by Tom Benson
She said, “I don’t think you appreciate all I had to do when you were away.”
“I’m well aware of what you did when I was away.” Again he turned, and there was the faintest sign of dimples as he looked at her.
“Pull over there,” Fitzpatrick said, pointing to a wide grass verge. The car slowed and eased onto the high viewpoint. Fitzpatrick got out, and from the car boot, he lifted a pair of powerful binoculars. He focused on the small port of Glenbrittle far below. It was where he’d come ashore three days earlier.
“You can cut the engine for a while,” he called to his wife without turning. “While we wait, you could also get out the thermos, and we’ll have a brew.”
“For God’s sake,” Helen said. “I put all your plans in place and found you the big house you wanted, and we’re living in a bloody hotel, so we can drive to this cliff every day.” She unscrewed the cup from the thermos. “I should know what’s bloody going on.”
“Helen,” Fitzpatrick said as he lowered his binoculars and looked back over his shoulder.
“Yes, Gordon,” she said, sighing and slumping her shoulders.
“Shut the fuck up.” He turned away again and lifted his binoculars to gaze down at Glenbrittle.
.
Glasgow Airport
Scotland
Annabel drove along the M8, happy to provide the transport for the team members who were heading to Spain. She winked at Ian, who was in the front passenger seat and then she turned to address Rachel who was in the back studying a map.
“I don’t want you falling for any of those young men when you’re over there Rachel.”
Rachel shook her head when she caught Annabel’s sparkling hazel eyes in the rear-view. “I’m not going to be interested in anybody else when I’m on the arm of Inigo, my lovely boyfriend.”
Ian laughed. “You say the sweetest things.”
Annabel asked, “Why have you chosen Inigo as your name?”
“A couple of reasons but both are related to the overall mission,” Ian said. “I used Inigo when I infiltrated the gang in South America, so if by chance I was to meet anybody who knows me, I’ll be covered. If I’ve escaped the authorities in South America, it would be natural for me to return to my homeland to hide. As we discussed at the briefing yesterday, it means I can maintain the same identity.”
“There is also the fact that it makes it easier for me,” Rachel said. “While acting as the British girlfriend I can get away with calling him, Ian, and I’ll explain to anyone who enquires, it’s my pet name for him. I can say Ian is the Scottish version of Inigo.”
“I like the idea of the pet name,” Annabel said. “It also means you’re not compelled to use your limited Spanish too often.”
“I’ll still try,” Rachel said and laughed. “I’ll have Inigo to coach me.” She went back to studying her map of Valencia and the surrounding area. Having spent a couple of days there, she was comfortable with the task ahead, and the territory.
Annabel pulled up one hundred metres away from the CCTV cameras at the Glasgow Airport entrance. She stayed at the wheel as her passengers grabbed their baggage.
“Take care over there,” Annabel said through the lowered passenger window.
“Rachel will be fine,” Ian said.
“It was you I was talking to,” Annabel said and laughed. “Get in touch when you’ve settled in.” Her laughter carried through the open window as she drove off.
“I’m looking forward to this,” Rachel said as she slung her large holdall onto her shoulder.
“So am I,” Ian said, and they set off together to the terminal building. They had a week if they needed the time.
.
Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow
Scotland
Max was never comfortable when not wearing his leather jacket, jeans and club colours, but he got over it by thinking of where the meeting might lead. Taking revenge for the deaths of his brother Joe, and fellow club member Donny was uppermost in his mind.
He walked along the path in Kelvingrove Park and tried to forget the slight limp he’d had since March. His jeans were a cleaner pair than he would usually wear, and his physique stretched his white T-shirt at the seams.
To the left was the impressive Glasgow Art Gallery and Museum, which he recalled visiting as a child. He’d gone there on a school visit, and again with Joe and their parents. Along the path and to the right was the duck pond, just as he remembered it.
Max wasn’t a sentimental type, but he had recently been conscious of having flashbacks to his childhood with his brother. As he strolled in the brightness and warmth of the day, he saw two young boys wrestling on the grass. A faint smile tugged at Max’s lips as he had a fleeting memory of himself and Joe when they were so young.
From behind his shades, he was scanning every person within fifty metres of his intended stopping place. ‘Roll ‘n Rock’ was emblazoned across the front of Max’s shirt, which depicted a leather-clad biker riding a huge guitar fitted with wheels and chopper style handlebars. Max had designed the shirt logo himself as a dig at the age-old ‘Rock ‘n Roll’ idea that regularly featured bikers. He had never been conventional.
Max checked his watch. It was 11:15 am. When the bearded hulk arrived at the duck pond, he sat on a wooden bench and took a long swig of his coke. He’d bought it at a nearby cafe, so the dark liquid was still chilled and fresh on such a warm day. As he watched the ducks, he wondered how many he could hit at ten metres with a handgun. He tried to remember if he’d ever eaten duck.
At 11:30 am a man came shuffling along the pathway, bent over and using a gnarled wooden walking stick. He was wearing a cap and an old light raincoat, which on anybody else, would have looked out of place on such a warm day.
