you.”

  “You wouldn’t though, you’d be my helper and I’d make you rich, then mummy wouldn’t be so sad.”

  “Has mummy been sad?” David was suddenly focussed on his son’s face.

  “Yes.” His son’s face was earnest and concentrated. “She said she wanted you home. I’m glad you’re home. I asked God to get you home.”

  “That’s good. Thank you.”

  They finished their breakfast. David threw away the left over wrapping and put Conor back in the buggy. He walked to the right as they always did, along the front, along Waterloo Crescent, past the Marina, over the bridge on Union Street, up Snargate Street and left at the roundabout onto York Street. The traffic was heavy even at that time in the morning and David had his eye on the lorries and trucks as he made the crossing.

  David was so busy watching the traffic that he didn’t see Trevor Stanton, who had just been to the Somerfield on Castle Street and coming back was entering York Street from Old Mill Lane.

  Stanton did see McKie though. He made a casual glance to his right before he turned left towards the seafront and was stunned to see McKie, the man from Perth Station, the man he had seen on Parneuk Street in Motherwell, pushing a buggy across the pedestrian crossing.

  Stanton had got into Dover marina with ease, earlier in the morning. Moored up he’d checked the boat’s cupboards and unhappy with the choices, decided to go shopping.

  Standing there in a large hooded Berghaus coat he’d taken from the boat, his brown boots, still damp, new thick socks, dark blue trousers, a new black T shirt, that he’d bought in town he looked carefully at the figure across the road, now heading away at a fast walking pace. There was no doubt in his mind. Stanton had fixed the man’s size, shape and face in his memory and there he was large as life pushing a buggy.

  Stanton knew at once that McKie lived in Dover. He knew the man must be DIC and if that was the case McKie would have DIC equipment at his house. Access to that network would be really useful to Stanton. Stanton didn’t have a weapon on him, his was back on the boat, but he decided to follow McKie at a distance. He pulled his woollen hat down close to his eyes, dumped his shopping and the plastic bag with the yellow waterproof clothing over a wall on the trail up the Folkestone Road; McKie’s figure was easy to follow, though his walking pace kept him well ahead. McKie was absorbed listening to Conor’s inane chattering and wouldn’t have looked for danger. He felt safe.

  When Stanton got to the junction of Elm’s Vale Road and Church Road McKie had disappeared. Stanton knew he’d gone that way though and had a quarter of an hour walk around the streets before he saw a house with a big white satellite dish on Markland Road, just up past a primary school. Stanton did some reconnaissance around the area and after making his way up to Eaves Road saw through gaps in garden gates the school field and the backs of the Markland Road houses.

  David had got in from the walk breathless and giddy. He’d unwrapped Conor, given him a biscuit and was sat having a big mug of tea chatting in the dining room with Mary. It was a quarter to ten in the morning.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yeah we saw boats and Dada promised to be a pirate with me.”

  “Change of career then Davy?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mary was sat facing the garden picture window. The long garden backed onto the primary school field, across which there was a steep bank, leading up to the back gardens of the houses on the Eaves Road. She proffered David a plate of biscuits and he took a custard cream and bit it.

  The door bell rang and Mary, expecting her friend, got up and missed the view of a dark figure sliding down the bank from an overlooking garden.

  There was the bustle of Mina and her son Hadleigh in the house. Mina made small talk with David and then within ten minutes Mary and Conor had left in Mina’s car. David was going to go to the loft to do some work, but he quite suddenly felt comfortable and happy. The urge to put the television on and vegetate for a while overwhelmed him. He wasn’t normally lazy, but he felt that after what he had been through switching off for an hour or so would make him feel a lot stronger. He took his tea into the lounge and switched the set on.

  At the top of the garden a figure crawled under the link fencing and emerged behind a small shed at the top of McKie’s garden. Stanton began looking at the house for weaknesses from his hidden vantage point. His eye lit on an open Velux window on the roof.

  Chapter 88

  London Vauxhall

  9 a.m.

  April 19th

  The DIC checks revealed a fair few ‘hits’ for the name ‘Priory’ in London. There were pubs at all points of the compass, not to mention religious buildings and of course the ‘Priory Grange’ Roehampton, the rehabilitation clinic. Jack Fulton, in the building spot on nine in the morning, thought the intended victim might be there and sent a team to check the list of possible high profile patients.
In spite of the high number of possible locations Jack despatched DIC watchers from London locations and took staff off CCTV watch and other duties to visit the pubs, restaurants and religious buildings with ‘Priory’ in the title.

