It seemed to be in each man’s interest to get the other drunk, as well as it was in each man’s interest to keep himself sober. Terry wanted to know everything he could about this new card in the deck and the Scot wanted to know where Terry had learned to track and fight. Neither of them wanted to tell the other anything and the night turned onto a cat and mouse game of lying and telling more lies to cover up the lies that had already been told. Before long, they had told so many lies they had forgotten half of what they said and more of what they heard.
Morning came and the men rolled out of their beds. The motel had a pot of coffee brewing in the office and breakfast was a short way off.
“When are you planning to go to the police with your story?” the redhead wanted to know over eggs and sausage.
“Shit. I hate dealing with them but I suppose I’m going to need to. I’ll need a barrister on hand if I’m to be interrogated.”
“Let me make another call. It may not be necessary. Did the paperwork list you as the driver of record?”
“Well, yes, but I have that in my pocket.”
“Then that load got hijacked, plain and simple. Let me make that call.”
Gordon called from a pay phone instead of the motel phone, but he was clearly unsure about the sanctity of the phone at the other end of the line. He made some inquiries about the dead men on the Monaro Highway. Who did they work for? What was their capacity? He finished up with the questions, “Oh, then he was the man driving the truck? And he was killed in the hijacking? And the load was never delivered? “He hung up the phone and said, “All right, Mr. Barber, you are cleared. It seems one of the unfortunate victims of the robbery was the driver in question and the load of polyvinylchloride is now on the black market.”
“Brilliant.”
“Not so. Did you sign anything in Canberra where you picked up the load?”
“I think so.”
“Mmm. We need to stop there on the way north to adjust the paperwork.”
Once they were on the road, there was nothing to do but talk so they did a lot of it. Terry was full of questions about what his new associate did for a living. It was not a security guard job that caused people to shoot each other with high-powered rifles.
“You are an assassin, right?”
“That is a term I have heard applied to my class of gentleman adventurer before, though it is not one I prefer.”
“Mercenary, then?”
“That is also appropriate.”
“How is it you came to this profession?”
“I was in the Military. Royal Scots Dragoons, as was my father. He made a career of it until it killed him, I decided on money over honor and became a freelance.”
“You’ve seen action then?”
“Aye…” It looked as though he would not say more and then started speaking anyway. “I stopped counting the number of men I’d killed. It’s not the men though. It’s when you need to kill women and children that makes it so bad.”
“You’ve killed children?”
“Aye. When I had to. We all did what we had to, or we never came home. Many of us never did. I’d like not to talk about it.”
“Very well. What you do now, I have some familiarity with it.”
“I know you drive a truck but there is something else, something driving you that is not money or laziness or drugs. Not one of the usual motivations for blackguards.”
“Is that what you think I am? A blackguard?”
“You transport loads for a living. You suspect what they are, but you do nothing about it, so you are a blackguard.”
“And what if I had a different agenda?”
“Then you would not… Is there something here I am supposed to know?”
“No. I am just a blackguard truck driver.”
The two men fell silent. Something had just happened and neither knew exactly what. A curtain had fallen between them. They knew each other a very short time. They had developed respect for each other but not trust. Each recognized that they had said too much and there was no way to take it back.
When they reached the warehouse in Canberra the dock clerk fished out the paperwork in question. The only thing that really saved Terry was that he had not left his copy in the truck. The paperwork was officially changed to read Byron Burger instead of Thompson Barber. Byron Burger had been found dead on the side of the road the day before. Terry and Glasgow had a short conference with the plant manager. The manager was understanding and compliant. An emergency load of PVC had been sent south the previous day. Byron Burger had driven it. It had been hijacked and Byron was killed.
The manager had already seen the morning news. He was waiting for the constables to contact him. Glasgow reminded him that it would be best if he showed up on their door first. Then the pair headed north again. The plant was closed when they arrived in Sydney so they vowed to come back in the morning to adjust the original manifest so it read that Byron Burger originally drove the truck out of Sydney.
They stopped for some dinner and drinks and, at 10 at night, they appeared at the Riggers Club, inquiring after Mr. Randy Arganmajc. They were admitted as far as the coat closet and asked to wait. Truthfully, they were not dressed for the Riggers Club and should have changed clothes before presenting themselves.
The concierge returned and as tactfully as he was able he asked them if they could use the servants’ entrance in the back of the building. They acquiesced and went back out. Terry should have known they would not make it in the door dressed as they were. He knew the long and honored history of the Riggers Club. The Scotsman could have been forgiven for not knowing.
They waited for a short time, in the pantry, before Randy Arganmajc joined them. Randy was wearing an Italian silk suit. His palms were soft and limp when he shook hands. Glasgow apologized for not knowing that the club required a jacket and he introduced Terry as Thompson Barber.
“Ah, yes, I have heard some good things about you,” Randy lied.
“Well, you are about to hear some more. It may be good news but I think not.”