In his left hand, the man carried a brown leather shopping bag, which almost touched the ground. He stopped every few metres and used one hand on his stick as he made an effort to straighten his glasses before looking around. He focused on the wooden bench and set off towards it, his feet scuffing along the concrete path. He sat on the bench.
Max had just had a swig from his bottle. He screwed the top back on and shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’d fancy movin’ on to the bench a bit further along old fella?”
“Why would I want to do that?” the bedraggled guy said, in a whisper. “I like this bench.”
“Well,” Max said, “I need this bench free, ‘cos I’m meetin’ somebody here.” He glanced at his watch and looked along the pathway in both directions.
“Is it an important meeting?” the unshaven man said in a shaky voice without turning.
“What the fuck is it to you?”
“Well,” the man said, turning slightly toward the big bearded biker. He continued clearly and with confidence. “It would be nice to know if I’m wasting my time.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about pal?”
“I’m Rachel’s boss,” Phil said, as he turned a little more and lowered his head to look over his glasses. “We’ll leave out the shaking of hands in public, Max.”
“Fuckin’ hell.” Max looked more closely at the huddled figure beside him. “How do I know you’re not a copper?”
“I’m Hawk.” Phil turned to gaze across at the ducks. He placed his bag on the bench beside him, and then rested both his hands on his stick.
The stance reminded the biker of a small green character with pointed ears. Yodi ... Yoda ... or something similar. Max took another swig of coke and stroked his beard.
Max kept his head up and looked left and then right as he spoke. “What was my partner’s call-sign on the recent mission I took part in?”
“Your partner’s call-sign was Romeo. You were with Rachel.”
“Hawk.” Max stifled a laugh. “You are a fuckin’ class act, man.” He shook his head in awe. “Okay, tell me what’s on your mind?”
Phil whispered for ten minutes, occasionally gazing one way or the other along the path. He explained the ideal sce
nario regarding any involvement of the biker gang in association with the BTL team. Knowing it would be an important factor, he also suggested there would be a cash advance and compensation of some other sort due to the bikers for their side of any operational activity.
When given the opportunity, Max asked questions and found himself looking around at anything and anybody, except the man beside him. He was secretly enjoying the whole clandestine scene, although he would never admit it to anybody. In truth, he was more accustomed to the exhilaration of confrontation and close-up bloody violence.
“Have you any questions?” Phil asked, looking around once again.
“Did Rachel confirm who killed Donny up near Loch Lomond?”
“Yes, she’s been in touch with a contact. She has some inside information on who repaired the 4 x 4 afterwards. We take our time on these matters.”
“She said it might have been the same bastard who took out Joe.”
“We believe it was Max, and we’re aiming to keep the killer for you.” Phil paused.
“What happens if I go back to the club and they have problems with the set-up?”
“My team will deal with the issues differently.”
“What about the asshole I want to deal with personally?”
“If he gets in the way of our operation and we get to him first, we’ll take him alive.”
“What if he’s shootin’ at your people? Surely you’ll just kill him?”
“We all specialise in taking people down at different levels. If your guys don’t want to take part in the big game, we’ll keep that particular man for you.”
“I appreciate it,” Max said. “I’ll put a strong case for helpin’ your team.”
Phil got to his feet and then leant on the stick as he prepared to amble along the path. He hesitated for a moment and adjusted his cap. “One other thing Max,” he said, acting unsteady on his feet.
“Yeah,”
“Tell your two mates at the far end of the pathway they’ll have to learn to chill out a bit if they’re going to watch your back.” Phil sniggered as he set off.
Max’s whiskers twitched. He shook his head, unable to resist a smile.
19. Arrivals
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
At 2:30 pm Phil arrived at the office. He was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and trainers and carrying a brown leather shopping bag. He had yet to shave. When he stepped into the briefing room, he saw Jake fixing himself a coffee.
“Hi mate,” Phil said. “How did it go with you?”
“Not bad, and I think we’ll have a good contact if things work out.” He poured two black coffees and carried them to the main table. “Annabel called a few minutes ago. She’s fetching us some sandwiches from the new bakery and takeaway on Bothwell Street.”
“Thanks,” Phil said, accepting his drink and immediately taking a sip.
The two men sat in companionable silence for five minutes. Neither felt a need to make small talk. There was a click of the lock as Annabel arrived with a late lunch.
“Hi guys,” she said as she placed a paper bag on the table. “I got a variety so you can help yourselves.” She took off her jacket and fixed herself a latte before joining them.
“So,” Phil said. “I take it our courting couple got away safely earlier today?”
“Yes,” Annabel said and laughed. “I got a text message from Rachel a short while ago. They picked up a rental car at the airport in Madrid and were on their way within a short time.” She grinned. “I think they’ll enjoy the mission.”
Jake said, “It will be a bit of extra excitement for Rachel, and it will be a good break for Ian after recent times.”
“How did it go with Max?” Annabel asked.
“He turned up casually dressed as asked,” Phil said. “He knows enough about us now to sell the idea to his gang.” He shook his head. “You have to remember we’re dealing with guys who make their own rules.”