  Mason had been awake for an hour and had sat up in the car early in the morning. He was parked in a large car park in the fore court of a building on Benson Court. After waking he put the radio on and heard, amongst other items, news about Cobb. It hadn’t surprised him that Cob had been killed, but the fact that he’d had a suite at Claridge’s, a fact mentioned in the news, was out of place. It crossed his mind, given the speed of security’s arrival and the high profile nature of the hotel that Cobb had been set up. Cobb couldn’t have afforded the suite, Mason reasoned, so it meant that the people hiring them had put him there and if that was the case Cobb had got to the contact point first. So why not put him in a nice quiet place, out of the way, especially given his high media profile after Gatwick. Mason was nervous. He’d had his reservations about the people hiring them and the whole trip south to London.

  He got out of the Beetle, walked around the corner to the Priory Arms on Lansdowne Road. The bright blue pub and its little outside ‘beer garden’ frontage was a closed face. He stood outside wondering whether to make a break for it out of the country and forget the whole thing, when someone called his name.

  Paul Bentall had been with MI6 for five years. He’d spent the night in the black Honda watching for Mason or Stanton. He had the night shift. Peter on the day shift had it easy sitting in the pub and Bentall looked back on his five years and thought about how he always got the crappy part of any job. He checked the time and seeing it was close to shift change he got ready to report to Pete, when he arrived. They would swap cars and he, Bentall could go get some breakfast and go home to sleep.

  He glanced over at the pub and saw Mason walk up and stand outside. It was Mason, he was sure, but he checked the photo just the same. He opened the car door and walked over.

  “Peter Mason?”

  Mason spun around, his hand on the Sig in the back waistband of his trousers.

  “It’s okay Mason. I’m from the buyer. Want to step into the car?”

  Mason pulled the Sig from his waistband and put it under his jacket at the front.

  “After you.”

  They walked over to the car and Bentall got in the driver side, Mason got in the passenger seat. Bentall was nervous. He didn’t dare reach into his jacket for his revolver, a snub nose point three eight Smith and Wesson ‘Night Guard’ special.

  “Shame about the others any news on Stanton?” Mason asked establishing the man’s credentials through common knowledge.

  “No. Cobb died this morning.”

  “I noticed. Did your firm put him in the suite?” Mason didn’t look into his face, but deliberately looked over at the bright blue pub frontage.

  “Yes.”

  “A bit open wouldn’t you say?”

  “No. We wanted him to wait until today and it seemed the least we could do after all he’d been through.”

  “Do I get a suite at a top hotel?” At this point Mason did look into Bentall’s eyes.

  “No. The job’s on from today, it’s all getting heated.”

  Mason stiffened and made his pistol visible, sliding it from under the black leather jacket and resting it on his lap, as Bentall pulled an envelope from under his seat. He handed it to Mason, overtly cautious and casting glances at the automatic aimed at his stomach.

  “Easy Mason. There’s the brief.”

  Mason struggled to open the envelope one handed, but did so anyway. When the sheets slid out, he dropped them onto his lap, still pointing the pistol Bentall, he scanned the page and looked at the paper clipped passport photo attached to the sheet, his eyes widened.

  “Him?” Mason’s voice was the epitome of disbelief.

  “What did you expect for a million?”

  “But him, that’s not possible! How do you expect me to get near him?”

  “That’s your problem. You're to leave that envelope with me, so memorise those five key times and locations which are always the same when he’s at home and give it back.”

  Mason read the sheet, put the brief back in the envelope and handed it back.

  “Now I take it you’re parked nearby, so you’d better take your equipment and get going.” Bentall was harshly forceful in his tone of voice.

  Mason didn’t move though, he had questions now for sure.

  Who the hell are you people anyway?”

  “That’s secret.” Bentall reached onto the back seat and brought a briefcase forwards. Mason raised the pistol and held his hand further back in response to the sudden movement.

  “The equipment and a contact method is in there.” Bentall rested the briefcase on his lap and tapped it.

  “Contact method?”

  “Disposable cell phone with one number in its memory is the contact method. When the job’s done call and you’ll be taken to safety, a hideout, then a pay off and a well planned escape, any questions?”

  “You really expect me to trust you?” Mason looked him in the eyes.

  “What else have you got?”

  “My wits and my instincts.” Mason said all too suddenly and pressed the weapon to Bentall’s chest and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled bang and Bentall’s face screwed up in agony, he jerked and twisted and finally slumped against the window, his heart having stopped.