“You are about to tell me about the affair in Victoria. You are going to tell me that the men involved were in the employ of one Tony Samfier. What more is there?”
“Due to the quick thinking and sharp wits of your driver, that load was delivered. I know your interest in that particular load ended when it was delivered in Canberra, but if you contact your men in Melbourne, you’ll see that the load was delivered intact, despite the fact that the truck was disabled. I was in contact with the top of your food chain yesterday and he authorized a bonus, in cash. I thought it best we spoke to you about it personally.”
“I’ll have it delivered tomorrow. I need a couple of questions answered, however. Who sent you on this trip, who knew where you were and who knew what you were carrying?”
“Honestly, Mr. Arganmajc the only one I can say for sure is Victor Wellington. He handed me a slip of paper when I stopped in to tell him about a suspicious character I caught sight of.”
“What suspicious character?”
“This one.” Terry pointed at the Scot. All three of them chuckled.
“Oh. So you went into the office and he handed you a job.”
“That’s right, the pawn shop office. He said the truck is loaded and locked and I’m to take it to Canberra and right away. Time sensitive and I got a bonus for delivering on time. In cash, no less. Then when I was unloaded, that’s when they stuck the crate in the back and told me I was taking it to Melbourne and I wasn’t going to stop till it got there.”
“That was the crew in the warehouse in Canberra?”
“Right. Now I don’t think they had anything to do with the ambush. They didn’t seem nervous or surprised to see me when I showed up this morning to change the manifest.”
“You changed the manifest?”
“Just the name. It wasn’t my idea but we changed it to one of the dead guys. The load was never officially delivered, since we didn’t have the
truck, it was stolen but you can make the call. You’ll find that the load has been delivered.”
“I think that is all I need to know. Remember to wear a suit and bathe next time you come here. This club is not for the public.”
The men that hit the truck were indeed all in the employ of the organization headed by Tony Samfier, in Canberra. They were lower level men, not the sort to plan out an operation of this magnitude. It may well have been either of the intervening layers of management that had set it up. This did not matter to the Troy brothers. In their less pristine affairs, it was the responsibility of the managers to ensure that their subordinates are behaving themselves. Tony disappeared. Tony’s family disappeared. Tony’s first assistant disappeared and several of that man’s associates. The operation was done silently, with precision and finesse. The bodies were never found and the positions were filled a week later.
~~~
Chapter Nine: The Verdict
“So, Specialist, in your opinion have we found and eliminated the Irishman?” asked Adam Troy over a snifter of very old brandy.
“No, sir. I believe the men who performed this operation were riding on the coattails of the notoriety. They wanted you to believe it was the Irishman who pulled off the operation but they were merely thugs, following orders. I cannot be sure who hatched the plan but it was one of theft, not spite. They would have killed the driver but not out of malice. They were doing a job as instructed.”
“Your reputation is secured by this very statement. A lesser man would have taken credit for the operation, taken the payment and disappeared.”
The Scotsman smoothed his bushy red beard and cracked an uneven grin. He took a draw from the fine Cuban cigar he was enjoying and filtered the smoke through the hairs. “If I had done that, you would have known. What kind of specialist would I then be? Perhaps a deceased one.”
“You are a good judge of men. How did you know that particular load was going to be attacked?”
“I didn’t. I was watching the driver of that load, not the load itself. He is a very capable man, not given to panic and is working toward your best interests. A lesser man would have died in that incident but not this one. Thompson Barber not only took the bull by the horns, he delivered the load. He never asked for the bonus, that was my idea. I told him about it and he hasn’t mentioned it since. He’s a good man and on your side.”
“But you were watching him. Why were you watching him?”
“He’s not been with you that long, right? He’s young and sometimes the young are ambitious, their ambition not yet tempered by good judgment. I tested his spunk the night before and found him not wanting in spine. He saw me watching him, not something I would have expected of a fool. His first move the following day was to report that he was being watched. It was Victor I suspected, not Tommy. I realize in these troubled times that a little bit of discretion is advisable but to send a lone man on a mission of such importance seemed either foolishness or cunning. It turned out to be the latter.”
Abel Troy set his snifter down on the luxurious hardwood table and said, “There may well be a long-term job for you here when you have completed your current assignment. We can always use a man with a canny eye for this sort of thing.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll consider that a vote of confidence and return to my assessment of the crew and the situation. I’ll assume Victor Wellington will not hamper my investigation?”
“You may safely assume that he will no longer be working for any of our concerns.”
“Then I thank you for your time and your attention. And I thank you for this marvelous brandy. In my opinion, it would be best if Thompson were given a month off and supplied with a vacation of sorts. I’m sure you have a travel office somewhere that would find it possible to work in a complimentary cruise or something. Most of the attacks are done north of the city so I will be concentrating my efforts northward after I eliminate some of the suspects. Yes, I am still convinced that the information is coming from the Sydney area.”
“Very well. I shall make arrangements,” Adam Troy seemed very pleased with himself.