“I hope they come on board,” Annabel said. “Their guts and manpower could prove useful, especially when you consider the mobility question.”
“True,” Phil said. “How was Stella?”
“She’s looking as good as ever, and sends her regards.” Annabel sipped her coffee and started to unpack a sandwich. “The good news is Stella knows not one, but two people who work in the specialised field of stately homes and suchlike.”
Jake asked, “Wasn’t Stella a partner in the estate agent office?”
“Yes,” Annabel said. “She still operates out of the office near Tollcross, but she owns the business outright now. We don’t ask for too much, but she comes up with the goods every time. She’s going to make some calls today and get back to me.”
Phil turned to Jake. “Did you meet up with both of those men?”
“No, only Geordie Lavery, but I think he’s game to play a part.”
“This is one of the ex-squaddies?” Annabel said.
“Yes,” Jake said. “If things work out right I reckon we’ll have a safe pair of hands on the inside. It seems Geordie is seriously pissed off about the way he and his mate Ryan have been lied to by Henderson.”
Phil said, “Did you ask about the drug dealers who have been killed off over recent months?”
“Yeah, and Geordie confirmed what he told Rachel. It was him and his mate Ryan who carried out the hits. Apart from Henderson convincing them he was you, he told them the dealers were working close to schools.”
“There’s not much we can do about it now,” Phil said. “I suppose if there is anything positive to have come from it, there are fewer dealers on the street.”
“How is Ryan’s arm injury?” Annabel asked.
“According to Lavery, he’ll live.” All three of them laughed. “He’s been making regular visits to the hospital to have the wound checked, but he doesn’t have any plans beyond getting better.”
Phil said, “Was there any police involvement? The hospital would have reported a gunshot wound.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “He told them he had been drunk in a bar the previous night and shouting his mouth off, so he couldn’t remember where he’d been, the faces, etcetera.”
“He’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t get shot again,” Annabel said. She was pleased to hear Ryan was okay. A bullet in his arm had proved enough to disable him, and it had avoided needless killing.
The three settled down to enjoy their light lunch. They ate in silence, lost in private thoughts.
.
Grampian Mountains
Scotland
The Fitzpatrick couple left the hotel on the Isle of Skye and headed for the mainland. They crossed via the bridge at the Kyle of Lochalsh and then drove east towards Fort Augustus. Helen knew there was no short cut to their final destination in the centre of the Cairngorms. Over recent months, she had driven many miles in the mountainous region getting to know the road network, as instructed by her husband.
At Fort Augustus, they stopped for lunch. Afterwards, they walked out to the car, and Helen stopped short. She was still trying to reach her husband.
She said, “Would you like to take over driving for a while Gordon?”
“Remind me of the route from here.” It was an unnecessary question, but he intended to keep his wife on edge.
“We head towards Fort William, and at a tiny place called Spean Bridge, we turn east and follow the route for Pitlochry.”
“How long will it take to reach Braemar?”
“It’ll be a couple of hours from here, but it will be beautiful scenery. From Pitlochry, we’ll have long, narrow roads winding between the mountains and glens.”
“It sounds good,” he said. “Yes, I’ll drive for a while.” He accepted the keys.
Fitzpatrick eased the big car onto the road and set off, accelerating smoothly and changing the gears as if he had a glass of water balanced on the bonnet. If he had been quiet before, he was in a world of his own b
ehind the wheel. He observed the speed restrictions in areas where there might be speed cameras but drove fast when the opportunity arose.
Helen made two attempts at conversation but met with silence.
When they reached Pitlochry, although a small town, it was busy with tourists. Fitzpatrick kept the speed down and recognised it would be the last civilisation they would see for a while. He took the junction that led out into the wilderness and headed for the mountains.
The winding roads became narrower and ultimately more of a challenge, both for drivers and vehicles if travelling at speed. The Jaguar was comfortable and powerful. In the right hands, it demonstrated aspects of performance only seen in a TV commercial. Fitzpatrick took the car through its paces, testing the acceleration, road-holding, speed, and his nerve.
While he appeared carefree and relaxed, Helen sat wide-eyed in the passenger seat. Her pulse raced, and she wondered if there was some point to be proven. She decided not to tackle her husband about his driving. He had always been a strange character, but he was worse since his return from his post-escape exile.
When Fitzpatrick passed the first sign indicating the boundaries of the Cairngorms National Park, he pushed himself and the car to the limits of safety. To maintain maximum speed, he crossed the central white lines as he took tight bends. Centrifugal force moved the car sideways on occasion, but the manufacturers would be proud of how it obeyed the driver’s capable hands.
On some sections of mountain road, there were black and yellow signs to warn motorcyclists to be extra careful. The caution signs were like a red rag to a bull. Fitzpatrick drove as if taking part in a road rally, and there was no consideration for his murmuring, squirming passenger. On reaching Braemar, the car slowed for the first time in over thirty minutes.
“How far is it, from here?” Fitzpatrick asked as they dropped to the speed limit, and drove through the village at a sedate pace.