  Mason looked around. There was no-one to be seen. He began searching the car. He was damned if he’d do the job before he knew who he was working for. The glove compartment was locked, but Bentall had the key in his trouser pocket. There was a nine millimetre Browning pistol with silencer and a spare clip and Bentall’s identification, clearly showing he was with MI6.

  Bentall had been told not to take ID with him, but he was sure he’d be spotted by someone whilst he was sitting outside the pub all night every night for at least three days and wanted something to show any police who might show up.

  Mason smiled. So the secret service wanted ‘him’ dead. There was a turn up for the books. He checked the case and found a bomb with a timer and the cell phone. He switched on the phone and rang enquiries to get a taxi firm number. He ordered a taxi for twenty minutes later, went back to the Beetle and got his sports holdall. After ten minutes with Bentall’s pass and his own photo he’d made up a passable MI6 badge for himself.

  He knew how he was going to get to the target. This was a historic hit. He wasn’t going to trust them after he’d done it, but he knew who they were and where to find them and they’d know that too. They wouldn’t mess with him and he’d get the money and get himself out. Him, no wonder it was a million.

  He left Bentall’s body in the Honda, putting the bomb and cell phone in his holdall. He went to meet the taxi around the corner. As he jumped in with the briefcase and gave the address a DIC watcher was driving past him on route to the Priory Arms. Sharp eyed as ever the watcher passed, noted and turned his car around in the car park on Benson Close, to follow. He called Euston Tower on his satellite phone as he followed, alerting DIC.

  A DIC duty team was despatched to follow, but not to intervene until Mason had got to his destination. Jack Fulton made it very clear that he wanted to know where Mason was going, it might reveal the people hiring or the target.

  Neither Mason, his taxi driver nor the DIC man, in his car, noticed the Nissan Micra following them. Peter Brook had arrived at the Black Honda to relieve Bentall seconds after Mason had walked around the corner. He’d found Bentall dead, the case on the passenger seat, the brown envelope with the target and details, bloodstained on Bentall’s lap, but the bomb and the phone gone. He’d run to corner of Benson Close to see Mason get into the taxi. He had taken the envelope and followed and he too had made a phone call.

  The three car ‘convoy’ went up Lansdowne Way and turned right onto the Wandsworth Road. Traffic was thick and it was slow going.

&nbs
p; In his office Sternway took the news badly. He’d just sat down and ordered his coffee when the phone rang.

  “Sir? It’s Brook. I’m following Mason in a taxi going up the Wandsworth Road. He’s killed Bentall, taken the bomb and he’s headed the right way for the job.”

  “Killed Bentall?”

  “Yes. One shot to the chest, so he didn’t torture him. There seems to be no reason.”

  “Did he take the envelope with the hit details?”

  “No sir. I’ve got that with me, covered in Bentall’s blood.”

  “Right keep following. He’s not doing that and getting away with it. I don’t like anyone killing my men for no reason. Get ready for extermination and see if you can pick a spot on the route. I call in three minutes to confirm that E order. Clear.”

  “Yes Sir.” Brook reached into his glove compartment and took out gloves, he slid them on. He was one of the better skilled men from ‘dirty tricks’ and had carried out a few E orders, mostly abroad. Bentall had been a good colleague and Mason was going to pay.

  Sternway put the phone down and stared at it. He’d liked Bentall, a good solid man he’d always said, never complained and always did the nasty stuff really well. Sternway was about to give the execution order for Brook to carry out when he had a better idea. He called Joe from the outer office.

  “Mason killed Bentall at the meet point. Brook is tailing him in a taxi up the Wandsworth Road, so you know where he’s headed. Make a call to the Sun newspaper, use a disposable cell phone and whilst you’re at it get rid of this, I mean crush it to pieces.” He threw a lime green Bic disposable cell phone across the desk. It was the only thing to link him to Mason. They had stacks of them, used for one off contact.

  Joe picked up the phone and went to the outer office. He sat down and called the Sun newspaper and when he was done he took the cell phones down to the boiler room and threw them in the furnace.

  The Sun news desk workers were delighted when they got an anonymous call describing Mason, his route and direction. They despatched a photographer on a motorbike and called armed police. Armed police called DIC as a matter of protocol, but cars had already left Euston Tower. Armed police units sped, lights pulsing, sirens blaring to the junction at the north end of Vauxhall Bridge. All the vehicles converged on the Vauxhall Bridge exit.