The redheaded Scotsman did not precisely follow the game plan he had outlined. It had been his observation that most men of wealth did not reveal all they might and certainly no more than they had to. He had already determined that though they owned many legitimate businesses, they had financed their empire with drugs and guns. He had nothing against guns, they were an integral part of his life, but he was not in favor of the growing drug trade. He also wanted to find out what sort of men he was really dealing with. Their money was good but their ethics were suspect.
Two days later, at the end of the working day, Henry Cuthbert showed up at the warehouse with four men in trench coats and a hooded, bound figure. Gordon MacMaster knew then that Victor’s time was limited. From an adjoining rooftop, through the high-powered scope of a rifle, he saw Victor Wellington tortured to death in despicable and unmentionable ways. He was no stranger to torture and the extraction of information but there was no information asked for. The man was made an example of in front of his associates as a warning. The message was clear and brutal.
Gordon MacMaster set down his rifle and pulled on his beard for a moment. His senses were alert for anyone on the roof with him but his mind was working in a different mode. Gordon had killed many men in many different ways. He had shot them from afar and he had felt their life’s blood gush over his face. He had poisoned, though not often and he had thrown men off buildings and cliffs. He thought back to a time when he was not as practiced as now, a time when he still had the principles and patriotism of the Royal Scots Dragoons.
As part of the United Nations force in Iraq, MacMaster had been tasked with a specialized job. Despite being called “The Mother of all Conflicts” by Saddam Hussein, Desert Storm was more of a flash in the pan. Unfortunately, several men were trapped in Iraq when hostilities ceased. They had been inserted in pairs, as sniper teams; they were called Desert Rats. MacMaster was one of them and while his attention was taken by a target, he and his spotter were captured from behind.
The rules set forth by the Geneva Convention have no sway in the Middle East. The treatment of prisoners by any of the former Ottomans is as it always has been. Torture is as accepted a tool now as in the dark ages and almost looked upon as necessary. Psychological warfare is as important, or more so, than physical slaughter. They consider an enemy who is terrified into inaction to be better than a dead one. And so, Gordon MacMaster was forced to watch the torture of his partner, spotter and friend. They cut off his eyelids, they clamped a battery to his testicles, they shattered his hands and broke his legs. Then they told Gordon that the only way he would get out of the mud hut they were sequestered in was if Gordon beheaded his partner and fellow Scotsman himself. By this time his spotter was praying for death.
They presented the battered but unbeaten MacMaster with a shamshir, a curved Persian sword, and instructed him he was to decapitate his partner on film or he would get the same treatment. He looked into the eyes of his partner and saw the pleading, the desire for death, the will to die. Four men covered him with automatic weapons as he raised the sword high. He screamed “For Scotland” cut the man’s head from his body, following through with a whistling arc into his nearest tormentor’s crotch. The man screamed and lurched forward. Two of the Iraqis didn’t even see what he had done, they were concentrating on the man’s head rolling on the floor.
Even with his wrists tied together, Gordon MacMaster managed to wrest the automatic weapon from the hands of his injured opponent. The lead began to fly and two men were down before the other two understood what had happened. Then they went down. Gordon cut his bonds on the bloody edge that he had dispatched his Brother-in-Arms with and secured the remaining weapons.
The incident never made the news because it was so far behind enemy lines. There were no authorized missions that far inside Iraq and no foreign soldiers were captured. There would have
been a media storm from both sides if word had reached the networks. MacMaster had never learned the name of the town he was held in, but when the following day arrived, there was nothing left living in that little desert town. In a cancerous and all consuming rage, he had killed every man woman and child living there and he had not stopped there. He killed the sheep and goats and chickens. The sole survivor was a dog that ran from the carnage when it began.
That was the day the Scotsman had compromised his principles. That was the day he learned there is no glory in war, only in surviving. That was the day he decided that there would be no more killing for queen and country. A piece of Gordon MacMaster had died that day but another was born. Gone was the bright-eyed patriotic soldier and born was the slayer. Gone was ‘My country right or wrong’ and born was The Honorable Assassin.
Sitting on the roof and witnessing the torture of Victor Wellington was enough. His pervasive guilt over the slaughter of innocents was blamed on the torturers in that little Iraqi village. He transferred that guilt and a portion of the rage that still lived inside him like a parasite, waiting to burst through to the surface, to the men in the warehouse. He reserved a portion of it for the men pulling the strings.
“Well, mate, did they do you right?”
“I’ll say. A bloody European cruise,” Terry grinned. “I’ve never been to Europe. It says a Mediterranean playground. It stops in Spain, France, Monaco, Italy, Greece, Turkey and then back. Ah, I think it goes to Gibraltar, wherever that is.”
“Enjoy it, mate. There’s nothing like a little international influence to round out a man. ‘Now is the winter of your discontent made summer by this glorious son of Troy.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terry cast a suspicious eye on his drinking partner. He had noticed that the Scot was given to quoting the masters when in his cups, but he seldom understood the quotes and seldom yet recognized them.
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